0 comments/ 9463 views/ 2 favorites Parallel By: LenNeal He woke up in a dark room, the heater or air conditioner or whatever it was throbbing in the background; there was another noise, something that set his teeth together. He woke fully up when he realized it was an aircraft engine, and rolled out of bed onto the floor, ready to get going. When he looked around, coming back, he was in a hotel room. "Oh yeah," he said. "Yeah." He'd slept in his clothes. Walking to one wall, a wall covered in some truly ugly fabric, he found a part in the middle and separated what he figured were curtains. The light hit him hard, but he squinted into it until his eyes adjusted. Outside was a landscape of tall buildings and concrete, with a background of large airplanes roaming the air, climbing and descending, bulbous things, plodding around in the sky like a wandering herd of cows. He was at an airport hotel, waiting. The day was actually very gray and slightly misty; the light had hit him from the darkness, but it wasn't very bright out at all. Turning around and looking over the room, he saw a hideous coverlet on the bed, brownish carpet, a large TV, and that was about it. He walked to a short, pasteboard-ey nightstand and opened the top drawer. He was amused and somehow comforted to find a Gideon Bible. Glancing up, he saw the time on the cheap digital clock: it was late afternoon. "Holy shit!" He had a flash of panic when he realized he'd slept damn near around the clock. He sat down on the bed, aware of his clothes, and debated what to do. His phone was in his single bag, but he didn't want to check it. Feeling the pockets of his newly-purchased jeans he found his wallet, and after a few minutes of fuzzy thinking he decided to head down to the lobby and move on from there. He dug out the key card and walked out the door. There was an atrium type thing through the center of the hotel, with glass elevators. On the way down he noticed a bar area set back away from the main entrance, and in those seconds he made his decision. When the doors opened he walked out, reflexively looked around, and headed for the in-house place for a beer. To his mild alarm he got kind of lost on the way there; a series of potted plants and bizarre, square cement blocks with carvings on them confused him, and he got turned around. He found a perimeter walkway, and ended up circling the bar area, able to see into it, but not finding a door, until he walked all the way to the opposite side of the atrium and located the far entrance. He was frustrated when he walked in. The bar itself was lit from fixtures on the floor or maybe below, and the only other person at it was a short woman with a blondish ponytail. He noted the woman was small; really small. She looked like the kind of woman who had trouble buying age-appropriate clothes. Obviously a woman, though, and she was sitting very straight. The bartender was an older, dyed blonde woman in a white blouse and black pants. She looked beat down. He picked a stool, waited for the beaten barkeep to come over, and ordered his drink. She didn't look at him, and only grunted when he finished talking. The bartender came back with his beer. He took a slug, then got nervous and set it down, clasping his hands and swiveling to look behind him into the main lobby of the hotel. There were people milling around, dragging wheeled suitcases, lugging large soft bags, and a few kids straggling around behind harried-looking adults. When he turned back, satisfied, he glanced at the woman at the bar. She was small, damn near dinky, but had an odd broadness in her shoulders, and seemed, even sitting, to have a certain compact, muscular power. "Strange," he thought. He thought, "The last blonde woman I saw was in a magazine." He huffed in frustrated disgust at himself and his newly-found inexperience. "This is going to take a while." He looked out at the lobby again, and picked out a few blonde women to look at. Some of them were pretty enough; one couple checking in was professionally dressed, and he allowed a decent ogle at the woman. She was of course blonde, that thing he wasn't used to any more, and attractive, and he could see an expert makeup job even from a distance. He turned back to the bar, and when he looked at the small woman she was looking directly at him. He smiled, or tried to, and apparently it was good enough, because she smiled back, a little smile, but real. She turned away, resting her chin in her open palm. The woman had her hair pulled back in a shortish ponytail; there was a natural shine in her hair, so there was no spray or anything, but no extra wisps either; it had been grown out evenly and then been cut carefully to a specific length. He noticed it because he was, even sitting, far taller than her and was looking down more or less at the top of her head. She turned her head to her far left, away from him, and he took the opportunity to look over her body. She was very small and solid-looking, but not wide except in the shoulders; she wore a thin sweater, wool or something, that stretched some across her back and breasts; it didn't fit quite right, and it looked a little too short. She had decent breasts, but she'd clad them in what looked through the sweater like a flattening sports bra. For pants she had on some kind of gray yoga wear, and as she turned a little more and her rear came off the bar stool he could see the back was seamed to run up like a thong. She had a round, hard, muscled ass. He glanced away as she turned back, noticing the sweater top looked black but in the light turned slightly dark green. Her face came around, and they made eye contact for a short burst; then he looked back at the mirror behind the bar. "Why are there mirrors behind bars?" he thought. Over the next few minutes he checked her out, looking at the woman's face in the mirror and out of the corner of his eye. She was cute. Not really conventionally pretty, exactly; her face wasn't proportioned that way, with the equal features women in magazines have. She had a sort of short, turned-up nose with a kind of roundish tip, and wide cheeks; her forehead was prominent, and with her hair pulled back it made her look a little like a doll. Her chin stuck out and was rounded, but her face was kind of flat. She was cute. He caught himself thinking she didn't have that sense of a woman that would lose the way she looked; she'd have pretty much the same appearance until she was fifty, as long as she didn't gain a hundred pounds. He realized the thought was really stereotypically sexist and the realization made him laugh to himself. He thought, "Yep, we're all the same shallow asshole under the skin no matter how much we claim to be different... oh well." He shrugged and caught himself doing it in the mirror, then involuntarily glanced over to see if the woman had seen him do it; he had a sudden stab of fear of being somehow found out at, you know, being a guy. He gave up trying to be cool, turned his stool, and looked straight at her. She wasn't facing him at all. She was watching the activity in the hotel lobby. He waited for her to rotate back to the bar, then screwed it up and said, "Mind if I join you?" "Come on