A Madness Most Discreet Page 12

  “Round two,” Franco said to Arden. “I want to see you ride him.”

  Arden prowled, cat-like, and dipped between my legs to suckle my balls while Franco stroked my nipples. Pleasure radiated like satellite waves and was picked up by receptors in my nervous system.

  “What have you done to me?” I said. It felt too good to be real.

  “This is what you get for meddling.” Franco rolled my nipple with his fingertip before pinching it sharply. “We’re going to fuck you until you can hardly walk. You’ll have to crawl to the bathroom on your hands and knees, if we let you.”

  Arden hummed in agreement, mouth around my cock. The vibrations were sending me over the edge.

  “He’s ready now,” Franco said. I was relieved someone else was making executive decisions because my processing skills were offline.

  Arden sat with his knees up, one hand stroking his cock, while two slick fingers forked in and out of his hole in an erotic display of self-gratification. Distantly, I remembered we were filming this, and I was glad. I wanted to relive every moment.

  “I miss Marquis,” Franco said, tugging my singular attention away from my lover’s performance. “You should see him on the pole, Michael. Beautiful. He was a gymnast, you know. We should go to Carousel and watch him dance. Make him jealous so that he has to take me back.”

  Franco opined about his ex while I watched Arden finger-fuck himself with an exhibitionist’s delight. I rubbed my tongue over my teeth compulsively and squeezed my dick until I couldn’t hold out any longer. I made a clumsy lunge for Arden, and he landed on top of me, kissing my mouth while laughing. He guided my wrists to Franco, who held them fast. Arden pulled back and hovered gracefully over my groin, then fed my ravenous cock into his warm, willing body again. His hair was damp, and his skin glistened with sweat. My lover glowed like a woodland fairy. He wouldn’t let me touch him, though. I could only watch him work me over.

  “He’s an angel,” I said to Franco. I’d never seen something so beautiful.

  “If you say so,” Franco said, but I heard the teasing in his voice. Arden, oblivious to our commentary, focused solely on his movements, how to wrest the most intensely personal sensations from me, how to make my spine curl and my vocal cords beg. He sat fully in his mount, rose up and came down again, swiveling his hips in a tight circle so that he could bury my cock deep. My hips jutted involuntarily, defying gravity to fuck into him.

  “Arden,” I said.

  “Yes, Michael?” he said without interrupting our perfect rhythm.

  “I think you should marry me.”

  He threw back his head with a throaty laugh. Behind me, Franco snickered.

  “Right now?” Arden clenched his ass so tightly that it stole my breath away. He knew what that did to me.

  “Yes, right now. Arden Evans D’Agostino.” That was how I’d introduce him to my family. As my husband, my partner. I could see it in my mind so vividly. Was it only because I was a writer?

  “What if I want you to take my name?” Arden teased. I didn’t care that he was making light of it. One day, I thought to myself.

  “That’s a debate for another time,” I said, lucid enough to know I’d lose in this state of mind. Arden smiled, the glow of his expression flooding me like warm sunshine.

  “I love you,” I said to Arden and then to Franco. “I love you both.”

  “I love you too, Mikey,” Franco murmured and swept the damp hair from my forehead. “Are you going to propose to me too?”

  “I could never marry you, Franco.” He’d broken my trust too many times.

  “Ah, Mike, always so truthful,” he said with a twinge of pain.

  I didn’t have the wherewithal to know if he was only being dramatic. And soon, my attention was back on my lover, flush with color. Burning incandescent like a comet through my dark skies. Arden’s sweat-dampened curls hung in his face, and his hungry, hazel eyes centered on mine. His mouth was open enough that I could see his tongue as he panted from exertion. His erection bobbed freely as he picked up speed and rode me toward completion. I tried to reach for him again, but Franco held me back.

  “Look at your angel, Mikey, fucking himself on your thick cock. Riding you like a pony. See how he loves it? You’re going to make him come just by lying here, you dumb, sexy beast.”

