Open Here

Rock Star. He’s told me that’s what they call him in his line of work. It’s what I call him in my head.

He’s got the long hair of a rock star—an impeccably-conditioned mane that hangs down his shoulders to the middle of his back. Sometimes he ties it into a knot at the top of his head, transforming him into a character from an anime; one moment he looks as if he should be balancing a Stratocaster on the sharp bones of his hip, and the next he looks as if he’s going to transform into a magic-wielding shaman spouting mysterious wisdom and lightning from his fingertips.

He needs his own theme song.

Up close, when we’re kissing, his features are almost too large. His eyes are dark and the size of saucers. I could julienne vegetables with his large, keen-edged nose. His chin is as pointy as the Wicked Witch’s, his cheeks as sharp and dangerous as rocks along the New England coast. Singly, his features might be off-putting. But together, they cohere into near-perfection. I’m afraid to look at him sometimes, when we’re together. He’s almost too beautiful for mortal eyes. Mine start to water when I stare for too long, as if I’ve been gazing directly into the sun. He’s as alluring as he is dangerous.

Rock Star. It describes him perfectly.

His house is old and grand and sits atop one of the rocky hills near my home. To reach his bedroom, I have to work my way through four rooms, four doorways, two hallways, and a twisting old servant’s stair. Morning light streams in through the eastern windows when I turn the knob of his bedroom door. I’m expecting to find him beneath the sheets, sprawled naked and waiting, his hair cascading down his shoulders like a raven waterfall.

My expectations are too low. I see him on the bed—it’s hard to miss the twin highways of his calves running a course to the vanishing point between his wide-spread thighs. But he’s not beneath the covers. His head is hidden beneath a mountain of pillows; his enormous hands are stretched to the mattress’ furthest corners. And he’s not naked. His round bubble butt is encased in a pair of gray designer briefs. There’s a rip in them, strategically placed over the hole. I can see the fur beneath licking out, tempting me.

He’s taken a pen and written on the briefs. OPEN HERE, they read. One word above the hole, the other beneath.

The message isn’t very hard to decipher. I realize that I’ve been standing there staring at him for a long half-minute, afraid to end the perfection of the moment. I haven’t taken a breath. When I open my mouth to inhale, the room’s cool air pierces my lungs painfully. Again, so often as I feel when I’m in the Rock Star’s presence, I feel tears prickle behind the corners of my eyes. Some part of me, deep within, is convinced I don’t deserve this.

Earlier this year I’d been convinced that life was crapping on me endlessly. I’d had a lousy January and an even worse February when someone I trusted turned out to be unstable, even dangerous. I’d withdrawn from everything and was licking my wounds when the Rock Star walked into my life. It only goes to show—just when I was convinced that nothing could ever be good again, the wheel of fortune turned and dropped a little sheer perfection into my life. I’m astonished at the intensity with which this man desires me. I boggle when he texts me photos of himself—some nude, some dressed in my underwear that he keeps and obsessively wears. I melt when he whispers how handsome he finds me.

I’m constantly astonished how good the universe is to me, when I’m with this guy. I’m not much of a believer in traditional denominations, but brought up against this evidence of the universe’s bounty, and confronted by such effortless, unpracticed beauty . . . I’m suddenly the most devout of religious men.

So I kneel. On bended knee I approach the edge of the mattress. My hands scoop beneath his strong, hard thigh. I pull the Rock Star back until his ass meets my face. My left cheek rests on the OP; my hands caress the EN while I breath warm air through the hole, the size of a fifty-cent piece. He smells fresh from the shower. I tickle through the hole with a fingertip. He stirs beneath the pillows, letting out a muffled sigh.

He’s perfection. This situation is perfection; he’s planned it solely for the purpose of arousing me. Of pleasing me. And I’m about to ruin the solemn stillness, this frozen purity.

Because my cock demands it.

