An Extra Scene From Leather + Lace from A.B. Gayle
Rancid, that’s the word I was looking for. Not tangy or any of the other wanky descriptors emblazoned on the outside of the pack. Ever since good old Minos of Crete slapped a goat’s bladder on his tickler, inventors have sought Nirvana: condoms that taste as good as the real thing. Brother, nothing tastes as good as the real thing. Sure, they smell divine and, at first, the chocolate flavour might add a touch of decadence to the proceedings, but after a few decent sucks, the damn lingering lilt of latex inevitably returned. Unfortunately, the orange, coconut and banana varieties tasted just as putrid. Compactylon, retractylon, sensatylon or whatever the rival brand is called might have been better, but thanks to the huge bag of bucks donated by the manufacturer to tonight’s charity, we were stuck with these goddamnawful things.
In a way, it was my own fault for taking too bloody long to finish the guy off. I should have been as efficient as my fellow participant. Talk about a fucking Hoover! Cycling his clientele through like a bottling plant. Cock in mouth, quick suck, full condom, next please. Trouble is, I’d been trained to believe that if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well and, judging by the moans of appreciation coming from somewhere above my head, the guy connected to the dick in my mouth seemed to agree.
Next time, our customers should be charged by the minute, not by the load. That way, my tally would match the Hoover or Dyson or whatever the twink working beside me was called. Dawson. That’s right. Dawson the Dyson. I might suggest that when we finally come up for air. Much better than his current porn star tag. Mind you, he was definitely well versed in the art. Probably did this every day for a living, whereas I made more money in my usual line of work. A lot more. Come to think of it, I should have just calculated my earnings and donated the money instead of wearing out my knees and getting a serious case of lockjaw.
Wearing knee pads would have helped too. Especially as my outfit would have disguised the fact. I should have remembered from bitter experience what spending hours in this position felt like, and it wasn’t as if there were plush pile carpets in the games room of the Hotel Paradiso.
When I arrived, I’d been surprised that the Blowjob for Bucks segment was being conducted so openly, but apparently the phrases: testing a new range of condoms specifically designed for oral use, infection prevention strategies and all for a good cause had magically morphed into something legal, or at least worthy of a blind eye from the vice squad. At least, I hoped so.
I took another long, slow slurp along the sheathed shaft in my mouth and barely suppressed a shudder at the taste of the latex. Maybe that was the reason for my stupid agreement to participate. One sucked condom too many. In the process, a Trojan virus must have wormed its way into my brain, short-circuiting any common sense that would have warned me that coming back to Australia was a bad idea. A very bad idea. Especially, considering I’d been taking such pains to keep my whereabouts secret. My carefully shored up defences had started to unravel when I heard through the grapevine that Fred was now in charge of the hotel where we met. Possibly my self-imposed exile was starting to wear thin, and there had been a Freudian slip when I sent him a Good Luck email. “You’ll need it,” I had added, “but if anyone can make a success of that dive, you can!”
The invitation to participate arrived soon after. “It’s about time you came back, anyway.” Fred seemed keen for me to have a chat with Master D, an American BDSM expert who was also part of the re-opening extravaganza. He had to be kidding. A leather man was the last person I wanted to speak to. Tonight, it was all about seeing whether my ex was still in the scene without being seen. Catch my drift?
Poor Fred nearly had a coronary when I turned up a couple of weeks later, dressed to impress. He’d never seen me in drag before, but after he picked himself up off the floor and stopped laughing, he could see the potential. “Some straight friends of mine are coming, and they might prefer to be sucked off by someone who looks like a girl.”
Yeah. Especially when that girl bears a stunning resemblance to Stevie Nicks.
Okay, I know. She’s not your usual subject for impersonation, but with all the other female rock stars being done to death, once I got that curly wig on my head, the image kinda stuck. Who would have thought I’d ever be grateful for the pretty-boy face that had been the bane of my existence growing up, or could quit worrying about my lack of inches or the fact that no matter how much I ate, I never put on any weight? Once, my muscles would have been a dead giveaway, but since escaping from the all-controlling whip wielder, both metaphorical and physical, I’d lost a lot of my previous gym-bunny condition.
Ah, finally. The cock in my mouth swelled and jerked, filling the condom that I had carefully smoothed on ten minutes ago. Damn it, Dyson was already onto his third punter and my next one was still sheepishly taking out his flaccid member. While he readied himself, I applied some more Papaw ointment and waggled my jaw to release the aching muscles. Once I started again, my allotted stint sped by, and I soon passed my companion’s tally. Nice to know that I still sucked with the best.
