precious_boy Read online

  Chapter One

  WHEN I realized I was alone in bed, I stumbled into the hallway instead of the bathroom, where I really needed to be. That’s when I saw the light and heard the tapping. If I’d lived in an antebellum mansion, I might’ve peed right there. A ghost!

  No, just a trick. I yawned, stretched my eyelids, and tried to remember his name. Shane? Blaine? Giving up, I shambled into the guest bathroom and took care of more pressing business. By the time my bladder was empty, I was irked.

  I didn’t like anybody using my computer, much less some NSA fuck-buddy about whom I knew next to nothing. My ass was sore too, which didn’t improve my mood. I hadn’t bottomed in a while, and Shane-Blaine hardly exemplified poetry in motion.

  A towel around the waist seemed like a good idea.

  Once I’d secured one, I crossed the hall to the doorway of my office and stood there. It was still dark outside, which obviously put the time between bar-close and dawn. I focused on the flat-panel and tried to figure out what Shane-Blaine was up to.

  How predictable. My new playmate was cruising porn sites.

  He was staring so intently, it seemed the light from the screen had hypnotized him and was luring him into the monitor. His spiked reddish hair effectively blocked whatever scene had him so mesmerized. The site was called Guyuyuy, which made no sense until my mind woke up a little more and I realized how the word guy was pronounced. When I noticed Shane-Blaine’s lowered left arm, I supposed Gooey-ooey-ooey would’ve been even more appropriate.

  “Don’t you dare spunk near my desk!”

  Shane-Blaine jerked in surprise, but I’d spoken too late. His body stiffened as the movement of his arm faltered. Soft little gasps came from the chair.

  “Goddamnit.” I charged forward and stopped at his back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I immediately shook my head and rolled up my eyes, because, really, I couldn’t have asked a stupider question if I were Paris and Perez Hilton rolled into a single, boneheaded hermaphrodite.

  “You wouldn’t wake up,” he said a bit breathlessly. After clicking back to the home page, he lifted his left hand, spread fingers slightly bent, and gave it a cursory look.

  “Shane—”

  “Who?”

  “Blaine—”

  He pushed back from the desk and got up, still holding his fingers in that clawlike semicurl. Maybe his cum was like epoxy. Nah, it couldn’t have been. He’d earlier pulled off a condom; his dickhead hadn’t come with it.

  He flipped me a sullen glance. “Dane,” he said before heading for the bathroom.

  I watched him walk away, then scrubbed both hands through my hair and looked at the monitor. Curiosity started gnawing at me. I was about to sit down but, thank goodness, glanced at the desk chair first.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, and irritably called over my shoulder, “Bring a damp washcloth in here, would you?”

  I perused the Guyuyuy home page. Little windows lined up in rows showed men in provocative poses. Singles, couples, groups of three or four. Beneath each window was a brief caption that contained the men’s first names along with some titillating descriptive line: Joey gets stretched! Clicking on a window obviously took the viewer to some short amateur video.

  I’d seen this stuff before. The short videos were teasers. It you wanted to watch a longer, more explicit vid, you had to pull out the plastic.

  Dane returned. He immediately went about swabbing the desk chair, probably because he was sick of hearing me bitch.

  I started feeling bad about having so rudely interrupted him. I stopped feeling bad when I realized my ire had been justified. “You really can’t help yourself to someone else’s computer until you ask first,” I said. “Don’t you get it? There’s personal stuff on there.”

  “I didn’t care about your personal stuff. I was horny.” Dane lifted the washcloth. “Where do you want this?”

  I grabbed it out of his hand and pitched it through the bathroom door, just across the hall. It fell with a soggy plop on the tiled floor. “And you don’t just blow a wad while you’re in someone else’s desk chair.” I took a seat, hoping the towel around my hips would absorb any leftover moisture. Of any kind. “So, what tickled your fancy?”

  Perusing the offerings, I waited for Dane’s answer. He seemed reluctant to show me the source of his late-night thrill. Just as my gaze stalled at one of the windows, Dane pointed to it.

  “That one. Kid’s fuckin’ hot.”