I grab the sides of the opening with hooked index and middle fingers. And I rip the fabric. The words disappear. I don’t give a shit. All I want is access to that hole. My fingers pull apart the round globes of his cheeks. My tongue strains for his hole. When the wetness of its surface meets the half-sweet, half-metallic tang he’s hiding deep between those muscles, I close my eyes and relax into him. He groans, and shoves back against my face. I bite his ass. I want to dig in my teeth, to rip into the flesh like a hungry wolf. He inspires my carnivore instincts. I content my urge by chewing on his hole, though. I nip, and rake my teeth against the tender flesh. I suck, and grind my incisors when it puckers out. I mash my beard against the pink flesh just inside the swelling, and hope that it feels like a thousand sharp knifepricks.

He loves the abuse. Over my animal growling I can hear him gasp, and groan. His hips arch. His dick is heavy with blood, and swing down between his legs. His fingers stop clawing at the sheets. They grab his cheeks and pull them apart. Wider, wider, so I can get deep. “Take them off,” I tell him, tugging at the waistband of the ruined shorts. He scrambles to obey. “These are mine,” I tell him. “I’m taking them home.”

“Please,” he whispers, once he’s kicked the ruined cotton to the room’s other side.

“Please what?” I ask.

“Please . . . fuck me. Please. Fuck me, please.”

My dick is swollen and angry. He’s like Spencer, this one. All that beauty makes me want to fucking punish him. All that beauty makes me want to punish him, fucking. There’s a bottle of lube on the bed. I squirt some of the clear fluid onto my fingers and slap them on his hole. He gasps and shudders as I finger it it in. “So you want me to fuck you?” I growl, as I massage more of the goo onto my dick. It’s already pumping out precum. Between my spit on the hole and the wet head of my dick, it hardly needs the lube.

He starts to answer, but I don’t give him a chance. I ram home my inches. He yells—a long, drawn-out cry of resistance and surprise, but it’s tempered by relief. Joy, even. When I first started to fuck the Rock Star, he was tight. So tight I had to sweet-talk my way in. Now though, after weeks of my cock, he’s primed for me. There’s not even any resistance as I sink in to the hilt. I grunt, and feel his prostate nudge my cock head as I hit home.

He’s feeling it too. Again he’s pulling at his butt cheeks, opening them as wide as possible for me. I start fucking him hard. No preliminaries. No buildup. No sweet grinding, no gentle lovemaking. This is a fuck. It’s as close to savage punishment as it gets. Relentless pounding. He’s yelling like a little boy taking a walloping from his daddy after a misdeed. He’s flinching with every stroke, shuddering and trembling like his body’s in shock from the abuse.

The difference between this and assault is that he loves it. “I want you in me,” he pleads, between thrusts. “I want you in me. All of you. All of you in me.”

He doesn’t mean just my cock. He means me, my body, everything. My essence, inside him. I’m about to give him just that. His head is hitting the wall above the bed. He’s going to get more loads from me that morning, but this one’s the one I’m pounding in the deepest. He coerces it from me by thrusting back. His pelvis hits my hipbones so hard that I’m sure I’ll bruise. “Take it,” I tell him, as I push his chest into the mattress. “Fucking take it.”

“Please,” he says. It’s his last coherency. He starts to growl obscenities as I make animal noises. We’re both brutes in heat, beasts with only the goal of mating. When I shoot, it’s at the bottom of a thrust. He knows the noises I make well enough by now to tell when I’m at climax. Greedily his butt clutches at my cock, coaxing the seed into him. He waggles his ass, shaking my dick to grab the last drops. Then he rolls over onto our sides—while I stay inside him—until he’s sprawled over my lap. His hand grabs his dick. One stroke. Two. Three. He shoots a geyser of semen across his chest. It lands on his right shoulder. Another spurt hits his nipple. The third lands on his belly.

Panting, we sink into each other, limbs tangled, chests heaving, his hair covering me like a blanket. We lie there until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. And then his head turns. He looks me in the face, and opens his eyes. I’m overwhelmed once again by his good looks. I’ve known many handsome men in my life, but this kind of sheer beauty is rare. “Don’t forget your shorts,” he murmurs to me, as he leans in for a kiss.