  Arden’s mouth parted in an expression I knew well, his body going rigid as he held his breath. It was a Pavlovian response to see him on the brink, and all of a sudden, my own climax was upon me. I arched upward to meet Arden on a downstroke. He sank down impossibly deep, to the subterranean place where our flesh had already fused. I unraveled in those fleeting moments of ecstasy before flooding him again.

  Arden made a grab for his cock, smashed it down roughly, then turned it on himself. He spurted like a fountain, thick white plumes splashing across the smooth planes of his chest. His ribcage heaved as he caught his breath, and I watched the thick ropes drip down his tanned skin like an abstract painting. I thought about my own seed twice inside of him. This was how I wanted him, soiled by my sex, inside and out.

  We dropped like dominos, wrung-out and pleasure-drunk. The shadows moved across the ceiling, and our bodies slowly shifted until we were a pile of overlapping limbs. My ass was sore, and my mind was blank, but my dick still throbbed like a reanimated corpse.

  “I’m halving your dosage next time,” Arden said wearily. He’d brought blankets and pillows to where we’d collapsed. Franco droned on about his plans for winning back Marquis while I drifted in and out of consciousness. Every time I was on the verge of slumber, I’d find myself brought back from the edge by Arden caressing me with his hand, or sometimes, it was his mouth. I climaxed again in a half-comatose state, hardly even opening my eyes. Arden cleaned me with a warm washcloth and finally, let me rest.

  In my dreams, I was fucking Arden in a field of wildflowers, and when he came, his perfect mouth parted, and butterflies spilled out.

  Part III.

  “My ear hurts,” the boy said. It had been two weeks with it steadily getting worse, and now the thing was red and tender with a yellowish-green ooze dripping out of it.

  “Put some rubbing alcohol in it,” the captain said.

  “I’ve done that, and it still hurts. I need some medicine.” Even at ten the boy knew the drill. You get sick, you go to the doctor, you get the medicine, and you feel better. Simple. His mother had known that. Why didn’t the captain?

  “It’ll be better in a couple days,” the captain said, but in a couple days the boy had a fever and couldn’t get out of bed, and when he did, he couldn’t walk straight or stay upright for very long. Memories of his mother came to him during that time. She’d always had long, mermaid hair, and the boy had loved to run his fingers through it and let the soft tresses caress his cheeks and lips. He thought of his mother’s warm laughter and gentle words, and he missed her.

  Those memories were interrupted by the captain, barking orders at him and not the usual kind. They were in the dinghy now and the captain was telling him to open his eyes, stay awake, to sit the hell up.

  The boy drifted again. He much preferred the company of his mother.

  Then there were bright lights and a bone-rattling chill like he’d never known. Men and women in white speaking gently to him. Like he was delicate.

  “How do you know this man you call captain?” they asked him.

  “Are you being kept against your will?”

  “Where is your family?”

  The boy answered as best he could. He told them that the captain was his father, that his mother had died about a year ago. He told them they were from Florida, and he recited his aunt’s address. They could call her, he assured them. Please, just give me some medicine.

  He got an intravenous drip and some very good drugs. A day later, the fever had passed, and he was feeling like himself again. Even better because there was no burning or piercing pain or throbbing ache in his ear. Only a wad of cotton stuffed inside of it
that dulled his hearing a little.

  “My ear’s better,” the boy said to the captain, who was sitting in a chair across the room, looking stiff and more haggard than usual.

  “It’s going to cost me,” the captain said, though he didn’t sound too upset by it, just the usual gruffness when it came to the price of things, which was always highway robbery.

  The doctor came in then to visit. He was a beautiful man with shining mahogany skin and dark, kind eyes. His white coat assured the boy that he knew exactly what he was doing. He’d made the boy’s pain go away and fixed his leaking ear. The doctor spoke to him in a soothing tone, and the boy recognized the sound from his fever dreams, so calm and reassuring. He decided, right then, that he loved this man.