  Kid’s also a kid, I thought, ashamed he’d drawn my attention.

  He was a willowy youth, his body bowed backward to rest against the older man who stood behind him, grasping his slender hips. Slender, that is, except for a prominently, exquisitely rounded ass.

  Justin does what Roman says, read the caption. I assumed Roman was on the verge of fucking Justin, and viewers should click to see more. Of course, the moneymaker would be a subsequent click to the longer video.

  “Go ahead; check him out,” Dane said at my back. “Dare ya.”

  I admit my finger was itchy. The boy’s head sort of rested against the man’s chest, his face half-turned toward the camera. He was enticingly sensuous. Even though I was only twenty-eight, I felt like a pervy old man as my sleep-sandy eyes focused on his mouth.

  If ever I’d had an invitation to sin, there it was. Plush lips, parted, oh-so-soft. A dip in the upper, like an inverted caret. Damn.

  That cap of blond hair, subtly streaked with different shades, emphasized the boy’s youth. Its edges swept raggedly from eyebrows to earlobes to nape. I thought of the Beatles in their early days, although Justin’s fringe was less even. And Justin was a whole lot prettier.

  “No, that’s jailbait,” I said, more to caution myself than to castigate him of the rampaging hormones.

  “They’re all supposed to be at least eighteen.” Dane leaned over my shoulder and pointed at some meaningless message in a box: This site only features men 18 or older.

  “Oh, okay,” I said. “Then it must be so.” My glance at him underscored my sarcasm. How gullible are you? Don’t you recognize a cover-our-asses statement when you see one?

  I looked back at Justin. His limbs were long and lean, but his muscles had enough definition to make him masculine and graceful instead of girlish and gangly. He might’ve been of age. It was hard to tell.

  “I know damned well you’re imagining those lips around your dick,” Dane said in a distasteful voice, a look-what’s-under-my-trench-coat voice.

  The sound of it conjured images of stony cops at my door, not a succulent mouth at my crotch. More to the point, I didn’t want to be the kind of gay man who gave all gay men a bad name. Lusting after a kid skeeved me out. There were plenty of grown-up men to lust after.

  I turned off the computer. “I’m going back to bed,” I said… but didn’t get off the chair.

  “Mind if I grab something to eat? Or do you have ‘personal stuff’ in the fridge too?”

  “Dane, don’t make me want to forget your name again. I don’t care if you graze until sunrise. Just stay out of my office.”

  Chuckling, he headed for the kitchen.

  Now I got off the chair. I hadn’t wanted Dane the Profane to see the small tent that towel had made at my crotch.

  SUNDAY got off to a fairly good start. After Dane and I had breakfast at a nearby country café, I rather gladly bid him farewell and went home to read the paper and drink more coffee. Sundays weren’t much different from other days for me except for my breakfast-and-newspaper ritual, because I rarely had to be anywhere. I wrote my syndicated book reviews at home and, of course, my Wrighteous blog. I also did my editing projects at the computer. E-mail was my primary link to the workaday world.

  Today I’d be reading.

  As a revie
wer, I’d been trying to avoid “list” books—the chick lit, crime, and espionage offerings, the authors who kept reappearing like a rash. I was sick to death of them. So I decided to tackle an intriguing, ambitious psychological thriller/paranormal hybrid that had neither a warm fuzzy nor a drop of gore within its 300-plus pages.

  When I broke for a modest lunch, my train of thought also came apart. My mind wandered in another direction: to the look of decadent torpor on the face of a boy named Justin, to the deep restlessness that look had planted in my groin.

  I got online and found Guyuyuy. The Justin-and-Roman photo was still on the home page, and I clicked on it. As I’d expected, a video pane came up, its centered black arrow daring me to “play.” There were three clickable boxes below it—See More, Chat With Me, and Time Out—and an area for comments below that.

  My throat felt parched. I delayed the inevitable by scrolling through the comments. They came from men with screen names like nutbutter, woolybull, and ass-I-like-it. They were banal and often full of grammatical errors and misspellings. I could just about see the drool between the words.

  U need me bhind u with 10 inches.