over," she said instantly, tilting her head in a surprisingly guy-like gesture. "I'm not waiting for anybody." He got up and pushed in his stool, moved over, and sat down next to her, sliding the new stool away slightly to give her a polite amount of room. She looked down at the floor between them, then looked at his face and smiled. She didn't introduce herself, so he didn't either. He decided to start the conversation. "I came to the city for a job interview." He got a mouthful of beer from the bottle. "I don't think it went well." She said, "For what job, and why not?" He told her the job, and she made a face. "Yeah, I know. I think I didn't really want it. But I don't have too much time to decide about work, you know? So whether I want to do some job or not is kind of... immaterial." She smiled and said, "Well, what did you do before?" He hesitated, then blatantly lied to her face. He didn't want to explain. He didn't feel like listening about it, or talking about it either. His explanation was lame but plausible, and she simply nodded and sipped at her bottle. The beaten down bartender turned on the TV. She flipped around a little, found the channel listings, then turned and asked, "Anything you two want?" The small woman watched the listings scroll for a bit, then exclaimed, "Ooh! Ooh!" and named a quiz-type game show. "Turn it up so we can hear it!" It was a fairly hard show, with tough questions; they watched the whole thing, sometimes dead on, sometimes not. He was surprised how much she really knew, and said so, and she told him the same thing. "This is cool," he thought. "This is relaxing and cool." He felt a twinge of guilt for lying about the job interview, too; he was in the city for a funeral. He didn't want to talk about that, either. The show ended, and some new thing came on. The woman didn't like it, and turned away, uninterested. She waved the bartender over, ordered another beer, and asked to turn down the TV. Then, when the bartender was out of hearing range, she bent over and said, "I have a question for you. Do you know why guys like small women?" He shook his head. She turned her head down and looked up at him from under her brows. "Because our hands make your cocks look big." He felt his mouth fall open, and she burst out laughing. After a few seconds of genuine surprise he laughed too, and said, "Oookaay..." and rested his head on a propped hand. "I'm not sure what to say to that." The bartender came back with another super light beer and set it down, then walked away again. The woman fingered the neck of the bottle. "Ask me a question," she said. He thought briefly. "Do you do yoga?" She picked up her bottle and nodded while drinking. "Good. Because I'm a huge fan of downward-facing doggie style." She had a mouthful of beer, but raised her eyebrows, amused. She swallowed and said, "I guess I asked for that." "Well, kind of." She looked at the mirror behind the bar. "I'm a gymnast." She corrected herself: "Well, I mean I used to be. I'm not anymore. I guess." She looked over at him. "Don't ask me to do any tricks or anything, because I won't," she said, with a notable hint of threat. He said, "No, that's okay, I imagine it's something guys ask all the time when they find out what you do. Or did." She made a face, twisting her mouth sideways and tilting her head so the hair on her head slid mildly, gleaming in the unflattering bar light. "I hate that shit," she continued, "Put your heels behind your head, huh-huh-huh." The face appeared again. "Cocksuckers." He took a big chance and said it: "Well, can you?" She flared up, eyes flashing. "Can I do what?" He retreated silently and took a drink from his bottle. "Uh... nothing." He glanced over, and she was letting it go, at least for now. "So what can you do? In the way of stupid human tricks?" she asked in a confrontational attack. He instantly grabbed his left pinky finger and folded it back to touch his wrist. "EEWW!" she shouted, and burst out laughing, really loudly, so loud the bartender popped up from whatever it was she was doing behind the counter to see what was so funny. The hotel employee put on a quizzical expression, so he did it again; the bartender made a pained gagging expression and sighed, laughing quietly. "Oh my god, how do you do that?" the gymnast demanded. He told her: "It's been dislocated like, five times, and now it sort of floats around. It doesn't hurt." The woman laughed again and said, "That is so gross." She stopped and froze her body suddenly. "I can't do gymnastics anymore because I just can't take the pain. I can't do it. It's just..." She shook her head. "It's just too much." He was curious and asked, "What kind of pain? I mean, it's gymnastics." He kind of shrugged. "Whoops," he immediately thought, because the girl had whirled at him with angry eyes. "Well, I mean, I don't really know. You have falls, and things like that, right? It can get serious." She stared at him for a few agonizing seconds, then said, in a very controlled voice, "It's one of the hardest sports on your body. It's right up there with pro football for injuries." She clamped her lips together, then spoke with venomous agony. "I've had five major surgeries in seven years, and to do it right I've been slamming pain killers like fucking candy." She looked away. He waited. "I talked to my coaches, and doctors, and everyone, and they were all totally supportive, but I'm just walking away from most of my life. I'm walking away. I'm all fucked up, and I had to walk away. If I keep up I'll end up in a wheelchair or on crutches." "I'm sorry," he said, then didn't know what else to say. She said, "I want to be able to walk when I'm thirty." She turned and looked at him. "I'm twenty-two, and I'm losing my school scholarships, and I have to change schools and lose all my friends and everything. And I'm way behind in my work because of all the injuries, and it was all for nothing." He stared at the bar mirror, watching the reflections of travelers. He said, "Ending a career isn't much fun, is it?" She shook her head violently and said, "I'm here checking out schools to change to." She shook her head again. "I don't want to talk about this anymore." She turned to face the lobby, bending forward and doing what looked like an unconscious stretch. She had a gorgeous neck with smooth skin. He ran his eyes down her back and took in the shape of her ass. "Very nice," he thought, and then she turned back and he had to pretend he wasn't checking her out. She said, "Yes I can." Confused, he asked her, "Do what?" Turning her chin down and looking up at him, she answered, "Put my heels behind my head," and then laughed. They talked for a while longer, and then a bit more, and finally she stopped cold and stared at the bar mirror. "So what about it?" she asked, and he had to ask what she was talking about; and she said, in a conspiring way, "Do you want me to make your cock look big?" He got over his shock and suddenly felt very lucky. