Is Capricious the Word?

They'd been gone three hours and it was getting on to 11:00 in the evening when Bram reappeared—without Sandra.

"I couldn't do it," he said. "I couldn't not be with you to celebrate your novel sale. I know exactly how you must feel."

I doubted he did know how I felt. It wasn't just the acknowledgment of my coming to life as a published novelist but also that he had chosen me over Sandra.

"Sandra?" I said, jubilant no matter how he answered.

"I left her in good hands. Stephanie is Massey's resident poet. How shall we celebrate?"

We could stay home and you could fuck me all night in front of the fire and on the clichéd bearskin rug, I thought. But he was already off on other plans.

"The Nelson's next door are having a party. It was in full swing, I could hear, when I arrived home. I can think of no way better to celebrate your manuscript sale than with other artists. The whole community out here will be there."

I could think of a better way of celebrating, but there was no contradicting Bram Overby.

The Nelsons turned out to be Clea and Jarrod, both fine artists. Jarrod was the same Jarrod who fucked me on the beach earlier that day.

"Ah, you made it to the party after all," Jarrod said in meeting us at the door. "And you brought him, I see. Wonderful."

"Did you bring wine, darling?" Clea bubbled out. "I'm afraid we'll run out of wine, and you have such good taste in wine."

"He brought his young house guest here, Clea," Jarrod said. "That's what he brought to the party for us to enjoy."

"Fine, you go and do your life-of-the-party chores, you sweet little boy," Clea said, hanging onto my arm and leering at me in a way that indicated that she started drinking well before the party started. "Go. Mingle. Bring joy to the world. We'll be intimate later."

That was a sure clue that I was meant to be part of the entertainment tonight.

When we moved into the heart of the party, after giving me a glass of highly spiked punch, pulling a joint away from a passing guest and passing that to me too, Bram swirled off into the crowd. The glass of punch and a joint were followed by others, not to mention a few lurid-colored pills, as I was passed from one interested little group to the next who had already heard of my book sale and were quite pleased to be quite pleased with me—and to offer me more to drink and to puff. Some had already heard that I was visiting Bram Overby, that I sometimes fucked women and more often took cock and that Bram Overby had already had both my wife and me several times. Free, bisexual sex and drugs seemed the hallmark of this little community. That seemed to cut the ice in this artists' colony and to spice up the conversation.

The host, Jarrod Nelson, pulled me aside and into the butler's pantry, where he trapped me backed up to a counter, his arms extended around my sides, the heels of his hands pressed into the edges of the counter. One of his knees came up between my thighs, forcing them apart and nestled up under my balls, the knee pressed into the counter door behind me. I was effectively trapped there. The room was a bit dizzy and his handsome face filled my world. His hair was up in a ponytail.

He pressed his forehead to mine. "I enjoyed you this afternoon." He was stroking the hollows of my hips like they fascinated him as much as they did Bram.

"It was special for me too," I answered. "That's quite a snake you've got."

"You mean my tattoo?" he asked.

"That too," I responded. We both laughed, a low guttural laugh of lustful remembrance. I raised one of my hands and took his hair out of the band that had it in a ponytail, letting it cascade down to his shoulders.

"Undressing me already?" he asked.

"Getting there," I said. "I like you better with your hair off."

"And my clothes off?"

"Maybe. Yes, probably."

"You know I'm going to fuck you again . . . tonight . . . at the party."

"You're the host. It's your party. You can call the party games," I said. "I want you inside me again." I couldn't believe I was being this forward. But it had been a very nice fuck on the beach. And I was a bit more than half way looped.

He came in for a kiss and I opened my lips to him. The kiss deepened and he unbuttoned my shirt, spread it, and palmed my right pec. I sighed and the kiss went even deeper. He lifted me up and sat me on the counter. I heard and felt the zipper of my shorts being lowered.

I broke away from the kiss and his mouth went down to my nipple. His hand was inside my fly, cupping my cock through the material of my bikini briefs. I pushed my package up into his hand. "What a nice shaft," he murmured. "It should be against the law for someone to have it all, as you do." He squeezed my balls, and I gave a little yelp, letting all of the air out of my lungs.

"Are you going to fuck me right here, on this counter?"

