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Alex
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La
Petit Mort - poem
Sounding
Home
to Fire Island review by Emma
STORY
Remembering
Miles
The Clint Folsom
erotic gay murder mystery series.
Habu reports that he enjoyed
writing this series. His premise was a no-holds-barred treatment of an unabashedly
promiscuous, laid-back, “good-guy” homicide cop with movie-star looks .
(Clint's) love of being ‘topped’ is so ingrained within his being that
each sex act is with an abandon and longing that makes men ‘feel like
kings’. If you weren’t a ‘sub’ before, you would wish to be one by the
end of the book. Once I finished reading it, I rushed to buy the rest of the
Clint Folsom series. Hot Stuff!
From
a review by Kpasa
| |
Bulled or - the wages of the
tease.
Story
by habu/Sr71plt
Artwork
by Ynal
El Toro—the Bull—was
pawing and snorting beyond theo door to the plaza de torros, wanting the dance
to the death to begin. But I was in no hurry. Part of ascending over him was
driving him mad by making him wait for it. If it weren't for brains and guile I
would be no match for the Bull. The Bull was a massive brute.
I had already pulled on my pink stockings and the black satin, form-fitting
breeches and selected the white shirt, a frilly one this time, I thought. I
wanted the contrast between matador and bull to be pronounced. Trimness, style,
fluidity on the one hand and brutish narrowness of purpose on the other. I
wanted even the Bull to see and appreciate the difference.
But what to wear for the traje de luces—the suit of lights? It had to be
flashy and it had to anger the Bull. That was the whole point. The Bull had to
be angry enough to melt down so that the estocada—the death blow—was mine,
not the Bull's.
The green, I thought. The Bull fairly snorted whenever the green was flashed.
And the capote—the cape—was to be green as well. But the sash? The sash
would be bright red.
The Bull was fairly bellowing impatience and the need for the corrida—the
fight—from beyond the massive wooden door after I had finished knotting the
sash and straightening my black astrakhan, my two-pointed hat. I stood admiring
myself in the mirror for several moments. Flawless. I was magnificent even if I
did say so myself. I was almost too beautiful to take on the Bull at all.
Perhaps I should leave the Bull pawing on the other side of the door there and
become an unattached man of the night. But that, of course, was ridiculous. What
would the fashionable matador be without his bull?
Time for the dance of death.
I threw open the door and strutted out onto the killing ground. The Bull was
turned from me but whipped around at my entrance. He was a monstrous thing, but
magnificent in his monstrosity. All bulging sinew and muscle, hairy and massive
and mean looking. A tremendously virile male. A pendulous cock that would make a
rhino whine and back away and a ground-dragging ball sack. The Bull expressed
the essence of brute precisely.
I swished my cape and tilted my head and looked saucy for the brute. I was
late—hours late—for our assignation, but I wasn't about to let the Bull
think this bothered me one bit. I at least was ready and the Bull wasn't. All of
this time and I was ready for the Bull, but the Bull had done nothing but stand
out here on the gravel of the arena and act like a bull.
I swished the cape again and did a little bit of pirouetting on my delicate
ballet slippers, and the rage and impatience rose in the Bull's gorge and I was
being charged.
"Ole!" I cried out with a lilting laugh, as I turned deftly at the
last second and passed my cape over him in a perfect Veronica move.
The Bull would think twice about that, I thought, with a stab of
self-congratulations. Bet the Bull didn't think I had that maneuver in my
repertoire. But Bulls don't think. They just impetuously do. And their appetites
are large and gross and insistent—and totally selfish, I might add. That was
why the relationship between a matador and a bull never really worked out. Both
were totally self-absorbed. So, naturally, one of them had to die.
But I was thinking too much and it was slowing me down. The Bull charged me
again and caught the satin of my breeches and tore a chunk of the material away
at my hip. First blood. The first blood had gone to the Bull and all because I
was mentally screwing around with the Bull and not taking any of this seriously.
But it had gotten serious now. These breeches couldn't be taken back now.
The Bull really had drawn blood. there was a thin slice across my bared hip. The
drawing of the blood made me angry. But it seemed to stimulate the Bull. The
Bull looked at the wound and snorted in victory and pawed the ground, ready to
charge again.
In this pass, I thumped the Bull on the nose in passing and was rewarded with a
squeal of pain and raw anger. I thought the Bull properly unhinged then, but the
Bull showed me that big and bulky could be agile too.
I had feinted to the right one too many times on the nose-thumping pass. The
Bull outguessed me and turned that way too, lowered his head, and hit me in the
midsection full force, knocking me to the ground and knocking the wind out of me
as well in the process.
And he held me pinned there to the ground with the top of his head in my
midsection and me writhing under him, trying to get his massive weight off me.
But it was no use. He was pawing at the rent in the satin at my hip, ripping the
breeches away, and then his sensuous big lips went to my cock and he was
swallowing me and pumping me with his brutish mouth.
"Pasquale, enough, enough. I give," I was crying out to him. "The
estocada is yours. You have struck the death blow. Stop. Stop!"
But the man bull Pasquale wouldn't stop. I'd aroused him. I'd aroused him on
purpose, and I only had myself to blame that I was being ravished. He was
sucking my cock relentlessly, and he had one big hoof in my sternum, holding, me
to the ground and the fingers of the other hand were searching, finding my rim,
opening me to the inevitable sinking of that monster cock inside me.
"Gawd, Pasquale, if you didn't want to go to the costume party, why didn't
you just tell me you wanted to stay home and fuck? Just look at this costume. I
can't return this now."
Not a word from Pasquale, just lustful grunts. He was spreading my legs and
lifting my butt cheeks.
"Oh, Pasquale. Not so . . . Ohhhhh, Pasquale! You're splitting me! Ohhhh,
Ohhhhhhhhh! Gawd, Yesssssss! You . . . are . . . the . . . B-U-L-L!"
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