  So fine and WANTING IT!!!!

  Go to chat, if we get together i will rim u allover all day!!!

  I started snickering, trying to imagine it. A person only had so many orifices. Having one’s tear ducts rimmed couldn’t have been too pleasant.

  There appeared to be responses, but only to the comments that were phrased as invitations. They were always the same, and always posted by “precious_boy.” Click on the Time Out button to learn more about Justin Time Services.

  My grin shrank to a smile. Justin Time? That’s really what he called himself? I found you, Justin Time. Even more intrigued, I clicked on the Services link.

  It took me to another website that provided “The Bare Essentials of JTS.” There was a vague reference to the nature of the services, which consisted of “private parties,” “formal escort,” and “casual escort.” With, of course, various rates. The kid must’ve been in the Chicago area, because the ad mentioned a “surcharge” for travel to places like Rockford, Milwaukee, and South Bend. He wouldn’t go beyond what looked to be a ninety-mile radius. Clients who were farther away were instructed to “contact JTS for details.” I assumed that meant if some rich guy in Denver or Düsseldorf wanted Justin, said rich guy would have to make special arrangements and then foot the bill for all expenses. Prospective clients had to make their inquiries via a message box.

  Was the website merely wishful thinking, I wondered, or were there men actually willing to hire this kid?

  With my curiosity piqued beyond the point of control, I played the video.

  Roman was in a hot tub. Justin, standing at its edge, held a small tray bearing a single chimney glass. It was obviously supposed to be a summery drink, because the video seemed to be aiming for a cabana-boy vibe. Justin, who wore only snug, powder-blue swim shorts, bent over to hand the drink to Roman. He stood in profile to the camera, certainly to let viewers appreciate the delectable curvature of his ass and the hint of a bulge at his crotch.

  Roman took a sip then set the glass on the tub’s deck. He made an exaggerated motion with both his head and hand for Justin to join him. The boy pretended to hesitate before he stepped down into the water and sat beside his demanding customer.

  Within seconds, Roman roughly urged Justin’s head to his chest. The boy began fondling and kissing it, tonguing the small hoops in the pierced nipples. Judging by the movement of Roman’s right arm, his hand was feeling up Justin’s crotch.

  Roman hand. Russian fingers.

  The boy began to squirm. His face took on that look, the one that had captured my attention on the main page. He might’ve been dramatizing his ecstasy, but not by much. He was getting turned on.

  My breath began to shallow.

  Then the big man, roughly again, grabbed Justin’s arm and made another gesture. He wanted Justin to get out of the tub, and of course the agreeable cabana boy did.

  Water trickled down the smooth slopes of Justin’s body. He had a noticeable hard-on, its rigid roll angled up toward his hipbone and straining against the drenched cloth of his swimwear. As he looked down at his crotch, his gleaming curtain of blond hair fell forward. His lips were parted and all the fuller for being slack.

  The boy’s arousal seemed to thrum against my balls, against the root of my dick. When Justin began pushing his palm and running his fingers along his covered erection, my excitement sharpened. All the starch seeped out of my sense of decency. Suddenly I was nothing more than a twenty-eight-year-old man with a boner, and not even a call from the pope would’ve made me soft.

  Justin walked out of frame for a moment. Scowling, Roman mouthed words to make it look like he was shouting. He waved his arms, summoning Justin back.

  The boy appeared again, much closer to the camera, still petting and pulling at his cock. His eyes were beautiful—large and limpid and a few shades darker than his sopping-wet shorts.

  Then he signaled my doom. He yanked up one leg of his swimwear, shoved his hard-on free, and stroked it. And kept stroking it.

  He had a truly lovely cock, firm and straight and smooth, with just the right degree of blush and a perfectly proportioned head. Even as my swelling lust pushed all other thoughts aside, my aesthetic appreciation surprised me. I’d never before given a rat’s turd what a woody looked like. All I’d ever cared about was its cleanliness and how well the owner used it, which was kind of how I felt about a dentist’s instruments. Yeah, I was definitely exploring new territory, in more ways than one.

