The Next(42)

I hovered above his helmet, wrapped my hands around his thighs, and  pulled him into my mouth. His dick plunged all the way in. I felt his  head scrape lightly against the back of my throat. I'd never felt so  hungry for something. I pulled him in again, encouraging Marzoli to pump  at will and hard. He started pumping … then thrusting … then pummeling.

More! Fucking more!

When he hit his deepest thrust, I suddenly grabbed his dick tight with  my lips and squeezed the back of my throat on his head. I'd no idea if  this would increase the pleasure or be painful. He groaned in surprise  at being captured. His dick suspended and expanded in its tight lubed  jacket. I gagged as my eyes watered, but I held on. Finally I released  and sputtered his dick out.

"God!" he cried.

His thrust out of my mouth was so forceful he overshot his hips and fell  backwards on the couch. I attacked him where he lay, pouncing on him  like a lion about to rip into his prey.

I wasted no time.

I held his wet, acid webbed penis by the head and stretched it north and  out of the way. I tugged with my other hand to lift the melted  testicle. And there I found his puckered asshole shining as smooth and  pink as a raw breast of chicken. I parted his lobes even more.

"You ready?" I heard myself asking to him as much as to me.

"No," he replied breathlessly.

"Good."

I dove in, tongue first.

The musty, sweaty smell filled my nostrils.

"God damn!" he cried as he inhaled sharply. "God damn it!"

His pole quivered and then shook violently. My tongue burrowed deeply,  prodding through the walls, searching for the trigger that would  dynamite the dam. He thrust his ass toward my face, demanding more and  totally overloaded all at once. His hole tightened stiffly around my  tongue, gripping it, not letting it enter more, and not letting it exit.

His entire body went rigid with tension, whitening with the strain of mitigating the pain of too much pleasure.         

     



 

"I don't know how to … control … to keep control … to … " he sputtered.

Let it go, Marzoli. All that self-contained perfectionism and fight to  better yourself. Let it go. Lead the way to ecstasy for both of us. A  better existence. A more enlightened life. Free yourself. Free yourself  and free me.

I reached around and wrapped my palm and fingers around his dick. I  massaged him firmly and sensually, and released a deep warm breath from  the bottom of my lungs into his hole.

He finally followed my lead and released the tension he'd been clamping  down on. Every muscle-from his rear deltoids to his calves-relaxed. His  abdomen loosened. Then his hole opened wide, freeing my tongue.

Green light, clutch, shift, pedal to the metal.

I forged deeper with a final thrust and hit the trigger with the tip of  my tongue. I circled it, then pounced, holding it down completely at my  mercy and my disposal.

Marzoli was roasted.

"Motherfucker!" he screamed gutturally, and I felt his dick retract and  jut forward explosively with his pelvis, forcing my tongue out of his  cave. I felt the explosion of cum at the base of his dick surge into his  length. I gripped hard, cutting off the passage momentarily. When I  released my grip, the gush exploded out of his head hole, jetting white  past his chin toward his forehead, then he immediately spurted another  stream which frosted his nipple, and finally another which puddled in  his belly button.

He heaved large breaths as he sank his back and legs even further into  the cushions. Heavy salty tears dripped down his temples and into his  ears.

"Come here … " He sobbed, pulling me into him.

I still had my shirt and pants on, but I didn't give a fuck. I gently  flattened my body on top of his, feeling the streams of cum soak into my  clothes and moisten my skin. He wrapped his arms around me tightly.

The curtains swayed softly in the wind.

Although I knew the answer, I needed to ask. "Has anyone ever … ?"

He shook his head no.

"Not even … "

"Nothing," he sighed, and he squeezed me even tighter. "I thought you'd see me and … "

"And what?"

"Run screaming from your apartment."

"Wouldn't that have been a breakthrough for me?"

He politely chuckled.

I submerged myself in the thickness and solidity of his limbs and torso,  like a steamy bath on a cold night. I had no desire to surface. In this  moment, we had no score to settle. No justice to enact. No past to  reconcile. No future to put into perspective. Just contact, warmth, and  breathing.