"Nobody would notice," he murmured. "It's that kind of party." His hand was under the waistband of my briefs, on my cock, which was engorging for him.

"Do you want me to fuck you right here on this counter?"

"Yes," I responded, with a whimper.

The voice of the hostess cut through the din of the party in the house beyond the quietude of the butler's pantry save for heavy breathing. "Ice. We need more ice. Jarrod, where did you go? The iceman needeth to cometh."

"But maybe not just now," Jarrod said, taking his hand out of my fly and zipping me up. "But later; definitely later. They can't need ice forever."

I gave it a minute to cool down after he'd left the pantry, hopped down from the counter, and headed in the direction the party noise was coming from. Beyond the pantry, just inside the kitchen, was standing a tall, muscular black man dressed in a flowing white Arab robe. He was flashing a white-toothed smile. He projected a hand, palm up, in which there was a display of colored pills. I took two and popped them. Immediately my vision clicked into something I could only call elongated 3D.

And in that vision was the face of the black man, as he leaned down and kissed me on the lips. His tongue pressed on my lips and I let it in. When he pulled away, he whispered—or I thought he was whispering—"That will cost you, of course."

"Cost me what?" I replied.

"All in good time," he whispered and then was gone. I wandered into the dining room and to the punch bowl. Someone was changing the records on an old six-changer stereo cabinet.

Before I knew it, I was on the dining room table, dancing to "The Stripper" and stripping down to my bikini briefs. Then I was out on the deck being fondled by Georges, the heavy-bodied sculptor, and being fed the line by him what a perfect model I'd be for him.

"You ask what I, a Frenchman, already famous for my sculptures in Europe, is doing out here in the South Pacific," Georges was saying.

Had I asked that? I didn't think so.

"Have you read that Maugham book, Moon and Sixpence . . .?"

"Yes," I said, amused that everyone seemed to want to talk to me about Maugham these days. Maugham wasn't my style of writing at all.

". . . . about Gauguin finding his muse in Tahiti," he continued without taking a breath. "That's me, but there are more comforts of life in New Zealand. And I can be me freely, here. Who cares what my wife in Paris says or complains about with others there. I prefer men. I like to fuck young men."

"Yes," I said.

"I don't think I've ever seen such a perfect body on a young man before. Such slim hips." He was stroking my right hip with his right hand, having moved his arm around my waist, holding me in close to his side.

"Yes," I said.

"My technique is that I must be intimate with every square inch of my model to be able to sculpt him honestly."

"Meaning you want to fuck me," I said.

"Of course I want to fuck you," he said, laughing heartily. "Bram has fucked you; Jarrod has fucked you. Both recommend that everyone fuck you. Everyone here wants to fuck you. Of course I want to fuck you too."

He was large of body, with a beer paunch. I could tell, though, by what he was pressing to my side that he was thick. He was gross and charismatic all at once. The clichéd artist, with more confidence in his own beauty and prowess than he had a right to claim. There was only a fringe of gray hair on his head, but it was rampant on his beefy chest and paunch belly. It was the eyes, though. They bored right into you, undressed you, and you laid down for him and opened your legs. This would be a confidant, commanding lover.

"Yes," I said. "I keep saying that yes, you can fuck me, and you keep saying why I should say yes. I said yes minutes ago. You can fuck and sculpt me. No more need to attempt seduction."

It was that moment, though, that the hostess, Clea, petite, dark haired and dark eyed, a pixie of a woman, with huge dark eyes, showed up at my elbow.

"You mustn't monopolize our prize guest, Georges," she was cooing. "Come, Aiden, I wish to show you something."

What she wished to show me was her bedroom and her bed and her cunt. She pulled me over on top of her, between her legs, her long skirt hiked up to her waist, at the foot of her bed, and maneuvered the bulb of my cock between her puffy labia. My bikini briefs were on the floor beside my feet, and there were lipstick marks on my erection.

I was setting a good rhythm and she was writhing under me and babbling in French when Jarrod and Bram entered the room, arm in arm. Jarrod stripped and saddled up behind me. He thrust up into my ass and fucked me while I was fucking Clea. Bram watched for a bit but then he too stripped, saddled up behind Jarrod, and we had a chain going.

