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La Petit Mort - poem
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
The inspiration for Platres Conclave came from a road trip (not in a Jaguar, as cited in the book) habu took up to the mountaintop Forest Park Hotel in Platres, Cyprus, to write in the room where Daphne du Maurier wrote much of the novel Rebecca. While there he was invited to attend a conclave of artists (named the Plein Oui), hosted by Cyprus’s foremost artist at the time, for a week of creativity and what also became an interlude of sexual debauchery.
Passage that Inspired Ynal's Drawing
Spiro shut the door on the room when he came back into the main studio. He was carrying a pair of lace-up leather sandals and some earthen-colored leather thong strips. As he posed me on the bench on the dais, he explained to me that all I would be wearing as an ancient Greek boxer were the sandals, which laced in criss-crosses up my calves to just below my knees, and the thongs, which he said were called himantes when used this way, wrapped around my knuckles to protect them from scrapes during a boxing match, which was a no-holds-barred one in the ancient tradition.
Both men touched and ran their hands along the lines of
my body as Thanos set the laurel wreath on my head and then held my head this
way and that and ran his long, sensitive fingers along the contours of my face
and neck, getting the measure of me so that he could start working on a clay
lump sitting on a small pedestal stand nearby. Simultaneously, Spiro was
manipulating my body to the pose he preferred. I was sitting in the middle of
the bench, still covered in the gold lamé, one foot resting on the bench at an
angle from my body, with the elbow of one of my arms propped against this leg.
The other leg dangled off the front of the bench, only touching the surface of
the dais as my toe reached down for it. My other arm was stretched out toward
the end of the bench. This left me, chest stretched out at an angle, in a
pensive pose, as if at rest, contemplating a recent hard-won victory. Spiro set
the wreath slightly askew around my brow and asked me to smile slightly and
luxuriate in a victory reverie.
Spiro went to an easel and Thanos to his pedestal, and
for a good hour silence reigned over the studio. Eventually, however, I realized
that I could hear a hum from the room where I’d seen the women. She was
humming a haunting tune in a low contralto, and she seemed to be playing with
the tune, developing it. It was start and go for several bars and then stop and
start again and go for a few longer bars than the first time.
It became clearer, as if no longer beyond a closed door.
I so wanted to turn my head to see if she had come out of the room, and I felt
trapped, not wanting a complete stranger to see me naked like this. Then I knew
that she was coming into the room; I
could both sense her presence—and there was a floral scent in the air—and
hear the rustling of the silk dress. She floated into my peripheral vision and
beyond. She was moving over to the desk where Nemo was furiously writing. She
leaned down, over his shoulder, lifted his face up to hers with a hand under his
chin, and the two began to kiss. Nemo lifted a hand to her bodice, unbuttoned
her dress there, and inserted his hand.
I watched as they became increasingly intimate and then,
nearly lost my pose in shock and surprise as Nemo stood and turned the other
figure in an embrace and started to guide them both over to an overstuffed
parlor chair. It wasn’t a woman at all, I realized. It was the composer,
Xanthos Economou, in a woman’s dress. Nemo sat in the chair and Xanthos knelt
in front of him and unbuttoned the fly of his trousers and fished out a short,
but impressively thick cock and began to suck him off.
I tore my eyes away from that spectacle at the sound of
someone entering at the front of the bungalow. It was Nico. He walked in and
then stopped, dead in his tracks, as he saw me on the dais. I saw his eyes
narrow and a flash of anger slice across his face, which immediately after
turned into a look of nonchalance and detachment. I followed the movement of his
dance-like gait as he turned and went into Elias’s room.
With an anger and frustration of my own, I watched Nico
put his hands on Elias and move the kimono away from the older artist’s
corpulent body and then move a hand down to cup his cock and balls while leaning
over and kissing his nipples and throat and then his mouth until Elias stirred
and opened his arms to the younger man. The cat, Ele, which had been in the
crook of Elias’s arm, stirred and stretched and settled down by Elias’s
side, seemingly oblivious to the coupling of her master and Nico.
My eyes went back to Nemo and Xanthos. Xanthos was
sitting in Nemo’s lap, facing him, the red silk dress gathered up around his
chest, his channel skewered on Nemo’s cock. Their chests were plastered
together and they were kissing deeply as Nemo pumped his cock up into
Xanthos’s channel. Xanthos’s legs were spread and raised over the back of
the upholstered chair. Xanthos’s pasty legs were sheathed—but only up to the
knees, in sheer silk stockings.
I shuddered at this image and looked back into Elias’s
bedroom, where Elias’s legs were open to Nico now and Nico was crouched
between them and lost in the rhythm of the fuck. The cat slept on as if nothing
I shut my eyes for several moments, trying to close it
all out. When my eyes were shut, though, I realized how tipsy I had become. When
I was all alone within myself like this, I realized how easily I had agreed to
strip and sit here in the nude. The world of my mind was spinning in flashes of
images and swirls of color on the insides of my eyelids.