There was evil, there was hypocrisy, there were secrets, there was  heartbreak, and there was death out there in the courtyard, but for  these few seconds, they could just drift outside in the cold wind.





Chapter Twenty-One

That night, the roof of my cave crashed in.

Although it was only 9 p.m., we'd drifted asleep on the couch together.  All was dark. Marzoli's breathing was deep and regular, and his arms  were limp and relaxed around me. I opened my eyes. The sun had set  behind my curtains, which remained completely closed. The apartment was  pitch black, yet I could see a faint outline of the pictures of the  children on the shelf. Light had to be coming from somewhere.

Then I moved my eyes toward the door. I saw the slight sliver under the  door where the orange hued hall light was doing its darndest to pry into  our sanctuary.

From deep in the trailer's shadowed belly a lighter flicked, and I saw  the wrinkles of his face and the phallic protrusion of a cigar extending  from his mouth. How did he get in? What the fuck does he want from us?

I cautiously unwrapped Marzoli's arms and sat up.

The warmth of Marzoli's intimacy was a protection I knew could not last  forever. I sensed no foreign presence. Graves was not lurking in the  corner puffing smoke. I was not in Placerville. Whatever happened in  that trailer was still attacking me with its cold green sticky tentacles  from whatever rock underneath it lurked. It could still pull me down  beneath its murky surges. I was not free. Kissing Marzoli was pointed  enough to inspire songs, to be sure, but was not sharp enough to cut me  loose from the mire of unaddressed history.

The room had grown cold. My shirt was wet from old sweat and cum which  exacerbated the chill. I peeled it off and threw it into the laundry  basket. I wrapped myself in a blanket and approached the curtain. I slid  it open a crack and peered out into the courtyard.

The courtyard felt like Ringling Brothers Circus compared to the  stillness of my apartment. Mrs. Layworth was washing the dishes  furiously. She seemed to be seething as she scrubbed plates clean in  soapy water. Had she just been fighting with Mr. Perfect again? She  reached a spot that would not scrub off with a sponge. Irritated, she  scraped it with a fork, gave up, and threw the whole damn dish in the  recycling in disgust. I could hear it across the courtyard shatter  against bottles.         

     



 

Little Miss Perfect was chaperoning The Little Mermaid's first date with  Spongebob, and Little Perfect Junior was sending his remote controlled  car off the steps of the stairs and laughing with glee. Lovely little  things. Mr. Layworth ignored his wife and children, walking through the  hall to their bedroom entrenched in an article in The Wall Street  Journal.

Peeping into their private world, how could anyone conclude that their normalcy belied such horror?

The Couch Potatoes had plumped themselves to sleep with ravioli, bread,  and bottles of beer. The television flashed blue and white lights on  their faces like a distant police raid. Against the front door hung a  traveling carry-on wardrobe bag. It looked one of them would be leaving  for a short business trip.

A wardrobe bag …

It occurred to me that that's probably what the Layworths put Ruben  into. Mrs. Layworth worked in fashion and always seemed to be  withdrawing and inserting dresses into thick, transparent, plastic,  full-length wardrobe bags. If I had to contain the blood and smell of a  dead body, it'd make sense to zip it up in one of those.

I glanced below the Couch Potatoes apartment. Schlongzilla was alone for  once, reading a script on his side on his bed. By ironic contrast, the  Beached Whale was for once not on her futon watching television. She was  standing up, fitting herself with a large bright blue and white satin  dress. It strained at the seams as she pulled it over her sides,  clinging to her rolls of flesh. She turned to look at herself in the  mirror, and the dress rode up her thighs like a squirming boa  constrictor. She yanked it down again, straining to pull it to its  correct length around the knees. Yoked by the tightness around her  shoulders, the seams stretched at her back. She froze. She was stuck.  She could neither remove it nor pull it all the way down. I saw the  disappointment and frustration in her eyes. Whatever event she was  preparing for would not happen in that frock. Sadness washed over her  face. She got a pair of scissors from the table and cut her way out of  the blue and white satin straight jacket.