We laid side by side, afterward. I seemed to slide off his sweat-slick body and to melt, face-down, in a puddle beside him. He lowered his legs and raised his arms above his head, and stared for a long time at the ceiling. Neither of us seemed to feel the need to talk, just for the sake of making noise. Neither of us seemed to have the energy to move.
I was enjoying the half-doze I’d slipped into, beneath this man’s biceps. Then he spoke. “You’re Aslan,” he said.
The shock of sound jolted me to a state resembling alertness. “I’m ass-what?” I murmured.
“Aslan,” he said, after a long pause. I thought about that one for a while, not moving. “Didn’t you ever read those books when you were a kid? The Narnia books?”
“Mmm,” I said. What I was thinking, though, was of third grade, when our teacher read to the class one chapter a week from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe A certain percentage of the class had been scornful of C. S. Lewis’ mythology of tea-drinking fauns and little girls finding magical worlds in furniture of which none of us had ever heard. Most of us were enjoying it in the bite-sized chunks in which it was being delivered.
Me, I’d been so anxious to find out what happened next that after the third chapter, I’d persuaded my mom to take me to the library so that I could check out the book and finish it in one gulp. It was my first introduction to a genre I’ve loved ever since.
That’s what I was thinking, as I made my noncommittal grunt.
“Or maybe you saw the movies,” he said. “I rented them for my niece not too long ago.”
“I know the series,” I said, though the effort to form words after fucking was almost too much effort.
“You remember what they said about Aslan, right?” I didn’t say anything, because nothing was coming to mind. “He’s basically god, but because he’s a big fluffy lion, everyone wants him to be lovable and cuddly. In the books, all the girls go lovey-dovey whenever he comes around, and riding on his back and making flower wreaths for his hair and shit, I mean, his mane, not his hair—“
“Mmmm,” I said, just becoming drowsy and hypnotized by the sound of his soft, low voice. He shifted to pull me into him, so that my face pressed against his armpit.
“But then he goes and pulls some pretty seriously awful crap, like killing a whole bunch of soldiers or doing something really heavy where it’s all guts and gore after. And the kids are all, Oh, I can’t believe how terrible Aslan can be, and the animals tell them . . . don’t you remember what they tell them?”
In unison, he and I said together, “He’s not a tame lion.” His voice was normal and conversational. Mine was a mere echo.
“That’s you, man.”
“How is that me?” I asked him. This man knows me as well as anyone with whom I fuck around. He knows me from my blog. He reads my adventures. He chats with me regularly and asks questions, gets to hear about the fucks I don’t normally share. He’s heard all kinds of stories about where my dick has been. When I considered that, and I consider his own similar tastes in sexual play—which can be pretty hardcore and demanding—I thought I knew what he wanted to say.
But I wanted to hear him say it.
He sighed. “I think people look at you and because you look so normal in a lot of ways they think, Hot dude, I love that he’s the kind of guy I can take home to momma. I think they see you and think, He’s got a big dick, but I bet he’s sweet and cuddly after he shoots. They want to see the stuffed animal side of you, all Disneyfied and neutered. The side where they think, Aw, ain’t he nice. Putting flowers and shit in your mane and prancing around the fields.”
I snickered. Maybe once I had a mane for flowers, but I cut it all off last year.
“But they’re not seeing the side of you I know,” he continued. I liked the closeness of him, the proximity of our bodies, the warm of our skin. He reached between my legs and rolled me over to the side a little, so that he could wrap his hand around my cock. It was moist and slippery from the combination of lube and spit and his own natural juices. “They don’t think about where this dick has been. Or how angry it gets, doesn’t it? They don’t think about the nasty stuff this nasty cock loooooves to do."
I stared him in the eye. And I listened. I couldn't deny he was right.
"You ain’t no Disney character. You’re an animal.” He pulled out my dick and slapped it in his palm. I was fully hard, then. “You can do bad things to a man with that dick. You can rip up a mess of boys and not care that they limp home crying.”
I was aroused. My lips reached out for his. They connected, and merged together into an soft, wet tunnel between us, where our tongues traveled. He pulled me close to him, hard, so that my cock jutted into his hipbone.
“That’s why you’re like Aslan,” he said. “Just like they say in the books. . . .”
Again we both finished the thought together. “He’s not a tame lion.” An odd incongruity, using such an iconically innocent book to make his provocative point.
My jaw clenched. I positioned myself between his legs. Used my knees to cock them up. Leaned over him and looked him in the eye.
“You're a fucking animal,” he grunted. "Animal."
The words had a direct effect on my meat. I spat in my hand, rubbed it around. Felt down at his hole, where one of my loads was already leaking out. “Let me show you how an animal fucks,” I told him.
“Fucking beast,” he growled, egging me on. “Dangerous fucker. Who's gonna tame you, huh? Who's gonna tame your wild ass?”
“Not you,” I told him, as I drove in, hard. Relentless.
His face contorted face into a rictus as he let out a howl of mixed pain and sheer pleasure. But he couldn't deny my words. He couldn't deny my cock, either.
Not would I have let him. After all, I'm not a tame lion.