The Story of O
Billy pulled hard to get the tight leather gloves on all the way. The last inch was the best. His fingertips already ached. “Reminds me of the old days,” he said. “I just wish we could bomb something after finishing up.” The nude man hanging from the hook tried to say something, but his lips were clamped shut with a two-inch black binder clip. “Yeah, I know,” said Billy. “That’s too bad … maybe next year.”
The idea was electric. The hair on his arms stood at attention as he imagined the explosions, timed to go off for maximum effect, supersonic metal shards tearing through flesh. But to get that chance, which he wanted with every fiber of his one-percent Midwestern being, he knew that the man hanging in his basement would have to lose …
He brought the riding crop down hard across his gloved hand, cutting off the thought. The pain brought him back to the task. He took a sharp breath of the slightly damp air and looked around the room. Something was wrong, unprepared … annoying. He checked the unfinished wall off his mental list, knowing that the painting crew would be back tomorrow morning. Bernie’s choice of curtains bothered him, but that wasn’t it either. The half-basement windows needed covering, and the room needed something to brighten it up.
Light. The light was wrong. A shadow. Or a difference in the intensity of the lamplight crossing the man’s cinnamon-colored back.
Billy turned off the overhead light and adjusted the three matching colonial-style floor lamps until the annoyance disappeared.
“How’s that?” he asked. A satisfied grunt from the other man convinced him that everything was ready, and Billy walked slowly around the muscled body, the soles of his shoes – for some visceral reason Billy had wanted him to wear his shoes today, but only his shoes – touching the floor to take the pressure off his shoulder sockets. Neither of them wanted anyone to get hurt. But Billy knew that his subject wanted to hurt, and the thought caused his scrotum to tighten in anticipation.
He teased the man’s face with the leather crop, could see the moisture in his eyes, and knew that the pain from the binder clip would be reaching its crescendo about now. “I stole that from work, you know. Your lips are being held in the grip of a thirty-nine-cent clip from the desk of a sex-starved university secretary. Does it hurt?”
The answer pleased him, and he pressed the crop against the man’s cheek. “Do you want it in your mouth?”
A noise from upstairs startled him, and Billy looked toward the nearest window. There was a small gap between the ugly calico curtains, and from this angle he could see, just beyond the edge of the dying rose bush outside, the black shoes of a man standing on the sidewalk. He loathed black shoes.
“No,” said the voice in his head, “you don’t like what the black shoes represent.”
It was true. He glanced at the pile of clothes on the floor, a pair of crumpled socks next to the neatly-folded, hand-tailored GDP suit and a purple, diamond-patterned necktie hanging loosely over the striped shirt.
“Sorry, lover, I got distracted by the man outside, but he’s gone now. Let me get that for you.” Billy delicately squeezed the clip and removed it. “Ouch. That left a mark. But it won’t last long. You’ll be fine when I’m done with you.”
The man chewed on his lips for a moment and stretched his mouth wide. “Stick it in, professor. I know you like it when I call you that.”
“You’re right,” Billy crooned quietly, leaning in close and slowly pushing the leather crop into the other man’s moist mouth. “Suck it, Harry.”
He used the nickname they’d agreed upon, stretching out the vowel sounds, deprecating the consonants, relishing the asymmetry of the working class name and the man to whom he applied it.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” said the voice in Billy’s head.
“Why not?” he replied silently.
“Because of the shoes.”
“Those aren’t his.”
“Yes they are. He’s wearing them, for fuck’s sake.”
The secret knowledge angered Billy. He pulled the crop out, trying unintentionally to draw blood, avoiding eye contact with the man he wanted to fuck. His penis, flaccid until now, pressed against the fabric of his blue jeans.
“You know they are,” the voice teased.
“He’s just pretending!” Billy insisted, flexing the crop with both hands, a dissonant tantrum rising to deposit its malicious bile in the back of his throat. He swallowed it back, hoping Harry wouldn’t taste it when they next kissed. His cock had attained the status of raging hard-on. The waistband of his jeans was like a dual-purpose dam, holding up his sagging white belly flesh while at the same time preventing his cock from escaping up and out of his pants. The rough fabric chafed the shaft, and the more he squirmed the worse it got, until the sharp edges of the zipper threatened to nip the skin.
“Take off your pants, my little Midwestern commando,” Harry teased, his own beautiful brown cock standing at attention. He pushed his feet back, spread them as wide as he could, and hung there with his member thrusting into empty space.
Billy gawked at the scalene triangle formed by Harry’s body, the floor of the basement, and the imaginary vertical line that ended at the hook screwed into the ceiling. The shoes were wrong and had to come off. Before anything else happened, he wanted the hanging man fully naked. He knelt at the base of the triangle, lifted Harry’s right foot off the ground, and was assaulted by an unwanted Midwestern memory of the family veterinarian shoeing the horses.
“I told you the shoes were wrong,” said the voice.
“Shut up. I’m taking care of it.”
Billy removed the left shoe and tossed the two of them onto the pile of clothing. Harry was defenseless.
“That’s how I like you,” Billy said, sliding into the negative space of the imaginary triangle and slipping his mouth over Harry’s hard-on for an excruciating moment. He paused, tightened his lips on the glans and ran his tongue once around. Billy heard a moan and pushed the handle of the crop a centimeter into Harry’s anus.
The water heater in the corner switched on, masking Harry’s heavy breathing. Billy stood up, thinking that perhaps his wife had started her morning shower, and dropped his pants. He checked the ugly calico curtains. His cock pulsed at the idea that someone might be able to see in, but the sidewalk was empty and he knew no unauthorized pedestrian would be allowed to pass by. Anyone who could see already knew … and wouldn’t tell.
“Ignore that,” said the voice.
“Of course,” Billy said.
“What?” Harry asked.
“Did I say that out loud?” Billy replied, amused. He pulled Harry’s balls into his mouth.
“Teabagger,” Harry said.
* * * Stay tuned for Part II of “Binder: The Story of O” * * *