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La Petit Mort - poem

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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

 

 

 

 

Platres Conclave

 

 

Inspiration

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 was happening.

 

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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