Later, in another bedroom and on another bed, Georges lay on his back like a beached whale, puffing on a lavender-colored filtered cigarette, while I swung my leg over his pelvis and positioned my hole on the head of an extraordinarily thick, but not long, cock. He took a puff on his cigarette, dropped it into an ashtray on the nightstand, and stroked my hips with his fingers.

"Such slim hips," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I must remember to memorialize those." And then, "Spike yourself slowly, please. I want to savor the thickness of me opening up that sweet, small hole of yours. I trust that, with such slim hips, you are lusciously tight."

I assumed I would easily be able to control him. That's not the way it went, though. I had taken only about three inches of him, when his eyes flashed, boring into mine. I moaned and then I gasped and cried out as his grip on my hips tightened and he lifted me and then slammed me down on his cock. My passage went into shock, trying to open to him, but not accommodating him fast enough. Shots of mixed pain and ecstasy shot through my body, as he lifted me and then slammed me down again. Lifted and slammed. Each time he was getting a little more of himself inside me; each time I was opening a bit more to him; each time there was more length to him for me to take. He was a man who expanded significantly as it was worked. It wasn't so much a fuck as a ravishment of a rag doll. I flopped around on his cock, my teeth rattling, and my eyes spinning around in my head. It was all for his finish and he took command and no prisoners.

I writhed on him until I collapsed on his mound of flesh, and just moaned and groaned as he took over in thrusting his cock up into me, still going on long after I'd shot my load, still growing, working its way into the core of me.

Of course, even in my drunk and drugged state, I realized that Georges wasn't fucking me because he had to know every inch of me to sculpt me. I knew that he was fucking me because he wanted to get his rocks off with a young man—a man, as he said, who had slim hips and therefore, presumably, a tight channel that would delight a thick, expanding cock such as he had. And I wasn't so far gone on drink and drugs that I didn't realize that I was riding Georges's cock because he reputedly was a famous French sculptor who wanted me to ride his cock. That I also thought it would make Bram Overby jealous was a reflection that I was high on drugs and drink. Overby didn't give a shit who fucked me as long as he did too. The revelation to me, though, as I was royally screwed on Georges's thick cock was that I had no intention of being here in New Zealand long enough for him to sculpt me. Just long enough for him and anyone else Bram pointed to to screw me silly. It was my entrée into this artistic community.

I was in the first bedroom again, but not on the bed—draped over a footstool, belly down, arms dangling over the sides, legs dangling too, knees not quite touching the floor, toes pressed into the carpet. Colors of the rainbow danced before my eyes. I didn't know who it was. I don't remember being introduced to him. I don't remember telling him he could fuck me. It hardly mattered, as I'd taken plenty of cock tonight.

I couldn't see him, as he was mounted on my ass, behind me, his hands pressing down on my shoulder blades. I certainly knew he was inside me, fucking me with his cock. I could see his bent legs. They were ebony. I tried to remember what man at the party was black, but there were more than one of them. I saw the garment puddled on the floor beside the footstool. A white robe-like garment. The black man in the kitchen, the one who had given me the pills. Getting the payment for the pills that he said he'd collect on later. Still unknown beyond that, though. What I did know was that he had a godawful big cock.

Bram was kneeling beside me, his hand run into the hair at the back of my head. "Take it, take it, good, good," he was murmuring. He turned my head toward him and stood. His cock was out. He pressed the head of it to my lips and I opened my mouth, took him inside, and gave him suck. The unidentified man on top of me continued to pump—to pump thick and deep. He was stroking my hips with his thumbs.

Later, in another bedroom, on another bed, and even in another house, the bird house, my bedroom, my bed, it was Bram lying on his back on my bed, me straddling his pelvis, and him, gripping my waist and more gently raising and lowering me on his long, thick cock—lifting me up high, almost, but not quite, disconnected, and then bringing me down slowly on the cock to where his curlies merged with mine, smiling as I gasped and whispered, "Yes, yes, yes. Just like that." And then just like that again—long, thick, throbbing, perfectly satiating.

I just wished I could remember how it ended.

* * * *

I woke on the morning of day four in New Zealand to the maid, Christine, pulling the drapes on the window, opening to a new day. She'd brought a mug of steaming coffee and a tray with a little pile of aspirins on it. My head, of course, was splitting and I was beginning to remember only half of what had transpired the previous evening. I hoped it was the hedonist half.

