Bar and Joey Page 5

  I slip between a sheet covering the mattress and under a fluffy comforter and blanket. I flirt, “A few. Good looks always get a man into a stranger’s bed, though.”

  He chuckles. Although he can walk around the bed and climb in on the other side, he doesn’t. Rather, Bar slides into the bed next to me, meeting our bodies together again. “I’ll hold you and keep you warm. Are you okay with that?”

  It’s not my first rodeo with a handsome man. Of course, he can hold me. Why not? I’m single. He’s single. What do we really have to lose at the moment? Nothing that I can determine. Plus, he’s right, he can keep me warm, even if I’m already overheated. Honestly, I want the company and severe touch of a man since it’s been a while. Months. Almost a year.

  As he wraps me in his arms, tangling me against him, the situation is conceived as awkward but comfortably right. I feel as if I am in high school again and being seduced by Rudyard Graffington, one of the better senior swimmers at Frankling High. How badly Rud wanted me then. And how badly Bar wants me now. The sexual cycle of life always continues.

  I feel one of his fingers brush against a nipple. I feel the hairs on his legs rub against my legs. I feel light perspiration between his pecs and his toothpaste-smelling breath on my face.

  He goes hard, thumping and pulsing against my leg. His chest inflates and deflates. Again and again, he brushes my nipple. And he rolls his underwear-covered and stiff cock against one of my legs, attempting to dry hump me.

  I break more of the delicate ice and strange moment between us and instruct, “You should kiss me now, Bar. I know it’s something you want to do. I can feel it against my leg.”

  Bar doesn’t laugh. Instead, he listens to my permissible instruction. The man becomes hungry for me, pushing me on my back. He climbs over me, and our firm dicks align, meeting. His lips tenderly brush against my lips. And his tongue, playful, unchained, on a mission of pleasure, rolls down and over my chin, neck, and the center of my splayed chest.

  The action within the bedroom’s dimly lit structure becomes similar to one of Magnum Ride’s naughty scenes in his sexual trilogy, The Visitor. Our connection turns vulgar after heated kissing. Cotton is removed from our bodies. Inner thighs are delicately licked. Peak-like nipples are pinched. Growls and groans fill the strange bedroom as his mouth meets my center, and he…he…he…

  If he doesn’t stop sucking me, pushing his throat down and over my tool, purposely and pleasurably suffocating himself, I’ll come inside him. If he…he…he…

  He squeezes my ball sack with a cupped palm, and we become filthy on the bed, adult-natured, and without any limits whatsoever. There is nothing clean regarding our sexual entanglement. Huffing, bites, and ghost-like moans lead into a lube-and-condom show between us. My legs are spread open by his busy hands, and he…he…he…

  He pushes his throbbing mass inside me, inch after inch, and begins to cause my world to tumble out of the galaxy and through a black hole, ending up in some unknown dimension.

  I admit, it becomes rough sex similar to Magnum Ride’s leading performance in his best-selling skin flick, On the Farm. Our combined action turns somewhat chaotic; not that I mind. My pecs are slapped, he pinches my nipples, twisting both this way and that way, separately, and he compresses his right hand against my throat, gently squeezing my air off. I become barred to the bed, numb and catatonic under his palm- and dick-blasts, enjoying his aggression. Under his wintry spell, semiconscious, he controls me. I won’t lie, I want to be told what to do in bed. There isn’t anything better than being bossed, dick-controlled, and possessed by the bed and breakfast owner. Nothing.

  Truth is, I honestly don’t know what happens during these extended minutes with Bar. His roughness becomes a pleasurable blur for me. I…I…I…

  I can’t remember coming; I just know I do. Does he wrap one of his hands around my erection and jostle its excess skin up and down? I believe so. Yes! Of course, he does. He continues to bolt in and out of my bottom, growling like an animal and dripping sweat against my torso. He becomes fiery regarding his passion as he creates tumultuous motion with his thighs and hips, satisfying both our relentless needs. A string of fired-off cock-juice exits my part. And I only realize I come when sticky-wet and warm ejaculation pools on two of my abs, glazing my perspiration-covered skin.

