Saturday, November 10, 2012

"The Greener Grasses" From Stroke The Fire

Here's a nice little teasing treat: the starting of "The Greener Grasses" - which is in both Filthy Boys and the best-of-the-best (well my best) queer erotica collection, Stroke the Fire ... both available from Renaissance/Sizzler Editions.


When I got home, Terry was in the kitchen, working magic in a pan.  It was a Thursday, so I knew the steaming mixture was rice, shrimp, tomatoes, onions, and all the rest that went into creating Terry's magical paella.  It was wonderful: spicy without being too spicy, full of elegant flavors – and it was always on Thursday.
"Hi, honey, how was your day?" he said as I walked in.  Terry's glasses were off, lying on the kitchen counter, so they wouldn't steam up.  I could have been bleeding from the eyes and he wouldn't have been able to tell, wouldn't have changed the typicality of walking in the door, Thursday or not.
"Fine," I said, struggling to keep the teeth out of my words.  My lover, my husband – or wife, depending on how he was acting, or I was – was working in our kitchen, making me a wonderful dinner.  But all I wanted was for him to throw me down on our Spanish tiled floor, undo my belt, zip down my fly, fish out my cock and suck me, right then and there.
"That's good," he said, adding something sharp and flavorful to the mixture.  We'd been together for five years, and I still didn't understand what went into that pan, just that it was good.  Always had been good, and always would be good.  "Mr. Lawrence behaving himself?"
Mr. Lawrence was my boss, he'd been in Paris for a month, and wouldn't be back for another one.  I'd told Terry that at least a dozen times.  "He's fine, too."
I got a beer out of the fridge and watched him cook for a minute.  Tell me to suck your cock – order me to suck your cock.  Fuck me till I bleed.  Make me stand naked in the rain.  Make me jack off into your mouth.  Shave me.  Cut me.  Mix my come with my blood and drink it down.  "That's good.  I'm glad," Terry said, never taking his eyes off his pan.  "I love you, sweetheart."
"I love you, too," I mumbled, finishing the rest of my beer.  Pierce my nipples.  Put your fist up my ass.  Carve your initials in my back.  Whip me.
Then he did something nasty.  He put the pan aside, wiped his hands on his Kiss the Chef apron, got his glasses from the counter, and walked over to me.  Kissed me.  Not deep, not hot, not hard, not viscous – just his soft lips to mine.  Then he did something worse: "I'm so glad you're here," he said, when our lips separated.
Restrain me, wrap my cock and balls in fishing line, make my dick hard and blue.  Maybe needles; maybe current, voltage; maybe a single, quick touch of a smoldering cigarette – maybe a lot of things, but surprise me, shock me.  "I-I am, too," I stammered.
He went back to his cooking.  I got another beer.  I usually only have one, but he didn't notice.  I loved Terry – loved him with all my heart – but I also hated him like I'd never hated anyone before.
"Dinner will be ready in just a sec," he said, stirring, stirring, stirring, his head becoming hazy in the steam from his pan.
"I can't wait," I said, walking away.
* * * *
Dinner was good – as it always is on Thursday nights.  We talked as we ate, saying nothing really important, nothing different.  They say that domesticity isn't pretty ... well, what we had was a serious form of ugly.
"You seeing Robert tomorrow, right?" Terry said, sipping a glass of red wine.
"Yeah," I said, pushing rice, shrimp, tomatoes, and onions around on my plate.  Robert: Mister Robert – not Master, not "Sir", just Mister.  Mister Robert had made me scream, cry, bleed and come too many times to count.
"Give him my best," Terry said, smiling.
"I'll do that," I said, smiling back, my face painful from tension.  Terry was a sweetheart, a treasure and a prize – he understood that sometimes you need more in a relationship than just one person, one way of doing anything.  If he didn't, if he'd thrown things and screamed I'd be much happier.
After dinner, we watched Buffy.  Terry laughed and smiled the whole way through.  I wasn't paying attention.  Cover my eyes.  Tie me up, make my wrists and ankles burn when I pull against them.  Light a candle; fill my nose with the smell of hot sulfur.  One burning dot, then two, then three – wax splashing on my rigid body: making me scream, making me hard ... so hard.
After, we went to bed and had Thursday sex.  Paella sex: spicy without being too spicy, full of elegant motions – and it was always on Thursday.  Good sex.  The problem was, I wanted great.  I wanted fantastic.
After, Terry faded into sleep.  I couldn't, though.  Wide awake, I looked out our bedroom window at the bright moon shining on our carefully manicured garden, the blackness of distant trees waving gently back and forth in the distance.  I'd done it before, for a long time – but that night, that Thursday paella night, I balled my hands into fists until my palms throbbed.


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