I felt the lips on mine before I opened my eyes. And I
left them closed, as I opened my lips to him and gave the sweet taste of his
tongue—the Commandaria still thick on it—free access. He was flicking his
tongue in and out between my parted lips and I sighed for him.
I opened my eyes to see that it was Spiro leaning over
me, adjusting my pose now, so that I was fully facing him and he was leaning
into me between my knees. he was naked and I felt his hard cock pressing at my
belly. He embraced me in his arms, supporting my torso as I leaned back and
moaned at the touch of his lips moving to my throat and then to my nipples. His
attentions went to my sternum, pausing to flick his tongue in and out of my
navel. Down my lower belly into my tightly curled pubes and swallowing my cock
and pressing his tongue into my piss slit and flicking it there until I jerked
and came, filling his mouth with my cum.
He rose back up to where he was looking down into my face
and smiling as I rolled my buttocks up and hooked my legs on his hips.
“There, I want to capture that look in your eyes in a
painting too,” he murmured. “Postcoital, satisfied and mellow.”
I lurched and started to give a little cry as he began to
enter me, but he leaned down and took my lips in his again and we went into a
deep kiss until he had entered me fully.
“And your expression like this, too,” he said when he
released my lips. “Possessed. Giving yourself to another man.”
He pulled his face away from me then and gave me a
questioning look with his eyes.
“Yes, oh yes,” I whispered and then I groaned and
starting moaning deep in my chest as he began to take me in long, deep strokes.
I looked beyond Spiro and saw that all attention was on
us now. Xanthos was still mounted on Nemo’s cock but their faces were now
turned to us. Thanos was standing nearby, this hands covered with clay, the bust
on the pedestal already well formed into a human head. The poet, Costas, was
standing in the doorway to the porch, watching. Even Nico and Elias were
watching. Elias had come out of the bedroom and was seated at an easel with a
large canvas in front of him. He was peeking around the side of the easel at us,
and his right hand, in which he held a paint brush, was racing across the
canvas. The cat, Ele, was wind around his legs and purring.
Nico was lounging in the doorway into Elias’s bedroom,
leaning provocatively against the frame, his cock-ringed manhood hanging low
between the legs that were crossed at his ankles. He had a tight little smile,
but his eyes were frowning and were dull, as if he had transported himself
somewhere else altogether.
Spiro came with a long sigh and withdrew. Later I decided
this was the point that I should have taken some charge, but I didn’t. As
Spiro withdrew, the hard, lust-laden face of Nemo swam into view. He took my
hands and stripped the thongs off the knuckles. Then, with a strong, firm,
no-nonsense, no-questioning grip, he pulled me up and turned me and laid me back
down on the bench on my belly.
I didn’t struggle—possibly I should have—as he used
the thongs to tie my wrists and ankles at the four legs of the bench. It was all
a haze, though. As if it wasn’t happening. As if it was, I’m ashamed to say,
what I wanted to happen—what I wanted Nico to see. I think I wanted Nico to
step in, to save me, to carry me off to our love nest in the Forest Park and to
reclaim me. To fuck me silly.
But he didn’t. Nemo was being rough, manhandling me as
he bound me in place, on my belly, my ass presented for all comers.
And all comers it was. Nemo crouched over me from behind
and reached around and grabbed my chest and brutalized my nipples between thumbs
and forefingers while he thrust his thick cock into me and I writhed under his
hard, pistoning fuck.
Thanos was next. I could tell by the cool clay feel of
the hands on my hips as he slowly stroked me, leaning over and thanking me and
telling me how beautiful I was in whispers near my ear after he had come. The
poet, Costas followed. His cock was curved and he knew how to find the prostate
with it, and I moaned and came as he also leaned his lips close to my ear and
whispered love poetry, in praise of beauty—or so he said.
Even the transvestite composer, Xanthos, took his turn,
which I could tell by the feel of the folds of the bunched-up silk dress on my
lower back. Although with him it was tentative and weak, half-hearted irregular,
off-beat strokes, which I believed, confirmed by the two separate tones of
grunts and groans behind me, were controlled by Nemo being inside Xanthos from
his rear while Xanthos was mounted on me.
Could this be any more demeaning, despairing than this, I
thought, as Xanthos pulled out of me, not having ejaculated as far as I could
discern. And then the answer came. Yes it could. Nemo was forcing himself inside
me again, pistoning me hard. And someone was on the other side of the bench now,
cupping my head in the broad palm of his hands, lifting my mouth to his cock—a
cock with a thick silver cock ring in it.
While Nemo was taking me a second time, Nico was working
my mouth with his cock. My savior had arrived. But not to save me. When Nemo was
finished, the hard ring of Nico’s cock was working my channel—almost
endlessly—before he came with a huff and a little cry of release.
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