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Yes." Parallel 02 The woman pushed her empty bottle to the rail, dug in a little pocket in her oh-so-pleasant yoga pants, and produced some wadded-up bills. She put them on the bar without straightening them and turned back to him. She looked at him, considering, seemingly thinking, and said, "You're nice." She thought some more. "I'll suck you. It'll be fun." He had to sit and stare at her, unsure of the reality of his situation. She laughed a little, and said, "I'm really, really good at it. Trust me." She waited a tick, watching his reaction, then said, "What's your room number?" He told her. "Go on up. I'll meet you in, like, fifteen." She reached out and touched his leg. "It'll be fun." Then she bounced off the stool and strode out of the bar, leaving him. He looked around, waved the beaten bartender over, and paid her off. Then he walked out of the bar into the lobby-slash-atrium, reflexively looking up to the glass roof, past the cheap rental plants and at the shimmering, oblique glow of the descending day. He'd had how many beers? "Interesting," he thought, they'd had no effect at all. He was charged up about this girl. He glanced back briefly, but she was gone; she'd probably gone out the other exit, to the opposite bank of elevators. A brief stab of nervousness hit him, and he had a superstitious fear that if he saw her again right now it would jinx it, and they wouldn't get together. He shook his head and made a beeline for the elevators. In the glass box he deliberately faced the outer bank of rooms, making sure not to look into the atrium for fear of seeing her in another bubble, across the way. "Christ, this is stupid," he thought. "I'm losing my mind." When the bubble box hit Floor 23 he stepped over the gap and distractedly scuffed his feet on the carpet on his way to the room, fishing in his pocket for the key card, and suffering another flick of panic when he couldn't find it, only to locate it in his shirt pocket instead of his jeans. The door seemed extremely heavy and awkward, and when he entered the room he looked around with a nervous eye, trying to see if he'd made too much of a mess in the bathroom. Why did the bathrooms always have to be right next to the entrance door? "The first thing you always see is the toilet," he thought, and closed that door. Wandering the close room, he had the thought that he'd imagined the whole thing, that the little gymnast was a figment of a jet-lagged imagination, and that he was circling an empty room in a base delusion of sexual frustration. "People don't really have one-night stands with strangers in airport hotels," he thought, and stopped, motionless in the room. As he tried to gather his thoughts a short, sharp series of raps snapped on the door. It was her. He walked over and opened the door. The gymnast woman walked- no, sauntered into the room without speaking, slipping off a pink pair of flip-flop sandals as she entered. She moved with a little bouncey stride that made her body sway and ripple; she had a firm, tight figure. Moving to the large window, she put her palms on the glass and peered out onto the ugly suburb-scape of concrete, glass, and Hot Wheels cars. A large jet flew past. He walked around the bed and it's bad-trip coverlet to stand behind her, and was again surprised at his relative height: he towered over her. She turned her head and lowered her chin, gazing back over her shoulder with eyes as sultry as she could manage with her doll-like face. She smirked, did a funny little bounce and said, "...you gonna get naked for me or what?" and when he froze momentarily, continued, "Get that cock out!" and laughed, a high-pitched, amused and fun-filled expression. He complied, opening his trousers and fishing, but the woman bounced over to him, looked up into his face, and tugged at his shirt briefly before tiptoeing back to the window, silently demanding he take everything off. He did it. When he was buck naked she pranced straight to him and grabbed his cock like a fireman on a hose. He looked down and she was right: in her hand his cock looked big. She bluntly shoved on his chest, and the force of it surprised him; she was a lot stronger than her size indicated. He sat heavily on the bed, and as his ass hit the soft surface she dropped to her knees, and in a single, smooth motion enveloped his cock with her mouth. It felt very, very good. She sucked him, and it was incredible, tongue rolling around the very tip and head as she bobbed back and forth, cupping his balls and stopping once to lick and suck his pouch and base. She kept it up for several minutes, sucking the very tip, then taking him in more deeply, then licking carefully and delicately. She was really, really good. Stunning, and he had to think hard to not come right away. He looked down at the top of her head, and touched her hair, looking at her shoulders and back. She had that amazing, solid, muscular body. He touched her neck, stroking gently, and she glanced up at him. She stopped suddenly, looked to her lower right, and said, "Lay on the bed, come on, move," and with still unexpected strength flipped his legs up, swiveled his whole body, and flipped him into the middle of the bed. He stretched out and placed his hands behind his head, and she leaped up, dipped on all fours (a move that accented the arch of her back, and her ass looked exactly like the ripest, most luscious peach ever grown), and went directly back to work. He watched her suck him, mouth moving, her tongue flicking out to stroke the very tip and underside of the head of his cock, and he could feel it getting close. He rested a hand on her shoulder, stroking, and she shifted her body at nearly a right angle to his. He took advantage of her move to put his hand on her ass; it was amazing and tight and round. He gently stroked her fantastic ass and rested his head back, waiting to come. She stopped. Parallel 03 "If I ask you to do something for me, will you think it's weird?" She turned and licked the head of his cock, then turned back up to face him. He said, after regaining some level of composure, "No, I don't think so... why?" Glancing up with a studied and quizzical expression, she shifted her frame slightly, hesitated briefly, then said, "Spank me." "What?" She stopped paying attention to the matter at hand, raised up, and stage-whispered, "SPANK ME!" He paused, almost said something, but she interrupted his forming thoughts. "Come on. Spank me. I like that." He blurted, "Okay." With no apparent effort she flipped herself around a little, raised her hips, and settled in a position at a sharp angle to his body, with her feet reaching for the pillows. When her mouth enveloped him again he reached down and out, and rested his hand on her left ass cheek and rubbed gently. He could hear her breathing through her nose while she sucked nicely, and the feeling made him throw his head back onto the yielding surface of the bed. Sucking up boldness and feeling a little silly, he raised his hand over the tiny, round, tight ass and smacked in an experimental way. The gymnast woman instantly raised off him and announced in a breathy voice, "Come on, I'm not made of glass! Hit me!" and she waited, looking annoyed. So he rotated a full arm stroke up, and fanned the air. When his broad hand came down full on the cloth-clad rear it connected with a loud 'SMACK!' The woman made a huffing