  “We gave you antibiotics for the infection and fluids because you were very dehydrated,” the doctor said as though the boy were the only other adult in the room. “But you’ll need to put these drops in your ear three times a day.” He handed the boy a brown glass vial stoppered with an eye dropper. He gave the captain a look of disapproval but no more than that because this man was a gentleman, and gentlemen didn’t brawl or use bad language. That was what his mother had told him. You’re a gentleman, Arden, and a gentleman doesn’t act that way.

  Even still, the full force of the doctor’s displeasure was apparent. The captain grumbled. The beautiful man turned back to the boy. “And you’ll need to drink a lot of water, even if you’re not thirsty. Think you can do that?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said like a good soldier. He would follow this man to the frontlines. He would go to medical school and learn about bodies and devote his life to fixing up sick children with negligent fathers.

  “Very good. If your father had waited any longer to bring you in, you might have lost your hearing altogether. Or worse.” Another pointed look at the captain. The boy didn’t know what could be worse, but he was better now and, similar to surviving a squall in open water, didn’t care to contemplate what might have been.

  There were a few more matters that needed to be settled before the boy could leave. He was comfortable in his bed with sheets that were cool and dry and a television, something he hadn’t watched in months. As they were leaving, the boy saw the doctor speaking to one of the nurses and rushed up to the man, hugging him on impulse. The man squatted to hug him back, and it was so strong and wonderful, something the boy hadn’t felt in so long, that he almost burst into tears.

  On the ride back to the boat, the captain admitted that he was still getting used to having the kid around. “I’ve never done this before,” he said in his own defense, huffing hard on a cigarette because there’d been no smoking inside the clinic. “Never had to take care of anyone but myself.”

  “I like hugs,” the boy said. He was communicating, in his own rudimentary way, that he needed affection. And he needed the captain to provide it.

  “Well, all right then,” the captain said as though the boy were being greedy in asking for seconds at dinnertime.

  Later that night when the boy informed the captain he was going to bed, the captain called him over and gave him a hug. It wasn’t as confident as the doctor’s, and it didn’t last as long, but it was a good hug all the same, and the boy thought for the first time, maybe he could love this man, his father.

  11

  the friends

  “I don’t know that we should be indulging Franco like this,” I said to Arden as we prepared for a night out. “He’s been known to take advantage.”

  “You didn’t hear him on Sunday, Michael. He’s really distraught. I think seeing us together triggered something for him. Don’t you think he deserves a second chance?”

  “Knowing Franco, he’s already had several.”

  “Think of it as a friendly favor then. Franco’s helping me get my finances in order. We’re helping him win back his lover.”

  “We already paid in full for that favor,” I reminded him. Arden’s grin was so wide that I grew hot with embarrassment and had to look away. I couldn’t deny I’d enjoyed our threesome. That recording made it painfully obvious.

  “Besides, it’ll be fun to go out with you and your friends,” Arden said, selecting a shirt for me among the several I’d laid on the bed. “Maybe a certain dark-haired Italian man with bad intentions will ask me to dance.”

  I’d definitely be asking him to dance, and later, if I played my cards right… “I have only one intention.” I grabbed his hand and spun him into my arms for a long, lingering kiss. Arden pulled away at last, and I ruffled his hair, something he hated. He called me a meanie.

  “Is that the worst insult you have?” I teased.

  “I have more. Just not for you.”

  Franco insisted on riding with us, even though his apartment was closer to the club by half. He asked for a shot when he arrived and then another before we left. I told him sloppy Franco could easily slide into asshole Franco, neither of which would win him any points with his ex-lover.

  We crowded into an Uber with Arden chatting up the driver while Franco second-guessed himself in the backseat.

  “He’s probably fucking someone else already,” Franco said, voicing his worries out loud. “He gets offers all the time. Men richer than me. What if I’m making a fool of myself?”

