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The Mostly Unfabulous Homepage of Ethan Green

 

 [Fiction]


From Chapter Two of Call Me, "Abuser Friendly"

By P-P Hartnett



"Luke?"

"Speaking."

"Got your reply to my ad." He sounded like he had a lot of initials after his name.

"I answered a few. Which one are you?"

This put him on the spot and made me sound like an above average slag.

"It was in Capital Gay . A leather ad. Looking for a young guy into leather."

His lips must have been on the mouthpiece. His voice went straight into my head, like he was breathing all over me. It was neither seductive nor terrifying.

"Right," I said, "go on."

"And how old are you Luke?"

"Old enough to know better."

"And exactly how old is that?"

"Twenty three."

"And what sort of things do you enjoy?"

"You tell me."

"Well, I enjoy...I obviously enjoy dominating younger guys who, um, enjoy being submissive and, er, dominated. Getting them to do boot-licking and, er, putting a dog collar on them and taking them for a walk over Hampstead Heath or out in the country. In a secluded spot I could push you down and humiliate you -- take your clothes off, make you crawl through the mud, force you to see to my boots, suck cock, lick arse. Um ... and generally make you pine and work for things. Whatever you wanted you'd have to work for. I'm in Muswell Hill. You are, I take it, in Clerkenwell."

"You've checked the code. How thorough."

He couldn't act tough the way he would have liked, but he was trying.

"I work in the City. I pass through Clerkenwell every day."

I greeted this with silence. Clerkenwell: a place of doctor's coats and butcher's aprons and City boys in suits with ties. Sodomite territory.

"Do you know the leather shop, Expectations?"

"Yeah."

"I buy there, there and The Zipper Store in Camden. Buy toys for boys like you. I've got a harness you'd look good in, feel great in. You name it. My most expensive purchase lately was a pair of riding boots. I'd like your tongue to break them in." (Pause) "I'm not too rough. Wouldn't break your ribs or anything like that, unless you wanted me to. Mild stuff really. Fantasy, but...let's see what develops. Could you ... could you come round tonight?"

"I won't be peed on."

"That's a pity, but okay."

The night was sultry, the hour dangerous.

"What's the address?"

I was there, in the north London suburb of Muswell Hill, middle class and residential, forty minutes later. A place of placid thoughtless routines and the occasional juicy bit of gossip.

In the elevator to the third floor as instructed, I realised I didn't even know his name. It was after midnight. He stood, by the door, silent, smoking a cigarette. Sandy hair, six foot, hadn't caught the sun in a while. Regular features but for an extremely full mouth and a recent vertical scar by his right eye. Slightly stooped, a little pock-marked. Black leather shining. Your average scene queen begging for it.

I walked straight on in without wiping my feet, inflicting only mild abuse on the cream carpet. Pulling the REM teeshirt up, over the shoulders then off my body, hot and very slightly panting from the ride, I fell back into one of the two large institution armchairs which faced each other in the middle of the room. This seemed to surprise him. The lacey antimacassars certainly were a surprise to me.

It was smoggy as Venus in there. He'd obviously been smoking all evening. When he shut the door behind he smiled like Death's welcome. Behind the smile uneven teeth, browned at the edges, spoilt the allure of the too-generous mouth, full lips waiting for a kiss.

On a shelf over an electric fire, previous generations of the man's family smiled into the darkness of the room. The fire effect provided a slow rotating orange glow through the room, but the bars were off. The radiators were on high, even though the night was warm to humid. In cosy little homes like this, late night callers lose their minds, antibody status and ability to breathe.

Semi-erect, I dropped my shorts, putting on the leather jock I guessed he wanted me in. Opening all three sets of venetian blinds, he eyed me with speculation: What the fuck's he up to? The candle flame doubled size with the slow entry of fresh air. The copulating rhythm of the universe began to pound in that room which had an unfamiliar smell, perhaps spilled poppers which joss sticks struggled to disperse. I turned to him and smiled.

"Fancy a drink?" he asked.

A monotone voice. Maybe behind these bland icy words was the idea of a cocktail of Irish Cream coffee and seven crushed sleeping pills. Maybe not.

"No. No thanks."

Something moved in a corner -- a Corgi, watching out of one eye, hoping there'd be no shouting, no slapping around. Perhaps this dog was the only warm influence in the man's life. Perhaps not. He put on a shiny new CD of an old hit, Tubular Bells.

"Don't ask me any questions because there's nothing interesting for me to say about myself. Let's just do it."

He made quite a business of pulling on a peaked leather cap and large, thick motor-cycle gloves, more like boxing gloves with that heavy-duty protective ribbing over the knuckles. It was as if he were going somewhere, off on a journey somewhere special and secret.

Removing a chair from the dining table, I spotted a gas bill in the name of a JG Cuerden who owed sixty seven pounds ninety six for the last quarter. I put the chair against one of the more heavily greased walls. He said nothing. Like a minion, I hunched before the chair. He stepped on my back on his short trip up to the seat. He didn't know what the hell he'd let into the flat but seemed to like what was happening. Still he said nothing.

The knife reflected candlelight upon my face as I removed the polish and brush >from my pannier. The boots were brand new, they didn't need much of a rub, but for a full ten minutes that's what I did. Rubbed away.

"They say the best way is with spit and polish, boy."

"Yes, Sir."

"Yeah, use that tongue, boy."

He'd obviously been getting quite a diet of porn. So there I was on my hands and knees, spreading well-educated saliva over his expensive recent purchase. He started making those porno sounds, faking it at first, then getting carried away with the role play, thrusting his hips forward as he leaned against the wall.

"How's that, Sir?

"Not good enough."

He'd had time to think. Perhaps we'd reached a part in Tubular Bells where he felt comfortable or inspired. At home.

"Against the wall. Now!"

Declining the offer of handcuffs behind my back, I played along with his doggy fantasy by consenting to wear a large dog collar. The chinkle-chankle of the chain didn't get his dog at all excited, as I'd expected. The dog knew she wasn't the one off for walkies.

 

Copyright © l998, P-P Hartnett.



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