intake sound, a 'uh-huh' kind of inhale, let it out with a heavy undertone, like a large cat, and placed her lips around him again. He wound up and hit her a second time, and when his hand impacted her whole body shuddered and spasmed. She made an animal sound and took him in her mouth, deeply. He hit her a third time, harder than before, to the point of making him uncomfortable with it, and she shook, so hard it reminded him, cliché-like, of a maple leaf on a tree in autumn. Her gasp made him nervous about the hit and he asked her, "Is.. is that okay? You all right?" She nodded with his cock in her mouth, and he could see saliva on the corners of her cute mouth. Pulling off, eyes closed, she muttered or spoke or communicated, with a slight hint of laugh, "I'm fine," then paused, and finished with that laughing tone, "I'm a big girl!" The light hit her face and her eyelids fluttered for a second, revealing glistening pupils. The next hit resounded in the room, a high-pitched cracking noise; the 'big girl' trembled and opened her mouth wide, breathing unevenly, and lowered her mouth, taking him in deeply, then slowly, oh so slowly, lifting back up until she was kissing the very tip of his cock. She sucked again, moved her mouth down, then up and almost off his cock, and waited with her lips on the very top of the head, waiting like a train in a station. He spanked her, as hard as he could given the somewhat awkward position of his arm relative to her ass, and as his hand came down her mouth came down as well. He did it again, and they repeated the dance, and set up a rhythm. She whimpered and squirmed, cried and gasped, while he groaned away each time she performed magic on him, and when she reached up and flicked his nipples he felt it in the tips of his toes. Then it was right there, right there and ready. He grabbed her hair without even thinking, smacked her once more, and came violently in her mouth, making his own set of sounds, slamming his back into the bed. The small, womanly 'big girl' sucked as he jetted in her mouth, rolling her tongue around on him and swallowing rapidly. She hadn't been lying when she'd said, "I'm really, really good at it." When he was finished, in all senses of the term, she lifted slick lips off him and ever-so-tortuously chipped at the supremely sensitive head of his cock, and didn't let up even when he writhed, groaned, and grabbed her waist, trying to push her away. Finally he smacked her round ass cheeks again, hard, and she slurped off, smiling with an open mouth and looking very satisfied and pleased with her work. "MMM.. that was fun." She flounced a little, bouncing on the bed, and repositioned her small, muscular frame to parallel his. Resting on one elbow she reached for his descending cock, but he frantically covered his groin, unable to stand the attention for the time being. She laughed, head thrown back, and goaded, "Chicken." That said, she removed her hand and lowered it to her own crotch and rubbed briefly but intently. He reached over, bending his arm crookedly, and touched her hair. "You like being spanked?" She closed her eyes, then opened them, thinking, despite the event being a minute earlier. She said, "Yes." She continued, "You betcha, Yah," with a slight giggle. He straightened his arm and covered the hand now rotating at the junction of her thighs, and when he slipped a finger in between hers experimentally, there was obvious moisture. She sucked in breath and shivered. "How do you cut your hair?" She closed her eyes, and he realized that, if asked, he couldn't have told anyone what color they were. "Down there" -- he probed again, gently- "you know." Her eyes flickered open and he saw they were a brownish hazel. She paused, and then, astonishingly and amusingly, turned red from embarrassment. "I trim it close, but I leave some," she said, and rocked back as his left, formerly unoccupied hand brushed her breasts. He cupped her breasts through the smooth, green top, feeling the nipples rise up, and leaned in close, whispering as another shudder ran through her, "Tit for tat," and pushed on the hand in her crotch. She giggled, an actual giggle, and moved over some. He followed, "I'm good at it, too." It was a challenge. Keeping the hazel eyes closed, she continued with her work, accepting his hand and help, reflecting and thinking. Finally she arched her back and tugged at her waistband, removing her yoga pants. She said, "Prove it." Parallel End She stopped her action suddenly, and looked like she was thinking. She moved her hands away from her waistband, then kind of flipped, again, and went sideways from him, stretching one leg out at an almost ninety degree angle to her body. Then she looked at him, smiled, and as she did she lifted the outstretched leg, and rapidly and effortlessly placed it with the knee against her chest. Then she put the heel behind her head. He stopped moving and opened his mouth, and she laughed out loud. Coming back from amazement he touched her pussy with the backs of his fingers, and she shivered, closed her eyes, and untangled herself instantly, landing on her knees. She bounced, once, and in that single smooth motion slipped her pants off. She wasn't wearing underwear. She went up straight on her knees, upright, and in that brief time he could see the muscles of her amazing body, and she was stunning; and he could also see deep scars on the tops and sides of her knees. Then she simply fell backward and opened her legs. He rolled down and grabbed the upper part of her thighs and went down with his head. When she raised her back he slid a hand under her, arranged himself in line, and went for her pussy. As her knees went further up he pushed his shoulders to her ass and folded his free hand over her belly, then paused and examined her. She had a pretty pussy, with delicate hairs in and around the lips, moistening up at the juncture, and a barely visible clitoris directly at the very top. He brushed the hairs with his lips, then gently mouthed open the cleft and started in with his tongue. She arched her back, raised her arms, then got comfortable and rested her head backward and up, concentrating and silent except for her breathing. He noted she'd left her top on, and he wondered, if her knees were that scarred up, what her shoulders and chest looked like. She got very wet very quickly, and her cycle of inhaling and exhaling went ragged shortly into his work. He was surprised at how relaxed she got, then realized she was just very, very comfortable with her body. Thinking she was likely to come quickly, he pulled his right arm out from under her and, while continuing spelling out the alphabet with his tongue, decided to ask her a question. He said, "Hold still," and gently pressed a finger on her lips, spreading, and asked, "Okay?" She said, or muttered, "Mnnn uh huh," and moved her arms across her chest. He slipped the index finger into her, found the G-spot and stroked firmly. The gymnast almost jumped off the bed and made a shocked huffing sound: "Huah!" "Is that okay?" he asked, and she pressed her thighs together, strongly, and he had to try to push her powerful legs apart, which took some effort. She uncrossed her