  “You’re take-me-back game is as good as it’s ever been,” I assured him. “Just make your best case and let Marquis decide whether he wants to give it another go. That’s really all you can do.”

  “I’ll buy him his expensive meals,” Franco said, as though he were having an argument with the man himself. “He can eat only the garnish for all I care.”

  “Franco,” Arden said, twisting around to address him from the front seat. “I have a few things to say about your fixation that he’s only using you for your money, but I think you need another drink first.”

  “Your boyfriend is not an idiot,” Franco said to me as if it were a revelation. “Liam’s wrong. You’re the lucky one in this match.”

  “I agree one hundred percent.” I hoped Arden wasn’t upset by the slight, but more likely, he’d simply chosen to ignore it.

  “Here it is,” Franco said to our driver. The line outside was already forming, and it was only ten o’clock. “What if he’s not working tonight?”

  “It’s Saturday, and he’s their best dancer,” Arden said.

  “How do you know that?” Franco asked.

  “Because you told me.”

  “Yes, right.”

  Franco, normally so smooth and unruffled, was out of sorts. It was amusing to me but also concerning. I wanted him to be happy.

  We climbed out of the car, and though I’d be fine with waiting in line, Franco was not. But it wasn’t his money which greased the wheels this time, it was Arden, plucked from the gathering crowd by a musclebound bouncer and invited to skip the line. Arden brought Franco and I along with him, and like royalty, we were escorted into the club.

  “I know him,” Arden said to Franco’s obvious question as to why he was getting preferential treatment. “We used to go to the same gym,” he added, perhaps so that I wouldn’t make any assumptions about their acquaintance. I tried to act nonchalant about it, but Arden was perceptive.

  The club was large for being in the heart of Chelsea. The first floor was mostly for dancing with a stage occupied tonight by a deejay and sound equipment. Surrounding the dance floor were the bars and high-top tables. The upper level, where we were headed, was a little quieter and more intimate, for private parties and those who might wish to conduct business. It overlooked the dance floor but was separated from it by the club’s main attraction and its namesake, the carousel.

  The carousel was a circular platform where the dancers performed. With the exception of the cages, each of the stations centered around a pole that had been repurposed from a vintage carousel ride. When the club was busy, the platform turned, so that you could view the entire array of dancers without leaving your seat. For now, the platform was empty,
as their performance had not yet begun.

  I’d only been here a couple of times, but I suspected Franco had become something of a regular since his first encounter with Marquis. That was at Franco’s thirtieth birthday party where Marquis had performed a memorable strip tease on roller skates, and Franco had been smitten. I didn’t know who arranged the lap dance, but it was by far Franco’s favorite gift that night.

  Liam was already seated in one of the black vinyl chairs, his drink placed neatly on a coaster on one of the low tables. We made our greetings and ordered drinks, all of them alcoholic except for Arden’s club soda with lime. He’d assured me he didn’t mind, but I’d been cutting back lately so that he didn’t have to be the only sober one at any given function.

  Now, my boyfriend was sitting across from a very dour Franco, about to give him a rude awakening.

  “I wasn’t there, of course, but from the way you talk about Marquis and your blow-up, it sounds to me like you were being incredibly classist,” Arden said. Ever since our threesome, they’d reached a level of familiarity that would have otherwise taken years to achieve. I could tell Liam was taken aback by the candid way in which Arden addressed him.

  “Classist?” Franco exclaimed. “I bought him whatever he wanted. How is that classist?”

  “You’re looking at it as a debt when you should be looking at it as a redistribution of wealth. You invited him out, knowing he was a working man. Therefore, you should pay for your shared expenses.”

  “It shouldn’t be assumed that the top has to pay,” Liam interjected. “Then you’re just repeating heteronormative gender roles, and that’s sexist.”

  “It’s not about who tops or bottoms,” Arden said. “Or even if sex is involved. It’s about who has more resources.”