  He finishes his work, coming; I’m well aware of this. Riding me. Pounding me. Thrusting everything he has inside me. Panting above me. Perspiring all over me. Grunting.

  “I’m going to shoot. It’s happening.”

  And it happens. Bar fills the condom with his sticky seed. He huffs above me. He puffs. And he eventually pulls out of me, losing the plastic protection somewhere on the floor. The man settles next to me, flat on his back. In the semi-dark room, his chest rises and falls. He breathes heavily, not out of shape, but perhaps overworked. Bar rolls on his side and wraps one of his arms around me. He pulls me towards him, sticking our bodies together with the goo on my abs. The kiss he shares with me blows my world apart.

  When the kiss ends, he pants, “I really like you, Joey Redd. What have you done to me?”

  * * * *

  What I do to Bar Moore: mix up his world a bit like a strong martini and drink him down. Cause him to slowly, but surely, fall in love with me, even though I honestly never intend to cause such a reaction. Change his thoughts and emotions regarding being single. Make him believe and understand we are meant to be boyfriends and lovers in the future. All of these thick layers of ice/life occurring in just a matter of ten hours or less. So baffling. So amazing.

  What Bar Moore does to me: turns my heart inside out, in a good way, and causes me to realize he might just be the right guy for me. Shamelessly fall head over heels in love with him, in just a short period of time, realizing love at first sight is a possibility. Grounds me during the snowstorm, to his flattering emotions, and his bed. Uses my flesh for his unconditional and sexual needs throughout the night, one dose of man-inside-man action after the next. Become his drug of choice, placing me on his tongue and allowing me to melt. Causing my heart to fly, flutter, and float within the castle, and making me feel as if I’m a ghost or apparition, haunting him. Boundless and heedless concerning my emotional tumbling for him, and so quickly, lost within the castle and within him.

  We make love throughout the long, cold, and windy night. Just the two of us locked together, inseparable and naked. Again. Again. Again. Until we become drained and sexually spent, useless in each other’s arms.

  * * * *

  I wake in the Prince room to a window swinging open by a tyrannical wind blowing inwards, whisking the draperies left and right, and searing my face with a brisk cold. Quickly, I jump from the bed and rush to the window, closing it. Frozen, feeling as if I’ve walked naked through a rise of Antarctica glaciers, I rush back to the bed and find shelter under the sheet, comforter, and thick blankets.

  Where am I? This is what I think, attempting to push the morning’s grogginess away. I semi-sit with the covers pulled up to my chin and attempt to recapture the last sixteen hours.

  It’s a dream, I decide. It has to be. Everything. The road trip from Pittsburgh to Erie. The horrible snowstorm. Wrecking Kel’s BMW into a snowdrift. Snowbound. Walking through the blizzard-like conditions and becoming guests for the night at the Foreboding Castle Bed and Breakfast. Meeting the other guests at the wintry haven. Learning the castle’s secret passageways. And falling for the host, Bar Moore. Making love to the man. It must be a dream. I can’t think otherwise.

  Where is Bar? This is the second thing I ask my mind. Since he’s not in the bedroom with me, it only confirms I’ve experienced a dream. All of the chatter and sex we’ve shared. Everything. How strange.

  * * * *

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Mr. Redd?” Mrs. O’Donnell calls through the door. “May I enter?”

  “Of course!” I call out from the bed, realizing she’s harmless.

  I hear her turn the bedroom door’s b
rass knob and watch her enter.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. O’Donnell. It’s a pleasure to always see you.”

  She walks to the windows and pulls their draperies open one by one. Bright white-light fills the room with a new day of January and its snowy cold. While working on the last window, she inquires, “How did you sleep, young man?”

  “Fair to well.”

  She chuckles. “I’m sure Mr. Moore kept you up half the night.”

  “I don’t kiss and tell,” I tell her.

  “That makes you a very good and polite man, of course.” She continues with her chore. “You should know that Mr. Moore adores you. Everything about you. And if I don’t know any better, I’d say he has fallen in love with you. I’m not one to judge, young man, but I think it’s absolutely amazing how you’ve turned his bed and breakfast world upside down, and so quickly.”