arms, put her hands on his head, and grunted. He went back in and she shook all over. He firmly stroked the spot while spelling out the alphabet on her clit with his tongue, then ran out of letters and amused himself by spelling out city names and dirty words. She felt great, she felt amazing and soft, and wet. She smushed her pussy to his face, and he got into it, sliding, stroking, and spelling, enjoying the softness mixed with firmness, her smell, her aroma. She whimpered and muttered and grabbed at the hideous bed cover. It didn't take long. He was impressed with how easy she did it; very relaxed, very confident and accustomed, but when she came she came HARD. The solid, small body slammed and arched and thrashed until she forced him away, and she kicked him back, rolled over, and put her hands at her crotch, stroking herself down, shivering. "Uh- FUCK!" She squirmed on the bed, shoving her hands on herself, eyes closed. He watched her with an unusual feeling of pride. He was glad she'd come, and felt good about it. It felt equal. He realized, too, his cock was getting hard again, a fact he found more than a little funny and ironic. She rolled over, hands still at her pussy, and looked at his face with a blank expression. Then her eyes lowered, and she focused on him. She lay still for a few seconds, then spoke. "Do you have a condom?" He felt surprised, and touched his cock, refreshed and hard, and stroked it while she watched. He hesitated to say "Yes," feeling oddly like it would seem sleazy to walk around with a condom all the time; but after a second of reflection, he told the truth and answered, "Yes." She jammed both hands to her crotch and said, in an actual growl, "Get it," then rolled over on her stomach, rubbing her pussy. He jumped off the bed, fished for his jeans (they had somehow traveled under the bed) and yanked the wallet out, dropping about four bucks, his ID card, and a driver's license on the carpet. She heard the crackle of the package and turned her head, facing a brightly flushed face to him. She growled again: "Give it to me and come here." He handed the item over, and as his knees hit the bed she grabbed him by the hard penis and yanked him over like someone disciplining a disobedient dog. Shoving up, she took the base of his cock in a hand, put her mouth over him again, ever so briefly, and somehow tore open the condom package with one hand. He had to ask: risking interrupting the flow of action, he said, "How did you do that?" She removed her amazing mouth and murmured, luckily without irritation, "Same as a packet of Advil." In one smooth motion she presented the rolled-up condom, and slipped it over him with a seemingly expert hand; she smoothed it once, mumbled for some reason, "That went well," and turned away on her stomach again. She seemed to hesitate briefly, then looked back a little, checking where he was, and then hopped onto her hands and knees; she dropped her face to the bed, and her amazing ass went up. He grabbed her waist and hip, sliding a shockingly huge-looking hand down her back, and, guiding himself carefully in a sudden stab of nervousness about the small size of her body, slipped the head of his cock into her pussy. She gasped and shoved back, hard, and figuring all was well he pushed forward, fully burying his cock in the shivering body below him. The tiny woman yelled out in a squeaky voice, "FUCK!" and pulled off. He momentarily got scared she'd been hurt, but instead of running she reached under herself, found his cock and, guiding it to her lips, rocked once, twice, then shoved back against him with a brutal impact against his pelvis. She squeaked again, this time without a coherent word, and folded her arms over her head. He rocked back on his knees, paused, and rammed into her again. The reaction was a deep sound of vaguely associated vowels. She was fine and he fucked her. "Lemme come" she exhaled, and he watched, pushing deep, as her hand found herself and she frantically stroked her clitoris. He tried to position for contact with the G-spot area, but it wasn't perfect from their geometry; he settled for a steady advance and retreat, not varying, but as hard as he could keep up. Wetness slicked over his crotch and the hair on her dripped tiny orbs onto the bed, making dark dots on the hideous pattern of swirls and blotches. It didn't take long. "AH!" The gymnast yelled once and shook all over, wriggled, and froze. He rammed into her pussy again and pushed, hard, as she pressed back against his belly and thighs. He grabbed her smooth, silky and strong shoulder and hip, felt her skin, and pounded his cock into her body. She undulated in a violent tremor, making a series of small shouts. Having kept up his end of the arrangement, he stopped thinking about the trash can at the hotel bar and its contents of beer bottles and cigarette butts, focused on the real-time situation, and within moments of enjoying the womanly body in front of him came again; it was very pleasant and good. Very good. When he was done, he pulled out, lightly tapping an ass cheek with an open palm. As his hand lifted off the girl dropped down flat, face down and breathing heavily. There was a deep sound of "HUH" and that was it. He unfolded his legs and sat down, sensitive and aware of his shrinking cock in the condom sheath, feeling the wrinkles build up and the formerly hot come turn cool. The gymnast, the woman, kept her face down in the coverlet. After a while, she said quietly, "I really didn't mean to have sex today." She turned her head and freed her mouth. "I thought I'd do a blow job and leave it at that. I don't know why I did this". He met her eyes and said, "Maybe you're lonely." She shook her head. "No, I'm around people all the time." Waiting while her eyes closed and she relaxed and breathed, he said, "Then maybe you wanted something for yourself. There's nothing wrong with that." "It's so hard," she muttered. "I can't have a boyfriend, I can't date, I can't do shit. Everybody knows everything about me." She heaved her lungs and for a second she seemed like she might cry. "I dated one guy and all anyone did was fucking gossip about it until I got sick of it and broke up with him, and now I can't do anything and I don't even have a boyfriend." Her back arched and she heaved for breath. "All I wanted was to have some fun and not have everybody know what I was doing every single second of every single day. I go to schools now and the fucking coaches are there wanting me to know what I can do and I can't do shit. I don't want anyone to know me anymore." She pushed her face into a pillow. "I don't want anyone to know anything about me." He turned away and slipped the condom off, tying the open end shut in a reflexive habit. He stood up, walked to the plastic-bag lined trash can next to the TV, and dropped it in. Her voice sounded: "Give me my pants. I need to go." He grabbed her pants. One of the legs was inside out and he fixed it, then straightened them with military habit and handed them to her. As she reached back and up to get them, he bent over and got on the bed. As he moved his lips close to her ear she turned away. She said, "No. Don't kiss me." He moved