  Tearing my gaze away from the scene was impossible. This was the real thing, a gorgeous young man in the throes of masturbatory pleasure. I watched, spellbound, as his ribcage expanded and contracted more rapidly and his fist pumped more vigorously, watched him as my own cock twitched and stiffened in response. Watched… until dollops of cum shot out of Justin’s cock in thick, lazy arcs and dribbled down the taut length of his thigh.

  I imagined his damp, warm prick pulsing within my own hand, imagined feeling the contractions of his climax against my palm.

  “Shit,” I whispered, my heart thumping. I didn’t want to be turned on. I didn’t want not to be turned on. I didn’t know what I wanted at that point, but I tried to suppress my clamoring need.

  Roman then appeared beside his naughty servant boy and pulled down those powder-blue briefs. It was obvious why: to give the hungry viewer yet another appetizer, a quick eyeful of picture-perfect ass to go along with that picture-perfect cock. The implication was clear. More was yet to come, so to speak. But the viewer had to pay to see it.

  My guilt-ridden restraint might’ve spared me the humiliation of turning into another Dane, but it carried its own punishment. A knotted, aching fullness had settled into my nuts.

  Right before the video ended, Justin smiled into the camera. Dimples appeared. So did a narrow gap between his upper front teeth. It was the most disarming smile I’d ever seen… and I was forcefully struck by the impression I’d seen it before.

  Chapter Two

  I GINGERLY touched my balls and wondered if I should try beating off, but that sense of recognition kept dogging me. Who was this kid? How could I possibly know him? He didn’t seem old enough to get into bars. I’d certainly never dated anybody that young. I had no long-lost teenage relatives, no acquaintances with little brothers.

  I clicked on the Chat button but had to detour to register. My screen name was “wondering.”

  I despised chat rooms. They made me feel as if handfuls of crap were being flung my way at a blinding pace. This was the first time I’d been in one in years.

  Thank goodness Justin Time’s chat room wasn’t busy. Only two other visitors were there, gabbing with each other.

  Justin, are you on any other sites? I typed. Do you have any DVDs available? I figured I might’ve glimpsed him in another piece of porn.

  No response, except from
one of the other chatters. He acknowledged me with hi mr wonderfull. I didn’t respond.

  “This is insane,” I muttered, pissed off at myself. Yeah, I’d probably seen the kid before on another porn site. That’s why he looked familiar. No mystery.

  I got up and went to the bathroom. Taking a leak helped the ache in my balls subside a little. I strolled into the kitchen for a glass of lemonade. As I drank, I checked my phone for messages because I had it set to silent. There were three calls I needed to return—from my mother, my friend Vic, and a guy I’d dated named Tomas. So maybe I only needed to return two calls, since I was ambivalent about seeing Tomas again.

  When I got back to my computer, I lackadaisically scrolled through the banter that had taken place while I was gone. And there was the answer to my question.

  precious_boy: not yet but soon

  If that was Justin, and it must’ve been, he’d eliminated Reason Number One for my sense of recognition. Perplexed, I hurriedly began typing.

  Justin, is that you? Is precious_boy your screen name?

  precious_boy: yes

  I think I’ve seen you before, but not here.

  precious_boy: maybe on the street or in a store or restaurant or at a concert

  Chicago?

  precious_boy: prolly but I’ve been to more places

  The other two visitors, and then a third, started firing off sleazy propositions and remarks as soon as they saw Justin’s screen name. I knew if I asked to see the star of the show in person, he’d either ignore me or direct me to the Services page. Of course he wouldn’t agree to meet with one of his many oglers—not without being compensated.

  I signed off by typing Thank you. Still wondering.

  precious_boy: you’re welcome. plz come back.

  Sighing, I flopped against the back of my chair. Well, the kid was no dope. He had a basic grasp of spelling, punctuation, and grammar, which put him light years ahead of the vast majority of his peers. So maybe he was older than he looked.

  Chicago. Yeah, I might’ve seen him in Chicago. I went there often, since I lived only an hour’s drive to the north. A really good-looking young man would’ve stuck in my mind, even if I weren’t conscious of his image lodging there.