A Mutual Friend Page 10

  Both options riled me to the fucking core. My mouth watered thinking of sucking his silken, stiff rod, lapping the length of it with my flat tongue. The intensity of our kiss rose as these ideas danced in my head. I found that I was groaning back, panting hot puffs through my nostrils as I slipped my tongue behind his teeth. I opened my jaw wider to accept his plunging tongue, and my palm felt a spot of moisture at the tip of his cock. Pre-cum. He was jizzing already, just kissing me. I massaged his dick tenderly, lovingly, from stem to stern, fingering the sweet slit and making him gasp.

  At last, Anton flipped the layer of downy polyester off my lap where my hard-on tented the fabric. He broke the kiss briefly to look down with admiration while I panted on his neck. “Dios, you’re hung like a racehorse,” he said.

  “Not like you,” I murmured, giving his dick one big squeeze, urging more spunk up the channel on the underside. “I want to show your big prick some loving.”

  He wrapped his hot, dry hand around my erection and murmured against my mouth. “I want to make this penis shoot until semen drips from the ceiling.”

  Just him saying that one word, semen, had me practically blowing my load. I was stunned motionless when he kneeled, stripping off his briefs, flinging them with hot emotion. A bit of drool ran across my lower lip gazing at his erection, full, straight, and throbbing. It was a natural tendency to want to grab his hips and plunge that penis down my throat, but Anton had other ideas.

  Sitting, he slung his legs over mine, so we were scissored together. I literally put myself in his hands, his hard-on twitching up against mine. Leaning back with one palm against the carpet, he spat into his other hand and reached for me. My anticipation was rewarded when he corkscrewed his fist around my erection. It was my turn to gasp when he coaxed a spurt of pre-cum from my cockhead, and he used that to lube my glans.

  I didn’t lean back. I sat straight and used both hands, looking him intently in the eye for any reaction. His cock was so fat and plump, I could grip it and not touch my own, though they were plastered together with spit and jizz. Our ballsacs, too, jiggled as we jacked each other, making sticky slapping sounds and heightening the arousal. Just watching his fist pumping away eagerly at my dick was enough to make me come, and I knew I’d embarrass myself by coming first.

  I remembered a technique a lot lizard had used on me to make me come faster, probably to get it over with, in his view. I reached my free hand out and tweaked Anton’s nipple. He gasped as his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth dropped open. I knew I had hit my mark. Licking my fingers, I rubbed his stiff nipple in a circular manner, scraping my fingernail over the nub of it.

  He made erotic little groans. “Oh—oh—oh—”

  “You like this, don’t you?” I growled. Dirty talk brought me off, so I presumed it would for him, too. That, and it made him slow down his pumping of my dick as his awareness turned inward, centering on his own pleasure receptors. “You’ve got a pumped chest, Anton. How often do you work out? You like having your nipples played with?”

  He spoke in a rush, a mouth full of marbles. “Oh God yes!”

  I hoped to hell he wouldn’t play with mine, or I knew I’d lose it. “You like it being pinched, or tweaked, or rubbed?” He muttered some unintelligible shit in Spanish. I massaged his entire pectoral, loving the sandpapery feel of his silken chest hair against my palm, then went back to pulling on his nipple. I could tell by the spurts of pre-cum how close he was to losing it, and my pride swelled at my abilities.

  His head lolled back onto a shoulder. He merely squeezed my dong now, lost in his own world. “I love tit play,” he muttered.

  Oh dear Lord. I’d never heard of such a thing. I removed my hand from his cock just to take a handful of spunk and apply it to his other pec, quickly returning to jacking him off. He moaned a wounded animal sound when I rubbed his meaty chest with the jism, centering my thumb on his nip. When I bent forward to lap up his other nub and bit it between my teeth, I knew I had him. His hips jerked and shuddered, and the rush of semen up the underside of his cock was explosive. A hot stream of the delicious stuff hit the bottom of my chin. As I lapped, massaged, and bit at Anton’s chest, I teased bursts of seed from his dick. First the streams were stronger, splashing my throat. As they weakened, and the poor man was a shuddering mess of desire, I slowed down my nibbling and fondling. The jizz hit me in the chest.

