Richard Sharon - Diary of a Lover

Otis was sitting at the kitchen table with his little peter out, stroking it and eyeing me. I knew what he wanted, but that wasn't part of the deal, and damned if I was going to give it to him if he didn't cough up another twenty.

George missed a spot on my shoe and I chewed him out good and told him that he would have to be punished for the unpardonable error. Actually I didn't know what the hell I was doing, but Otis was coaching beautifully from the sidelines.

George literally tore off his pants and underpants in his eagerness to be spanked. I opened the case, which Otis had put on the kitchen table, and put the whip together. George, this big, hulking man, looked at the whip and started to whimper in pleased anticipation. I ordered him to lie on the couch for his punishment, but he testily informed me that he liked to be punished on the bed. I felt like I was a character in a play, acting out a role written long ago by somebody else, some macabre playwright.

Otis ran his hand along my leg as we walked into the bedroom, but stopped abruptly when I gave him a menacing look.

"For twenty more, I'll let you," I said.

"Ten?" he asked hopefully. "After all, we've already given you thirty."

"Sir, I'm waiting for my spanking. Please hurry!" George was getting impatient.

"Okay, ten it is," I said, "but you gotta do it while I'm spanking him, so I don't waste any more time."

"Okay," said Otis. "I'll give it to you after."

"Now," I said.

"God, will somebody please spank me?" yelled George, who was becoming frantic.

Otis got a ten out of the cookie jar and handed it to me. Then I laid George out on the small bed in which both of them must have slept, except when Otis had his period, and teased him with the whip, rubbing it slowly over his back and buttocks, slapping him gently here and there. He was in heaven.

Meanwhile Otis was on his knees in front of me, fumbling with the zipper on my pants and beating himself off.

I started to crack the whip in the air. George writhed on the bed, humping into the covers and moving his huge hand under himself to grab it. When I felt Otis' mouth sucking my cock, I really started laying on the whip, cracking it hard and swinging my arm in a wide arc for full effect.

What a ludicrous scene, here was George on the bed, getting his ass whipped by me, while he was jacking himself off and blubbering about how should hit him harder and really hurt him. Then there was Otis, sucking me off and masturbating at the same time.

Finally George, in a wild orgasm, got his rocks off all over the bedspread, with an ass that was striped red and bleeding slightly in a few places where I had laid on the whip too hard. Then Otis shot himself all over my Price's shoes, which George had just licked so gloriously clean, and then he got mine down his throat.

When I pulled out of him I was raw and sore. The motion of my whipping George while Otis was trying to suck me had made him scrape the delicate skin of my cock with his teeth. I cursed. It wasn't Otis' fault, but I was finished for the evening.

Holding hands, they thanked me from the bottom of their hearts, and I left, tired, bruised, and pissed off. I had wasted all that time for forty lousy bucks and got put out of action besides. If I had just worked my normal trade I could have made twice that much in the same amount of time. I resolved never again to do a S-M trick. I didn't mind weirdos, but these guys were a bit much, even for me.

The summer vacation after I was graduated from junior high was largely spent hustling, spending money on stupid things, and playing jobs.

The weather in San Francisco is usually miserable and foggy during the summer. When we would have a rare nice day I would take a girl or go with friends up to Marin Town and Country Club across the Golden Gate, or simply "Fairfax," as we called it. There, we could lie in the sun all day, swim a bit, play touch football, and fill up on delicious grilled hot dogs. In the evening there was dancing.

I was making it now and then with some chick, but I still didn't know shit about women. Despite all the blow jobs and an occasional normal piece of ass, I still fantasized about some mythical perfect fuck while I beat my meat.

Early one evening I was standing on the corner of Powell and Ellis, leaning against a hot-dog stand with my cock bulging, when a young couple walked by. The guy was in his early twenties, had a blond crew-cut, was about thirty pounds overweight, and was queer.

It's funny that after hustling awhile you can tell the queers from the straights just by the face and the eyes. There's something about the face that is a dead giveaway to the practiced eye, even if the guy is married or very virile-looking.

This guy was queer, and the chick he was with- was a real good-looking blonde with blue, twinkly eyes, and was very well dressed. They stopped a few feet down the street from me and turned around.

It never embarrassed me when a man looked frankly at my crotch, but both of them were staring. She smiled and I began to get a real hard-on and also to blush a bit, I could feel the heat in my face and ears.

They whispered together for a minute and then came over to me.

He was about my height, but much heavier; with her heels on, she was taller than both of us.

"Hi," he said, smiling affably.

"Hi," I answered, not quite sure what was happening.

"You been busy today?" He wanted me to know that he knew what I was there for.

"Just started," I lied.

Actually I had already done a trick, but all Johns like to think that they're first. I guess they're afraid of dirty cocks or germs from some other guy's mouth. It didn't matter, because I always washed thoroughly in one of the many downtown restrooms after being with a John, for my protection, not theirs.

"Uh," he hesitated, "I'm Jim and this is my wife, Mary."

"Hi, again," I said to them both.

"Hi," she said, her eyes still sparkling with hidden humor and her mouth drawn up in a half smile.

"Uh," he said again, "you see… that is, Mary here and me were talking, and we like the way you look… and we were wondering if you do couples. I mean, have you ever done it with couples before?"

"Once in a while," I lied.

"We're at the Sir Francis Drake," Mary said softly. "Would you like to take a walk over with us?"

I was going to ask about money, but was so intrigued by a woman being involved that I figured I'd just cool it and see what happened. "Sure," I said.

Our conversation was perfunctory, but they always were. There didn't seem to be much to say, because you knew that everybody just wanted to get on with it. We all were afraid that too much talk might expose us, make us vulnerable to some great, unknown catastrophe.

We walked a couple of blocks to the hotel, saying little. The room was large and one whole side was dominated by a table and clothes rack where various items of ladies' apparel hung. Catalogs and order books were scattered all over the table. Jim said he represented a clothing manufacturer, taking care not to mention which one, and that they were in town for a week to sell to local stores.

Mary began to make drinks. "Is a martini all right?" she asked, looking a little more nervous now than when she was out on the street.

"Fine," I answered, watching her body closely. She was wearing a red sweater and skirt that showed her off to great advantage.

Jim had taken off his jacket and tie, and I noticed with some distaste how his paunch hung over his belt.

The only seats in the room were folding chairs around the display table, so we sat on the bed, had our drinks, and talked haltingly of nothing, just making conversation and killing time.

I was wondering what the deal was. Was he going to suck me? Was I going to get to fuck her? Both? Neither?