After Poker

Brad was very much a bottom—and his effeminacy and androgynous looks turned Clinton off anyway. He wanted a man—a man like Larry at poker tonight. Imagine that he lived just five doors away. Clinton had had to buy men from a local gay dating service to come in and service him. Just once he’d like the excitement of someone showing up unexpectedly and fucking his lights out. Someone strong and good looking. Larry was older than he was, but he looked fit. Clinton hoped Larry had taken the broad hints he’d laid down at poker. He’d been thrilled when Larry had let that young, sweet-looking piece who had been hanging onto him know they wouldn’t be going home together. If he only had taken the hint.

“So, I’ll be off then. You want the lights off or on?”

“Off, please.” They went off and Clinton listened to Brad flit around the living area for a few minutes and then leave. He turned his face toward the open French doors, open out onto the patio and then the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. He could hear the relentless surf lapping up on the beach, and it lulled him to sleep.

The next he knew he was being blindfolded and gagged with a ball gag and his arms were being pulled up above his head. Velvet-lined handcuffs were attaching his wrists to the slats at the corners of the headboard. He was on his belly. He had no idea where his legs were. They were useless to him. He couldn’t feel them—hadn’t felt them for years.