  “Bastante, bastante,” he gasped, putting his palm to my forehead. Enough, enough.

  I slowly stopped, but I was devilish enough to give his sore nips a few last bites, making him jump a foot and squeeze my penis harder. Oh my fucking God. I wanted to suck the last drops from his dick, but now it was my turn. And he’d have no mercy.

  He opened his eyes and looked at me weakly. “You absolute bastard,” he said, fiery now. Renewing his jacking of my meat, he slapped a hand onto my chest where he’d splattered come. “You like tit play, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I admitted hoarsely, leaning back on both palms l like a good sub. I wanted to watch him at work as though watching a porn flick. This man was a porn god, born to sex. “Agh!” I practically screamed when he tweaked my nipple viciously. My cock, like his had before me, jumped in his fist as it filled with blood and semen.

  He was not as kind as I’d been with my nipples. He pulled and twisted them, and the pain was sublime. In another way, I felt sort of detached, like a spectator. It was as though I was watching from up by the ceiling as this sex god expertly jacked my penis and pulled on my nipples.

  “You’re a nasty, sexy piece of work,” he snarled, and I lost it.

  I came all in a flood. My whole world had become a thunderous applause of appreciation for this man. He held my life blood in his hands, and by the smallest adjustment of a finger he was able to lift or dash my mood. He was a godlike puppet master, a commander of my domain, and I realized this is what a priest is. This is what a priest does.

  As jizz splashed his manly chest and he encouraged me with Spanish grunts such as venga, venga—come on, come on—I saw his dick was hard again, the foreskin drawn back from the purplish glans. I nudged my ass closer to his, our legs still scissored together, so that when he jerked my penis, he was also bouncing his own balls. “Ah, ah, ah,” he groaned, his head thrown back. I fisted both our dongs and rubbed them together, little jets of semen still spurting from mine.

  “Ay, Dios, no!” he cried, and his palm hit my shoulder. Down I went on my back, and his head was near my pelvis. Unbelievably, he was gently tonguing the last few drops of come from my tortured dick, and I laughed and cried at the same time, fingers digging into his shoulders. He expertly but softly tongued me, my entire wang in his mouth, but only circling it softly, like he reluctantly ate an ice cream cone.

  “No, no!” I bawled. My hips belied my words, shuddering my dick into his pleasuring mouth, but eventually Anton submitted. He got up on one elbow, wiping a few dribbles of semen off his beard with the back of his hand, his eyes glittering with mischief. In that moment he was so lovable I scooted as close as possible to hold his face to my throat. We laughed incredulously at what had transpired, not sure it had really happened.

  I’d just had the most mind-blowing sex of my life.

  A nightingale chirped a melodious song outside the plate glass window, though I knew there was no tree there.

  “We got to get you another dildo,” I murmured against the top of his head. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to ream Anton up the ass with a new, dick-shaped dildo.

  A booming, boorish voice right outside our doorway made us jump.

  “And what about these fags, Lily? Do you want to add insult to injury by turning Barclay into a fag while we figure out what to do with him?”

  We looked into each other’s eyes. Had Flannery been listening to our hand-fucking? We sat up straight.

  Lily yelled back, “How do you know Barclay’s not already a fag? He was a Prospect for the Bent Zealots, doing their errands for them.”

  “And
speaking of fags,” yelled Twinkletoes, who was the only Bent Zealot who was not bent. “I heard you sneaking into Lily’s room last night demanding a blowjob. So set yo’ tiara-wearing ass down before I make beadwork!”

  There was a brief silence during which Anton and I smirked at each other. Not knowing if my door was locked, reluctantly I gave up my embrace of my lover and stood, searching for my clothes.

  Lily shrieked, “I never said I gave him one! This neo-Nazi bruiser can demand all he wants. But I don’t truck with skinheads!”

  “I don’t associate with fairies!” Flannery insisted.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Barclay asked, further down the hallway. The argument moved down into the kitchen, and I was the first to get dressed.

  I told Anton, “I’ll get the gun away from Barclay. You go look in the room Thalhammer vacated.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Anything. Just, anything.”