She stood at the foot of the bed, looking at me, with a little smile on her face. She was a saucy little thing. I was naked, on the sheets, not under them. I was in erection.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" she asked. "Anything at all?"

"Yes, and quickly," I said. "That waste can over there."

She was very quick with it indeed and scurried out of the room as I took care of some of my overdoing it from the previous night.

Bram was in his office, whistling, when I dressed and dragged out of the bedroom. As a writer myself, I knew better than to disturb him while he was composing. I went into the kitchen and discovered, gratefully, that there was still coffee in the pot. I stood at the window, looking out toward the road, and thus managed to view the arrival of Sandra.

An old, classic MG sports car drove into the turning circle. A tall, thin man unfolded from the driver's seat. As the figure stood, though, I realized it wasn't a man at all. It was a woman dressed as a man—seemingly a woman trying to be a man. The Stephanie of Massey University who Bram said would take care of Sandra, I decided. Sandra didn't mind being taken care of by a manly woman, she'd been out all night—because the passenger in the car that the manly woman was helping out of the MG was Sandra.

They walked to the front door hand in hand and kissed there. Sandra went straight to her bedroom, I heard the shower going as I sat at the desk in my bedroom, collecting my thoughts and holding my head in my hands. When I checked later she was in her bed, asleep, and softly snoring.

That afternoon Overby drove Sandra back into Wellington for a meeting on her possible visiting scholar position at Massey University. As soon as they were gone, I packed my bag. I realized that this was as far ahead of Sandra as I was going to get with Bram. He'd bring her back from Wellington, fuck her on the dining room table, I would pout, he'd fuck me on the bearskin rug, and then he'd take her into his bed. The next day he'd do the same. On some days, he'd turn me over to Clea or Jarrod or Georges or someone else to fuck. They'd fill me with drugs and drink and would all be amazed that, even with slim hips, I could take a big cock. They'd fuck me again just to be amazed again. And if I stayed here, I would let them. I would let them fuck me on their terms, capricious with their commitments.

I had the houseman call for a taxi and went to the airport. I took the first available flight out to the States, booking business class because I was still celebrating my rise to professional novelist.

I returned to New York in two flights, the first was to Los Angeles, the venue of the book I'd just sold. I checked into the 777 Motel at Seal Beach, a motel that had figured in my novel. I decided to celebrate the sale of my novel in my own way.

I called the hunky young Navy sailor, Harry Hobart, who I encountered in researching my book and who, under another name, had been a character in the book. I picked him up at the gate of the Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station in my rental car and took him to the 777 Motel, where, as he had done before during my research and also as the character I'd fashioned from him had done, perhaps a little less graphically, to my protagonist in my novel, he fucked the stuffing out of me for two hours. He was young, virile, horny, long-lasting, and straightforward.

I was only interested in the fuck and he was only interested in the fuck. He didn't care if my hips were slim or not or if I'd read Somerset Maugham or wrote like that novelist, oh-so-cleverly hinting that my life was like a Maugham novel. I already knew it was, thank you very much; I was a novelist, working on my doctorate. I was young and hung and horny; there was time to be meaningful and responsible "someday."

He only was interested whether the other man had a good body and had a hole he could get his dick in, and he already knew that he could get his big cock in my hole. All he wanted was a toned body lying down for him and opening its legs to him, letting him have what he wanted without drama and fuss. All I wanted was a thick cock inside me, thrust by a man who didn't want anything more from me but to get his rocks off and to bring the cum out of me as well.

He crouched over me, holding my legs raised and spread, his face buried in the side of my throat, and pumped me hard and deep, as I not only took him but rocked my pelvis against him, moving with him in the dance of the fuck.

It was just before his climax—the hunky young sailor—the second time that I realized that this was the best for me that it would be. He had stopped stroking, but building to the climax and holding off as long as he could, wanting it to be sheer ecstasy, as short as a man's climax is. The cum was burbling up in him and he wanted it to be a big blow. He held me tightly, his lips pressed into the hollow of my neck, both of us holding our breaths, waiting for it, wanting it to be bigger than the first time. I realized this is the state I wanted to be in, a man holding me close, ready to blow, his cock deep inside me, filling me, throbbing.