closer anyway, and doing something that would usually be a horrible, unforgivable insult, but under the circumstances was the nicest thing he could think of to do, he whispered gently: "...What was your name again?" Parallel Lives Mike finally has woken from the stupor of the past twenty-four hours. He had been painting and binging until he could no longer maintain consciousness and now finds himself within reach of the bed he never made it to, instead ending up on the floor looking and smelling like shit. He sits up and collects his thoughts as the rumbling in his stomach loudly announces how empty it is and glances around the space he calls home to see the empty bottles and discarded fast food wrappers and bags while he visually verifies what little he has is still there and hasn't gone "missing" while he was passed out. This is hardly the life he was supposed to have. He was a graduate of a prestigious art school who blew the doors off the competition while he was there wining award after award...along with one other person...unfortunately. Across town Mike's twin brother Matt, also an artist who went to the same school, has just come back from a last minute run to the deli not too far from where his brother lives for some items needed before guests arrive later in the evening for a "post-gallery party" with some friends after the opening of his one man show at a nearby gallery. His wife Cheryl is in the shower beginning her preparation for the evening's festivities as Matt unloads his bags and begins prepping the food and chilling the wine, caviar and cooked shrimp. The rest of the warm food will be delivered later completing the menu. Mike makes himself presentable as best he can. He's hungry, dirty, broke and in need of more alcohol but he knows what he must do to get what he needs so out the door and into the night he goes. He's not proud of what he's about to subject himself to but in his mind he justifies it all with a "You've gotta do what you've gotta do to survive." thought in his head. He makes his way down the street and passes the deli, that unbeknownst to him his brother had been at a short time earlier, and looks in to see the cases of meat, fish and cheese all brightly lit up with cured meats and sausages hanging above them. The walls of the small store were filled with fresh breads and specialty foods and wine. The bins filled with olives and pickles of all types...just like they've always been even when Mike and Matt were small boys and they would go there with their parents or grandparents. Mike doesn't go in. He can't afford anything in there right now and he's too big to get away with snagging a pickle like he did years ago so he continues on down the street and around the corner in silence. Where he is going poses more danger to him than stealing a pickle. Matt wanders in to the bedroom to check on Cheryl's progress and change himself. He sees her chosen outfit lying on the bed. A clingy sheer backless black dress with rhinestone accents and a pair of black platform pumps...that's all she'll be wearing and she'll stun the world in it again. He takes his clothes off and heads into the bathroom for a shower and sees his wife standing in front of the mirror putting her makeup on wearing nothing but a thin gold waist chain around her hips highlighting her athletic frame. Matt steps up behind her and kisses her on the neck as their eyes meet seductively in the mirror and his hands lightly stroke her sides. A gasp and a shudder emit from her as she reaches for the counter in an effort to maintain her balance while her lipstick bounces into the sink with a clatter. Cheryl turns and puts her hands on Matt's shoulders as he raises her petite body up slightly and sits her on the counter. Mike has made his way further into the darkness encountering few people in the process. The ones he does see are of "questionable" purpose on this street. Matt has stepped closer into Cheryl and gently begins to slide his cock into her, freshly shaven, pussy as he continues to kiss her neck avoiding mussing up her fresh makeup. There is still more to do and people to see and play with later. It would be in poor taste to start out with that "freshly fucked" look right from the get-go. As Mike passes an alleyway a middle aged man in a football jersey approaches him. Mike had expected to be approached by someone but not this balding, chubby, average looking person who looks very out of place outside of the suburban neighborhood where he must live. Mike is offered fifty dollars to give the man a blowjob. Mike counters with "make it a hundred and you can have more than a blowjob." Which the man quickly agrees to and hands Mike the money as they step into the alley. He puts the money in his pocket, unzips his pants and leans into a trash bin for support. The stench is overwhelming but he does everything he can to block the whole thing out of his mind as the man's meat finds its way up Mike's ass. The pleasure Matt is finding inside Cheryl has become intoxicating and the pace of their fucking is increasing with each thrust. Mike's "patron" has begun to grunt and pick up speed causing Mike to do the same while reaching down and grab his own cock and begin to frantically stroke it. Matt and Cheryl's breathing has become hard and animal like. So has Mike's over on the other side of the city. At the same time Mike and Matt let out a loud scream that is part orgasm, part anguish and somewhere over the city the two screams meet and mesh sounding as one before fading into the night sky to become part of the Universe forever. Matt gently kisses his wife as he jumps into the shower to quickly clean up and get dressed. They don't want to be late for the opening. There are deals to be made and playmates still to enjoy. Mike looks around to see his benefactor has disappeared back into the shadows from where he came as Mike fished around in the trash bin to find something to clean himself up with before re-doing his pants. He makes his way back up the street to the deli only to find it closed. He remembered his brother's opening is tonight and boards a bus for the hour or so trip to the gallery. "There's always food and booze at those." He thinks to himself as he sat there in the silence of the nearly empty bus. Matt and Cheryl waste no time in making the rounds and glad-handing the guests upon their arrival. Everyone is in a sexy and festive mood so the drinks and conversation flow quickly and freely. In what seemed to be a blink of an eye it is decided to take the party home for more food, drink and "intimate" fun. The crowd pours out of the gallery and off to Matt and Cheryl's. A short time later Mike gets off the bus and walks the two blocks to the gallery only to find it closed. He looks through the window to see the thirty or so paintings his brother had shown that night. All neatly hung with the small title and price cards affixed to the wall next to them. Many had the magic red dot on them signifying they had been sold that night. Mike smiled a weak smile as he wished it were his stuff not his brother's. He dejectedly turns and heads back towards the bus stop. His footsteps echo loudly down the vacant street as he plans his