In a way, it was my own fault for taking too bloody long to finish the guy off. I should have been as efficient as my fellow participant. Talk about a fucking Hoover! Cycling his clientele through like a bottling plant. Cock in mouth, quick suck, full condom, next please. Trouble is, I’d been trained to believe that if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well and, judging by the moans of appreciation coming from somewhere above my head, the guy connected to the dick in my mouth seemed to agree.
Next time, our customers should be charged by the minute, not by the load. That way, my tally would match the Hoover or Dyson or whatever the twink working beside me was called. Dawson. That’s right. Dawson the Dyson. I might suggest that when we finally come up for air. Much better than his current porn star tag. Mind you, he was definitely well versed in the art. Probably did this every day for a living, whereas I made more money in my usual line of work. A lot more. Come to think of it, I should have just calculated my earnings and donated the money instead of wearing out my knees and getting a serious case of lockjaw.
Wearing knee pads would have helped too. Especially as my outfit would have disguised the fact. I should have remembered from bitter experience what spending hours in this position felt like, and it wasn’t as if there were plush pile carpets in the games room of the Hotel Paradiso.
When I arrived, I’d been surprised that the Blowjob for Bucks segment was being conducted so openly, but apparently the phrases: testing a new range of condoms specifically designed for oral use, infection prevention strategies and all for a good cause had magically morphed into something legal, or at least worthy of a blind eye from the vice squad. At least, I hoped so.
I took another long, slow slurp along the sheathed shaft in my mouth and barely suppressed a shudder at the taste of the latex. Maybe that was the reason for my stupid agreement to participate. One sucked condom too many. In the process, a Trojan virus must have wormed its way into my brain, short-circuiting any common sense that would have warned me that coming back to Australia was a bad idea. A very bad idea. Especially, considering I’d been taking such pains to keep my whereabouts secret. My carefully shored up defences had started to unravel when I heard through the grapevine that Fred was now in charge of the hotel where we met. Possibly my self-imposed exile was starting to wear thin, and there had been a Freudian slip when I sent him a Good Luck email. “You’ll need it,” I had added, “but if anyone can make a success of that dive, you can!”
The invitation to participate arrived soon after. “It’s about time you came back, anyway.” Fred seemed keen for me to have a chat with Master D, an American BDSM expert who was also part of the re-opening extravaganza. He had to be kidding. A leather man was the last person I wanted to speak to. Tonight, it was all about seeing whether my ex was still in the scene without being seen. Catch my drift?
Poor Fred nearly had a coronary when I turned up a couple of weeks later, dressed to impress. He’d never seen me in drag before, but after he picked himself up off the floor and stopped laughing, he could see the potential. “Some straight friends of mine are coming, and they might prefer to be sucked off by someone who looks like a girl.”
Yeah. Especially when that girl bears a stunning resemblance to Stevie Nicks.
Okay, I know. She’s not your usual subject for impersonation, but with all the other female rock stars being done to death, once I got that curly wig on my head, the image kinda stuck. Who would have thought I’d ever be grateful for the pretty-boy face that had been the bane of my existence growing up, or could quit worrying about my lack of inches or the fact that no matter how much I ate, I never put on any weight? Once, my muscles would have been a dead giveaway, but since escaping from the all-controlling whip wielder, both metaphorical and physical, I’d lost a lot of my previous gym-bunny condition.
Ah, finally. The cock in my mouth swelled and jerked, filling the condom that I had carefully smoothed on ten minutes ago. Damn it, Dyson was already onto his third punter and my next one was still sheepishly taking out his flaccid member. While he readied himself, I applied some more Papaw ointment and waggled my jaw to release the aching muscles. Once I started again, my allotted stint sped by, and I soon passed my companion’s tally. Nice to know that I still sucked with the best.
An Opposites Attract novel (available from Dreamspinner for preorder--releases March 22)
Swathed in chiffon and lace, Steven Stanhope owns the stage as Stevie Tricks, lip-synching the songs of the famous gypsy queen. But after he escapes an abusive Master/slave relationship, the only collar he'll allow around his neck is black velvet.
After a four-year absence, Steve is ready to reclaim his life and the property he left behind. But is it safe? Definitely not if his ex is still into leather. To find out, Steve appears at a charity night for the local BDSM community, using the anonymity of his stage persona to mask his identity.
Instead of his ex-Master, Julius, Steve finds a tangled mess centered around another Master of Leather, Donato Rossi. In order to unravel their ties to the past, Steve and Don must find common ground and work together. In the process, they learn that when it comes to love, sometimes you have to make your own rules.