  “Okay, but first,” said Anton, stooping to swipe something off the floor. He handed me a book I could barely see the title of in the rising sun. The nonexistent nightingale trilled a lovely opera, as if encouraging Anton.

  “Carlos Castaneda,” he explained. “I think with your recent experiences, you might find him enlightening.”

  “You want me to start here?” I asked, indicating a stickie note halfway through the book, titled The Art of Dreaming.

  Anton looked coy. “No, that’s just one of my favorite parts. ‘To intend is to wish without wishing, to do without doing.’”

  I looked at the back cover. A man of knowledge lives by acting, not by thinking about acting.

  Flannery was shouting, “Your buddy King was playing tonsil tennis with the priest!”

  As I exited my office bedroom, I heard Barclay pshaw the Aryan. “They were just doing frottage, an ancient game between boys.”

  What the fuck? How could Barclay have known that, all the way down the hallway? There was no way of peeking inside our room. Besides, “frottage” sounded like a concept far beyond his means.

  On his way to the other wing where Thalhammer’s old room was, Anton caught me by the arm. “Impossible knowledge. A demonic spirit has the ability of hidden knowledge, knowing the sins of others, including the exorcist. We should go to confession.”

  “But we did nothing wrong!”

  “We know that. But the Catholic Church doesn’t believe that, not on the outside, anyway. Let’s just go today after all this shit is over. That’ll erase all Barclay’s knowledge of our so-called sins.”

  What a crock of shit. But I’d do whatever it took.

  By the time I reached the kitchen, Flannery was literally pointing at Barclay and bellowing, “Well, are you a pansy?”

  Barclay was surprisingly stoic about all of this. He seemed to have really aged overnight. Dusky shadows made his eyeballs seem to bulge, and if he’d had hair, it would’ve been gray. Yet the kid wasn’t even twenty-five. This demon was really turning him into an old man, sucking the life sap from him.

  Listen to me. A demon sucking vitality from a person. Yet I knew it was true.

  Barclay spoke forthrightly. “That’s neither here nor there, Flannery. If you need to know the truth, I think I’m kind of asexual. No sex at all. It’s due to my mom poisoning me. The entire syndicate is making money off her poisoning me.”

  Flannery made a lip fart and waved Barclay’s existence away with his hand. “Whatever, buddy.”

  Barclay saw me and perked up. “It’s soap dish poisoning, man! King, that bathroom we share. Have you noticed the soap dispenser?”

  “Yes,” I said cautiously. I was disgusted, because I hadn’t known we’d been sharing a bathroom. I thought he used the same ones the white power guys used.

  “If you lift the soap and the part under is gooey, you have soap dish poisoning. Turns your blood to powder, pulverizes the blood.”

  “Well,” I said, “sounds like it’s a good thing you shaved your head. Listen, Barclay. What do you know about frottage?”

  He cheered up again. He bounced between emotions, or his interpretation of them, with the regularity of a metronome. “An old, sexy game between boys!”

  “I don’t wanna hear it!” yelled Flannery, who had been spending this entire interlude staring into the empty fridge. No one had dared put anything into it since the Crusty incident.

  Clinging to the door of the fridge, Lily practically twined a stripper’s leg around it. “Frottage is fun,” she told Flannery. “Two men rub their dicks together and get off. They can pretend they’re not homos when they do that.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, arms folded. “We weren’t doing that, then.”

  Twinkletoes had come to stand beside me. “I’ve heard you can do different things, and it’s still frottage. Like fuck him missionary style between the legs, with no penetration.”

  “Right,” said Lily, sex dripping from her words. She looked pointedly at me. “Fuck a man between the pecs, the tightness between the ass cheeks. Wrestle with a guy, dry hump him. I’ve had a straight man on a crowded bus in Tucson rub his crotch against me.”

  “No one noticed?” asked Twinkletoes.

  “I don’t think so. I let him do it, pretending not to notice. I could feel his breath against my neck while he panted. He came in his trousers. I could see the stain when he got off the bus with his briefcase.”

  The concept—the idea, not the reality—the idea of public sex—was getting me hard again, so I approached Barclay. “Listen, buddy. We heard you bought a gun.”