next destination. Somewhere out there is a hamburger and a beer with his name on it. He'll eat and stock up on liquid supplies and return to his place to paint some more and, hopefully, get something to come out right. Matt will be engulfed in a sea of passionate flesh for the remainder of the evening. Tomorrow morning he'll go to the gallery and collect his check for the works sold tonight. He'll then return home and begin to work on a new series. Both he and his brother will be looking for that all elusive "new edge" to make their work continue to be relevant. One or the other may succeed. Maybe they both will or maybe they'll both fail. When the sun comes up in the morning it will be a new day filled with opportunity. It remains to be seen who takes advantage of it. Parallel True Love Francis took the blame. Francis was cool like that. He just spoke up, said it was all his fault, told the headmaster that I hadn't been any where near him when it had happened. Everyone liked Francis, the headmaster would let him off with some time-consuming but pretty trivial punishment; the new pupil, the new English pupil. Francis would have to practice his English more and have this kid trail around after him for months. It would be annoying but it wasn't horrible. I thanked him, Francis was a true friend. It wasn't until I saw the new pupil that I was suddenly jealous. Silas, the new boy, was beautiful. If I'd taken the blame I could have had him and I wanted him so badly and ever minute of every day he was with Francis. Francis kept him busy, choosing his clothes and carrying his books. Silas would wander around looking dazed and tired all the time and Francis would boast about the sex they had, telling me how Silas was a total sex hound who would jump him every time they were alone. I wanted the boy. Francis and I were like brothers. We came from the same region of the country and everyone noticed our accents. We both had dark hair, were both tall, although Francis was slightly taller than me. He had dark brown eyes, much darker than mine. His mum had died when he was young, he'd been moving around from boarding school to boarding school, expelled from most of them until he finally got sent to this school. This was a school for the boys no one else could deal with, the gay ones, the ones with pregnant girlfriends, the ones on drugs, the bullies. His father travelled a lot, sending Francis large sums of money each month but never any letters. Everyone knew Francis, everyone loved him and felt the desire to be around him but some how he took energy from people, stole it whereas most extroverts reflected it. You gave to him but there was nothing in return. I wondered if sex with him was the same. Francis was the only person at that school who knew I was gay. He'd said it was cool and then kissed me. He smiled, asked if I wanted to have sex with him 'cause he'd always wanted to try it. "We won't date." He'd said. "We wouldn't work as boyfriends." He'd sucked me off once but then Silas had turned up and Francis decided to experiment with him instead. Obviously, he enjoyed his experiments and he kept Silas by his side all the time. And Silas was tired all the time. When I went to hang out with them in Francis' room, Silas would always be sitting on the floor. Francis had a desk but Silas never seemed to use it. Silas could have just done his work in his room, he never joined in our conversations, just sat on the floor, working, occasionally watching us, blushing when Francis noticed and commented on it. "Why don't you use the desk?" I'd asked him once when I'd gone to Francis' room and found Silas alone, working on the floor. He'd looked down at the floor before answering. He shrugged slightly. "Its easier to work on the floor." He had a beautiful accent. He spoke Spanish slower than native speakers, sometimes emphasising vowel-sounds that most people just skipped over. He didn't speak often though, Silas was so innocent, hardly ever talking to anyone, just following Francis around. Everyone followed Francis but Silas did it as if there was no-one else in the world, as if he was programmed only to listen to Francis. If he was a total sex hound he hid it well. When we went to university Francis told me he had HIV. He'd had it since before he started fucking Silas. He had HIV and was fucking the most beautiful boy in the world. I'd punched him, swore at him and called him every name I could think of. Then I dropped out of university, left Spain and went to travel the world, to reconsider life. That bastard had polluted such an innocent and I couldn't stay around him. He still went back to the school, to fuck Silas, he didn't even seem guilty about it. He was phoning me for days after I left, telling me that it was ok, that Silas was cool. Of course Silas was cool, Silas hardly spoke, he wouldn't be able to stand up to a persuasive argument from Francis. Francis shouldn't have put the poor kid in that situation. Then I got a letter, about ten years after we'd first been to school together, from Francis' lawyer. Francis had died and left me something in his will and his lawyer had been trying to tracking me down. I went to see the lawyer, got a letter from beyond the grave and then went round to an apartment block in one of the more expensive areas of the town. There was a doorman who told me that if I was with Josh then Silas didn't want to see me. He called up to Silas' apartment with my name. "Philip from school?" The doorman asked. I nodded surprised that Silas remembered me so quickly. The doorman let me go up. The door of the apartment was open, Silas was on the floor, surrounded by papers. He smiled up at me. "I'm glad the lawyer managed to get hold of you. I thought you'd come and see me, once you read the letter. Francis told me about the argument you guys had and how much he regretted it." "I think that's the most I've ever heard you say. Glad to see you're still enjoying sitting on the floor." I went in and shut the door. He grinned again and stood up. "Do you want a drink?" I followed him in the kitchen. "So he never slept with you? Ten years and you guys never fucked?" "How much did the letter tell you?" He asked, suddenly looking fearful. I patted his arm. "I'm not gonna judge you. If you like to be tied up and spanked then its up to you but he said that he didn't think that you did. Whats going on with this Josh fellow then?" He turned away from me before he started talking, that was just like he'd been at school, couldn't stand people looking at him when he spoke. That's why most of the time, he didn't talk. People looked at him because he was beautiful, because he was with Francis, because he didn't talk. "Francis' home help when he came off the medication. Francis told him to look after me the day before he died, look after me both sexually and helping with the funeral arrangements. I didn't mind it for a while, I think I needed someone to help me out for a while but then he got violent and possessive and I didn't love him, I didn't want him here. I kicked him out and he's been trying to get back for a while but I think he's gone now." "You kicked someone out?" I laughed. He put his hand on his hip and watched me