  “I must admit, he’s just the type of man I need and want in my life. The man has much to offer, particularly his heart.”

  She completes her task and turns around. During her short trip from the window to the room’s single door, she says, “Some young men are meant to fall in love under the most peculiar and extraordinary conditions.”

  “Like being snowed in during a blizzard.”

  “Of course, my dear. Just that. Now, I must run along and continue my duties. You enjoy Mr. Moore today and the castle. It looks like you won’t be leaving anytime soon since it’s predicted to snow another eight inches today.”

  “I wouldn’t be happier anywhere else,” I tell her. “Thank you for having me.”

  “Always a pleasure, young man. Good day.”

  I watch her exit the bedroom. Her larger-size bottom swings left to right as she walks away. Eventually gone.

  * * * *

  Not ten seconds later, Bar enters the Prince room with a tray of toast, coffee, and eggs, which smell divine. Taste buds come alive on my tongue. He says, “I see you opened the blinds.”

  “I didn’t. Mrs. O’Donnell was just here, and she opened them.”

  He stands in the middle of the room and looks baffled: screwy eyebrows, semi-open mouth, unblinking. “Did you say Mrs. O’Donnell?”

  “I did. She’s a very nice woman. Enchanting. Caring. She’s been a dear during my stay. You should hire more lovelies like her.”

  Bar chuckles, and a gentle smile fills his face. He walks to the bed, passes me the tray, and climbs in next to me.

  I don’t understand his laughter and ask, “What’s so funny?”

  “Mrs. O’Donnell accidentally fell down the Prince tower seven years ago and broke her neck. She died instantly. There’s a cemetery behind the castle where she’s buried. I would show you her grave, but it’s under snow right now.”

  The information hits me like a freight train. I must turn pale, a frigid white like the snow outside. Confused, I ask, “She’s a ghost?”

  He chuckles again. “Yes. You’re fortunate. Only a few guests get to see her. She must like you.”

  “Last night, she found me in the Prince room and led me through the walls and here. I’ve seen and spoken to her numerous times since I arrived.”

  “It’s comforting to know she’s looking out for your best interest.”

  “How strange, but kind of nice,” I add, kissing him again, and melting while smelling the breakfast on my lap, ravenous for Bar Moore and food.

  * * * *

  First, we eat, filling our bellies from a night of unremitting sex. Afterwards, we make love again, no holds barred, passionate for each other. We twist and turn on the bed, making wild love. Moans and grunts fill the room as I climb on top of him, hold Bar to the bed, and have my way with him: biting one of his nipples, gently tugging on his ball sack, licking one side of his neck, and rolling fingertips down the center of his chest, teasing the man and driving him sexually mad.

  It turns into chaotic bliss for both of us, rough and yet cordial at the same time. He becomes surprised when I flip him over, apply lube to his bottom, and ride my swollen and condom-covered pipe inside him. I thrust wildly against his rear, thumping into him, and almost cause him to go unconscious. My palms dig into his hips, and I hear him grunt like a saber tooth tiger.

  He bites the pillow with his teeth, and his hands become fists in the bed’s sheet, gripping the material with all their might. He grunts something I can’t hear, a mouthful of words that sound like a foreign language. His ass raises off the bed, and he swirls it in a counter-clockwise motion, obviously excited by our connection. Bar howls, echoing the tundra-like sounds beyond the bedroom’s windows.

  Our romp continues for the next seven, fourteen, almost twenty minutes: the vibrant and sexual actions of two naked men on a Saturday morning during one of the state’s historical blizzards. I become dazed and confused behind him, grinding against the man’s tight bottom. My eyes somewhat roll into the back of my head. My body becomes numb. The erection between my legs has a mind of its own: mechanical and unstoppable. I become windblown on my knees, somewhat out of breath. The action doesn’t stop me from pleasuring the both of us, though. Not in the least. My thrusts become wicked, unending, and pulverizing; not that he complains, obviously enjoying the time on his palms and knees in front of me.

  Each few seconds that pass during the connection becomes another hit to his rear. One after the next. Dozens and dozens. I huff and puff, succumbing to my own explosion.