  Flannery had finally faced Lily. “No one noticed on the bus?” I could tell there was a bus ride in their future.

  “Oh, sure, I bought a gun,” Barclay said happily. “I figured it’d help me in my hunting for specimens.”

  “You know,” said Twinkletoes, “to drink their blood.”

  Barclay pointed at the weak biker. “Exactly! And don’t forget, I need to eat their spleens and kidneys.”

  “Yeah,” I said weakly, thinking of Crusty’s bloated, blackened body, a few ropes of gothic purple intestine hanging from his gut. “But you’re not allowed to have a firearm, Barclay. Mencken said so. The law says so. I’ll have to take custody of it. I’ll lock it safely in the Bent Zealots’ safe, how’s that?”

  “No!” Barclay cried, hands outstretched into claws. “You can’t take away my main tool for life!”

  I looked at Twinkletoes. He nodded. We stepped to each side of Barclay, ducking from his sharp swipes, and made for his room. “Flannery, you coming?” I shouted, aware of the need for muscle.

  “No!” Barclay continued to howl. “Leave me my gun! All I’m doing with it is hunting for fresh harvest!”

  “That’s what we’re afraid of, pal,” said Lily, behind me.

  Boy, Barclay’s room reeked. More than sulfur now, the place reeked of dead rats, farts, rotten meat, and a public toilet. All these things pointed to what little I knew of dead bodies. I headed right for the closet while Twinkletoes grabbed the day pack Barclay used most often.

  “Stop!” bellowed Barclay, beating Twinkletoes on the back with fists. For how weak the brother looked, he sure had an impact. Twinkletoes went down face first, sprawled like a spider, his face planted in the odiferous bag. Flannery took a few long strides and grabbed Barclay, pinning his elbows behind him in the small of his back. But Barclay continued to kick and froth. “It’s mine, all mine! I paid for it! I need it to harvest!”

  Was it my imagination, or did his voice contain the subliminal growling of the possessed? The closet was mostly empty aside from a few mayonnaise jars of, predictably, slimy burgundy innards. They were small enough to be animals’ insides, so I returned to Twinkletoes and helped him with the various bags.

  “This one’s heavy,” said Lily. “I’ll bet this is it.”

  Meanwhile, Barclay roared, “I did not choose to be here!”

  “Then why did you come?”

  Anton’s still, calm voice came from the doorway. I was
stunned how uplifted I was to hear him. If anyone could sort through this mess, he could. He caught my glance, nodded, and patted his shirt pocket. He had something from Thalhammer’s room.

  “I am under the Power!” shrieked Barclay.

  Lily, Twinkletoes, and I looked at each other wide-eyed. Was he truly possessed at this very moment?

  “Whose power?” asked Anton.

  “A white light!”

  “Why don’t you describe yourself to me, then.”

  “No.”

  Lily and I rolled eyes at each other. Of course he wouldn’t, because he couldn’t. I still maintained a part of my belief system that Barclay was faking it—that he was just a poor unbalanced youth, the product of his bizarre mother’s upbringing.

  Anton now dangled a cross from his fingertips. “Describe yourself to me!” he shouted. I liked this new, demanding Anton.

  Snarling as Flannery’s muscles bulged to hold him back, Barclay oozed, “I’m evil and ugly! I’m inhuman and vindictive. I have tons of disgusting hair on my body. My eyeballs are sunk into my head and I’m blackened and burnt! I’ve got long nails so I can scratch you.”

  That part turned my stomach. How did he know Anton had been scratched when entering my room earlier? It wasn’t until hours later I reflected and realized he could’ve seen the scrapes on Anton’s arm.

  “My toes are like claws. I have a long lizard tail and I carry a spear.”

  Anton appeared unfazed. “And what do you call yourself?”

  Oh no. I knew the answer to this one.

  “Call me Beelzebub.”

  “Oh, man,” said Flannery. “That’s fucking it.” He clutched Barclay’s neck and pressed. It looked like a point near Barclay’s jugular. It was fascinating to watch Barclay’s eyes slide shut as the demonic personality—including his own, for whatever good that was—left him.