until I stopped. "I'm not a total pushover you know. Francis never forced me to do anything I didn't want to do." "Why did you always sit on the floor?" He ignored me. "I left him once you know. For two months. When I came back he promised never to push me to do anything I didn't want to do again and he didn't. Where have you been all these years?" "Everywhere. Are you a virgin then?" He shook his head. "Where are you staying?" "You have a spare room don't you?" He shook his head again, turning away from me. "Its a two-roomer. Do you have a room mate, a new boyfriend?" "I don't use Francis' room." He said quietly and then started crying. "Idiot." I cuffed him lightly around his head, like I normally treated my little brother. Silas just looked startled, he obviously didn't have brothers. "Come on, I'll help you sort out his junk and then you can have the room. I'm guessing he left this place to you?" **** It didn't take too long to tidy out Francis' room, apparently this Josh guy had done quite a lot of the clearing but was keeping Silas sleeping in his room so he could fuck him. Silas had a degree in biochemistry and was using it down at the local hospital testing samples. He said he was enjoying it, he didn't have any plans to move back to England. His parents hadn't approved of his relationship with Francis and they only really spoke to each other at special holidays. It took about two hours to clear the room and that was all the information I had managed to get out of him. Everytime I asked a question, I recieved an answer I was happy with and a question of my own to answer and then I realised that he hadn't actually answered my question. He was smart like that. "I'll help you move your stuff in here." "No." He blushed as he stood up, then covered by looking at the clock. "It's getting late, how about you get yourself something to eat? I can do my room." "It's no problem, Silas, it'll take minutes right? I'll stick some pasta on." I left the room for maybe ten minutes, when I returned he'd already packed up one suitcase. All his clothes and books were still in the room so I didn't know what he'd managed to pack into a suitcase. I picked it up, he turned to me. "I can do it, I can take that in, you don't have to help me." He said, frowning. I ruffled his hair, he was getting frustrated with me but I couldn't understand why, maybe he didn't want me to stay with him. I'd just assumed that he'd be happy to let me stay with him for a while. I asked him. He shrugged. "You can stay if you want but I don't need your help." "Everyone needs some help sometimes." "I'm capable of doing my own thing. I really don't need any help. I'm sick of people trying to control me." "I'm not trying to, I'm just trying to help. Josh and Francis really messed you up didn't they?" "Yes." His one word answer shocked me. I don't think he'd ever been so honest with me. "Why did you let them then?" "I didn't let Josh, I kicked him out remember? And I walked out on Francis." "And then you came back. If you hated it so much why did you come back to him? What hold did he have over you?" Silas frowned and took the suitcase from me, I followed him as he took the case into the other room. He dropped the suitcase and attempted to move past me, I grabbed his arms and wrestled him to the bed as he struggled against me. "For fucks' sake, Silas! What did Francis do to you?" "Francis was the only person who ever listened to me. He was the only one who ever heard what I actually said, he knew what I meant and he made other people take notice of me." "I noticed you." I said leaning in close to him. He shivered then shook his head. "Let me up, please." He sat up and moved away from me as soon as I let go of him. "You only noticed me because Francis had me. If I'd just turned up I would have wandered around unnoticed for the whole three years I was at that school and the three years I was at university." "That's not true, you're beautiful, everyone notices you." "No one listens to me though. Only Francis listened to me. And I don't want anyone trying to take over my life any more, Francis could because he knew me and I trusted him but I don't trust any one else." "And how long will I have to tie you down and spank you before you trust me?" "Bastard." He left the room, I heard him lock himself in the bathroom. He had real issues with trust, poor kid. He just needed a little bit of time to get to know me. I picked up his suitcase and opened it, prepared to unpack it for him. It was full of sex toys, from dildos and butt plugs to whips and handcuffs. I smiled and grabbed a whip. "Hey Silas," I shouted from outside the bathroom door. "Where do you want me to put your whip?" Maybe I was pushing him too hard, annoying him and antaganising him just for the fun of it but sometimes you have to get someone angry to get anything useful out of them. Silas had been kept silent too long, had lived in Francis' shadow for too long. I could make him angry enough to take control. If he wanted to get rid of me, he'd have to do more than wait until I left, change the locks and tell the doorman to keep me out like he'd done with Josh. He'd have to really want me gone. He was too scared, made scared by Francis' control but he didn't have to be, he must have learnt plenty of control techniques from Francis. Silas opened the bathroom door and held out his hand until I handed him the whip. "This is Francis' whip. You don't touch Francis' stuff." He whispered to me. "Francis' stuff was in his room. Your stuff was in the spare room. This is your stuff." "Josh was using it. You're not going to use it. I'm not going to do this anymore." "You think I've come here to fuck you don't you?" "You have. Francis told you to come and look after me and his understanding of looking after me is fucking me but I'm not going to have him choose my lovers, I'm not going to have him control me." "He didn't tell me to come here. And I don't take orders from dead men. I came here because I've always fancied you and now Francis has gone maybe I'll have a chance with you." His eyes dimmed. "So you do want to fuck me?" "Yeah but not because Francis told me to and not just for the sake of fucking. I'm not just gonna force myself onto you and take control of you." I left him where he was and went to sort out my food. I left some for him even though he hadn't asked me to. Silas was still moving his things into the other room. I watched him and he ignored me. After a while it seemed he'd finished his moving, he grabbed the extra plate of food I'd left for him, handed me the plate and then knelt down next to me. "What are you doing?" "You're going to feed me, then I'm going to suck you off." "Why?" "That's what I want. And you want to fuck me." "So I feed you, you suck me and I fuck you?" "Not tonight. I suck you, we'll sleep in the same bed but you won't fuck me." "Is this how it worked with Francis?" "No, he told me what to do and I argued against it but I'm never going to find someone who knows what I want like Francis did so I'm going to have to train you. You up for that?" I grinned as I picked up the fork and began to feed him. Being trained by Silas seemed like the best offer I'd had in a long time.