Nocturnal Delights

an excerpt



You Own Me



The Beginning

I was on fire, even after penetration, even after release, that's how he made me feel.

His touch, soft at first, rough at the end.

He left me burning.

Life without him was no longer possible, and I suppose if I'm being truly honest with myself the mere thought of spending a day apart sent shivers of fear throughout me. As though from the moment I'd been introduced to him, in that crimson-darkened room, we had clicked on so many levels, sexually of course, as that had been the point that night, but also on a personal level, even with a wall initially separating us. Something had drawn me to him, him to me.

Now, after all that had happened, to rattle and pace around this gilded apartment without his presence, his animal passions and his insistent and insatiable desires, seemed unthinkable. When he kissed me, whether freshly shaved or bearing his weekend scruff, his heavy beard sent electric shocks throughout my body, satisfaction the only solution.

That's when I would strip him of his clothes, and I would take him into my mouth.

And then he would do the same to me.

He would slip inside me, pound with energy, with passion, until his cries woke the world.

I would slip inside him next, and he would ride me and feel all of me thrusting inside him with delirious desire.

No morning was complete without our bodies splattered with come.

No night could end without fierce orgasms commanding us to sleep.

At this moment, though, he is away and I wish him to return to me, safe, sound, as sexy as ever, and soon. Upon his return I will take him to our king-size bed, and I will thrust my bulging cock deep inside him and hear him beg for me never to stop, and I would feel his nails against my back, scraping flesh, digging for traction.

"Yes," he will plead, "oh, how you fill me."

And only the natural reaction of attraction, of friction, would force a conclusion.

In the quiet of the night, amidst the sheets, he would stare into my eyes and say what I had once said to him.

"You own me."



1.

He looked into the mirror and saw two faces staring back, two people...two identities.

Even though he had only one name.

And an unlikely mouthful of a name at that, Sinclair McQueen Talbot. His still-living, endearing, and fiery-natured mother was a literary fan, while his long-dead, bombastic, bastard of a father favored action movies, and so rather than allow their child to lay claim to his own identity they combined their worlds and thus was born a man who from his earliest moments on earth battled who he was. The challenge hadn't changed as he grew his way into adulthood, and in fact, it may have taken a deeper root inside him. Because even when on the outside he was properly attired for a night in which he would meet his fans, underneath lurked another side, one driven by secret passions.

He was wearing one of his finest suits, a pinstriped Armani with gold rep tie.

His thick brown hair was properly parted, combed.

His wire-framed glasses rode high on the bridge of his aquiline nose.

In other words, he was the very picture of literate success.

Except for the tight fitting briefs he wore beneath it all, his flaccid cock stuffed inside.

Begging to be let out, to grow hard...to release.

The torture was thrilling. He could so easily slide a hand inside and jerk himself off.

But he didn't.

He could wait.

Because he knew what was scheduled to happen later tonight--much later. Only after his obligations were fulfilled would he be too. The week's long pent-up passion would produce the desired effect, a satisfying, knee-buckling explosion which would calm his inner fears, and bring to rest, momentarily, his innate insecurity. For now, as he readied to leave, he would have to be content to enjoy the friction of the silky material against his hairy skin, his needy cock. The thick nest of pubes matted against the material heightened the sensation.

All such thoughts of desire would have to wait.

He had an appointment to keep, fans both familiar and new to embrace.

Later, a stranger would embrace him a different way, with lips encircling his hard cock.

So the man with the unwieldy name of Sinclair McQueen Talbot, aged forty-two, standing just a shade under six feet, with thick dark hair and penetrating brown eyes behind those glasses and a discerning smile that always let you know how he felt, just now let out a sharp exhalation. It would be a long night, one identity doing battle with the other, but in the end, wasn't he really about pleasing both sides that dwelled within him? He smiled back at himself, knowing just how this night would end.

He closed the bathroom door behind him, his final check completed.

The alarm on his iPhone sounded, the gentle strum of guitars. Time was 6:30 p.m., half an hour to his event.

"Ah, time to depart."

Sinclair McQueen Talbot was a man who lived his life according to a preset schedule.

It was the only way to successfully balance his life.

Wait, make that lives.

Grabbing his keys and the hardcover copy of his latest novel that he'd already earmarked for reading aloud, he knew there was nothing holding him back. A night of literary pursuits awaited him, and afterwards, an altogether different kind of pursuit. As the elevator arrived on the eighteenth floor, Sinclair felt a familiar tightening in his crotch. Yes, the material was doing its job, rubbing his cock, exciting it.

He rode down the elevator with his only neighbor, Mrs. Dowd, who was nearly blind as a bat as she neared her eightieth birthday, the two of them making pleasant chatter. Fortunately she couldn't see that he was sporting a hard-on inside his trousers. It had nothing to do with her, of course.

The doors opened into an ornate lobby filled with beautifully appointed antiques.

And a doorman of dark, swarthy good looks. Today looked like he'd forgotten to shave, as a thick, sexy five o'clock shadow coated his cheeks.

"Cab, sir?"

"Thank you, Ferro," Sinclair said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. He could feel solid muscle beneath the uniform and as always, wondered what the man looked like naked, what he liked to do in his spare time, and whether he enjoyed having wild, hungry sex with men. Propriety forbad tenants from asking too many personal questions of the building's employees.

"Always, my pleasure."

One day it would be nice if that were true.