So I was quite happy when Circlet picked up my short story "Nectar" for its upcoming anthology Wired Hard 4. This electronic book, or, since I like to save syllables, e-thology, will be out in September. Or so they tell me. And I believe them because with e-books you don't have to deal with printers and distributors and the other intermediaries that keep going out of business.
It was particularly nice when the decision came down about not having to use male pseudonyms. That way, I can advertise the story as part of this chat and, put it on my web-page, or should loudly, should I ever have a reading, that I WRITE GAY PORN. Not just les and het and bi, but actual SAUSAGEFESTS.
Also, it dovetails neatly with my new maxim: Give Schlong and Prosper.
That is all.
by Diane Kepler
I wake up hard and hungry and thinking of Daddy.
He was in my dream just now. I was bent over the exam table in the main lab and he was fucking me from behind. He was taking it slow. I wanted to meet his thrusts, but he'd secured me with gelstraps -- cuffs around my wrists and a band across my lower back. I squirmed, wanting it harder, wanting Daddy's cock all the way inside me, right down to the base.
Daddy's real name is Novak. He does gene-work and bodymod. Sometimes, when he takes me to a disPlay party or out to a club I hear people talking. They say Daddy's an artist, the best, and that anyone who can afford it sends him their subs. They say to hell with the cost, because when Novak is done, what you have is a living work of art.
So I'm lucky, I guess.
Except this morning it doesn't feel that way.
My cock is the center of my world. Moving even the slightest bit makes it rub against my sleep-shorts, the stretchy prison that goes from my waist to the tops of my thighs. The shorts keep my erection pressed tight against my abs and since I'm all lubed up, it's tough to get even a little friction. I squirm and feel the slickness against my cock, my ass, and my tight little hole. But not against my balls. Those are outside.
Overtop of the shorts is a thong. It dives down between my ass-cheeks and holds my balls out with a little rubber collar. Daddy says it's to keep everything at the right temperature, but I know it's also to keep me from coming. Daddy wants me ready for him, always. That's why I wake up every morning on this blue foam pad with my legs tied apart and my wrists together, not with gel like in the dream, but with padded metal. The wrist chain is fastened to the foot of the bed. His bed. My master. My maker.
I squirm against the shorts, trying to build up some friction. I know I shouldn't, but my dick is so primed. It's also a nice distraction from thoughts of breakfast.
I get into a rhythm. My hips are moving evenly now, pushing my rod towards a nowhere-point at the ceiling. My mind glides back a ten-day, back to the last time Daddy really played with me. It was at one of Lord Aven's after-club parties. There were so many people there -- the princes, the fetish elite. Daddy was in a showy kind of mood. I remember a theater with bright lights and a wide, white slab of a table. Daddy was there with his shirt off, his long golden-brown hair rippling as he tossed it. He'd a hand on my cock and a hand up my ass, up past the wrist. I was loving it. Daddy was staring straight at me as he fucked me with his hand, looking right into my soul with eyes that said he was proud of his boy.
Remembering all of this, the feelings, the sounds, the way Daddy smiled when I came right on cue, it gets me so hot that I pump my ass up and down, lifting myself right up off the sleep mat as I try to give my stick what it craves. If my hands were untied I'd just jack myself, even though I know it's wrong. Dammit, I wanna come so bad!
But then there's a sound from above my head, from behind me, and I get this dread-feeling because I know it's him. Maybe he came in a minute ago or maybe he was there before I woke up, but it doesn't matter because he saw me and, oh man, there's gonna be trouble now.