  Eventually, I murmur to him, “Almost time, Bar,” and bump inside him with another blast, a second blast, and a third blast. A bolt of lightning-like energy races through my core. I become weak behind him as an erotic burst happens at my center. Hot sweat drips off my face. I provide his rump with one, two, three last hits, and the condom that separates us fills with my load. Weakness takes over me. I become limp, spent from the sex show I offer him on the bed. As I pull out of him, I tell him, “Let me get you off.”

  He doesn’t object.

  I know he never will.

  * * * *

  We shower together and dress. And eventually, we find ourselves downstairs, in the sitting room for a morning cup of coffee or juice, whatever Slender Man chooses to serve us. Again, Aunt Holiday is slumped in one of the high-back chairs, snoozing. Lady Vampe sits by the fire and doesn’t lift her head from a tattered mystery.

  Colonel McCarmichael grins from ear to ear. He nods and tells Bar and me, “Good morning, gentleman. I’m sure you’ve kept each other quite warm and cozy during the night.”

  Neither of us says anything in response. We probably blush, proving our guilt.

  We help ourselves to cups of hot and steamy coffee.

  Bar asks Slender Man, “Bertram, where are Mr. Ride and Mr. Foxford?”

  Slender Man leans over, almost forming a right angle with his frame, and whispers into Bar’s ear, “Still retired in Mr. Ride’s room, sir. I surely don’t think they will be joining us for coffee after the night they’ve had together.”

  “Very well. It’s good to know they’re entertaining each other,” Bar replies and walks me to one of the large windows that overlooks Front Street and the small town.

  I see nothing but spirals and drifts of snowy whiteness. A fierce and daunting wind blows snow in every direction. It beats against the window and the castle’s construction.

  Bar points to the right. “Your friend’s car is somewhere over there. It looks as if the two of you are trapped here for another day or two. I would guess that the Frozentoe municipal workers won’t have the roads cleared until Monday.”

  “Better here opposed to elsewhere. Truth is, I’m having the time of my life. And I’m pretty sure Kel is loving every minute with Magnum Ride, since he’s always had a thing for the man. They’re probably acting out all the naughty scenes from Magnum’s dirty movies.”

  “Funny,” he says, chuckling. He adds, “The phones are up and working again, but probably just for a short period of time. I’m sure this blizzard is going to last all weekend
, if not longer. You’ll have to try and call your friend in Erie and tell him you can’t make it to his bachelor’s party.”

  Nelson Quest probably realizes Kel and I are safe, hunkered down and protected from the storm, somewhere close. I’m sure he knows we won’t be attending his bachelor’s party at The Dude Ranch. Nelson’s a smart man and knows a blizzard and its torrential conditions can halt every event in the tri-state area, since the local meteorologists didn’t predict the storm. I’ll do what Bar suggests, though, and try to contact Nelson in Erie. If I can’t reach him, I’ll try a groomsmen, one after the next, at least until I finally reach one, explaining Kel’s and my situation in Frozentoe and being trapped, but safe, in the bed and breakfast.

  “I’ll do that,” I tell Bar, close to him, shoulder to shoulder.

  Behind us, Lady Vampe and Colonel McCarmichael begin to spat about politics; it’s another argument between Hillary and Trump. As they create their morning battle over coffee, Bar places one of his strong arms around my hips and squeezes me close to him.

  He says, “I could get used to having you around, since I’m already falling for you, Joey. You’ve blown up my world and heart in the last few days.”

  I kiss his cheek, his mouth, and slowly pull my face away. “Good to know I have a purpose,” I whisper and kiss him again, hoping the blizzard never ends and springtime is lost forever, also falling for him.

  THE END

  ABOUT R.W. CLINGER

  R.W. Clinger is a resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies. His work includes Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, The Last Pile of Leaves, The Weekender, Cutie Pie Must Die, Frat Brats, Panama Dan, Spoil Me So, The Shower Police, Splash Boys, and several stories with Starbooks Press. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine The Writer’s Post Journal. Visit him online at rwclinger.com.