Wants

Please see the introduction of Texas, Our Texas, if you have concerns or questions about these characters.

Wants

“Jonah, no. Talk to me. Please,” Noah pleaded and reached for Jonah’s arm.

“I’m done. Done, done, done. And I would have been out of here nice and quiet if he hadn’t called you.” Jonah pointed at Samuel. “He always stays in his studio like a good little boy, but not today.”

“Jonah, please,” Samuel whispered. “Please, don’t do this.”

Noah’s arm swept around Samuel’s shoulders, pulling the slight body into his chest. “Sammy, I don’t think we can stop him, I’m sorry,” Noah whispered into Samuel’s silky hair. “Jonah, do you have a place to stay? Do you need money or anything?”

“I’m not helpless,” Jonah ground out each word through clenched teeth. He didn’t need cared for and coddled. He was a grown man. He could take care of himself. He wasn’t Samuel. Oh, God, his Samuel. The boy didn’t look like his precious Samuel. He was all beatnik artist now with a braid down his back and a half dozen silver bracelets on his wrist and some crazy tattoo that Noah had allowed on his forearm. He’d even lost his Texas accent unless he was agitated, and he called himself Sam or the ridiculous Sammy with Noah.

“Tell me you have a place to sleep,” Noah said in his patient voice which made him sound like he was trying for kindergarten teacher of the year. “Jonah, we’ll worry.”

“Don’t,” Jonah snapped. “I have a place in Old Town. I’ll be in touch.” Jonah grabbed his suitcase and headed for the door. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to run or to look back at the bright ceramic tile, the vivid colors of Samuel’s paintings, the man with his dress shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie askew, No, he couldn’t look back. It was time to leave. He wasn’t Noah’s boy. It had all been a sick farce. He wasn’t that sort of man.

Three months later:

He was here. He’d sworn three months ago never again, that he wasn’t a boy who wanted to crumble to his knees and press his head between hot thighs. He was a cocksucker. Worse, he wanted a man’s fingers in his hair, controlling him, forcing him against that warm flesh, making him swallow.

He should just go home. What if he met someone who knew Noah? Albuquerque wasn’t that far from Santa Fe. 

Jonah peered out the window into the darkness. This didn’t look like Noah. The parking lot was lit by only a single light. A beer bottle was pushed against the curb, and sage pressed through the cracks in the sidewalk. Trash spilled out of the dumpster. Several motorcycles were clumped together; Harleys probably, not that Jonah knew anything about motorcycles. The rest of the lot was pickups and four by fours which looked like they’d seen better days. 

No, this wasn’t Noah’s type of place. He liked soft light and quiet music and pretty views of the mountains and sunset. He liked to talk and analyze and think about feelings. Jonah wanted to feel. He didn’t want to think; thinking only made it hurt. 

Two men came out the back door. Their cigarettes glowed red in the dim light. One jerked the cigarette from his friend’s hand and crushed both under the heel of his boot. He leaned forward, fencing the other man in against the building and plundering his mouth. 

Jonah should look away. He wasn’t a voyeur; that was even more foul than all the other names he could call himself. His eyes refused to obey his brain. It had been so long, three months since he’d touched another man. He waited, invisible in the darkness. He wasn’t close enough to see all, but he could guess. The man against the building was withering, probably pleading. Hot hands must be tormenting abused skin.

A head poked from the door and the men broke apart. Now or never, Jonah thought. The night wasn’t hot. The coolness of the desert evening seeped into the car, but Jonah could feel the sweat on his palms as he gripped the steering wheel. He wiped his hands down his black jeans and jerked open the door. For one second, he stood on the pavement and debated himself with an endless litany of words that he’d heard a thousand times. He slammed the door and tried to stride confidently toward the club.

Ryan and Blade had dragged him once to that damn club in New York. This definitely wasn’t it—no discreet bouncers, no careful I.D. check. Here Jonah pulled open a heavy door and was immediately blasted by loud, thumping music and a flurry of strobe lighting. He almost left, but his feet kept moving forward. Inside men ground against each other in motions that they must have called dancing. Others clustered around the bar. Some wore leather and a few skinny twinks sported collars that would look better on the family labrador.

“Sir, you’re new here,” one of the collar sporting guys in obscenely tight jeans and a pink tank top said, slithering close and offering up his ass for an easy grab.

Jonah grunted and pushed past pink boy toward the bar. “Beer please,” Jonah demanded, leaning over the shiny counter. He wanted something stronger than beer. Whiskey neat, several of them would fit his mood, but he was being practical. Beer was camouflage, and if Jonah had learned one fucking thing in his life, it was how to blend in.

“Tap or bottle?” the bartender asked, not hiding that he was admiring Jonah’s body.

“Whatever you have on tap is fine.” Jonah half turned to look at the dance floor.

Another pretty boy approached, sashaying his hips and smiling at Jonah. He wet his lush lips with a quick dart of of his pink tongue. “A boy can get thirsty out there.”

Jonah ignored him and took a pull on his own beer. That wasn’t what he was looking for. He should have known with his size and closely cropped hair. Of course, they thought he was a dom. He’d been an idiot; this was never going to work. He tossed money on the bar and stood up. 

“You running away already?” the bartender asked in a way too cheerful voice behind him.

“Not my style.”

“Our subby boys too aggressive for you?”

Jonah shook his head and felt for his keys. He didn’t need to engage in a conversation with a complete stranger. Walk away. Just walk away and forget the entire thing.

“Man, you’re touchy. Can’t even get a friendly word. Beer that bad?”

“No, not thirsty.”

“Ah, sir, do you want to dance?” a thin wisp of a man asked as he fluttered by. He waved his arm at Jonah, a flock of bracelets shimmering in the lights.

“No,” Jonah snarled. “I don’t dance.”

“Jesus, man, chill. Just asking.”

“Greg, find someone more your style,” the bartender said, leaning over the bar and flicking some water from a glass at bangle boy. “And you sit your ass down and finish your beer, boy, before you give us a bad name.”

It must have been the few swallows of beer or the smell of sweat and sex, but Jonah’s knees buckled without input from his brain, and he found his ass on the hard bar stool.

“Thank you, boy,” the bartender said in a soft voice and gave Jonah a sweet half smile. “I’m on your team also, but I think I know just what you need.” He nodded at bangle boy who slithered through the crowd, heading somewhere that Jonah couldn’t see. “You’re not going to complain about me calling you boy?” the bartender continued, swiping his towel over the already polished counter.

Jonah stared into his beer as if it were a great oracle that would provide him with all the answers. How could he complain? It was what he was looking for. 

“It’s tough for us subs who aren’t pretty boys who the big, bad dom can fling over his shoulder in some cave man impression. They don’t like collapsing on the floor with a slipped disc.” The bartender nodded at the man being prodded nearer by bangle boy. “Meet Red.” The bartender grabbed a man in black jeans and a complicated amount of leather who was watching the bartender with an amused look on his face. “You two will be perfect together.”

“Danny boy, you’re getting senile in your old age.”

“I’m not the one one with gray at the temples, and I’m not senile. You’re sitting with the new boy. Last night you moaned at me for three hours that all you could find was pretty twinks who would break in a strong breeze and cried like little girls.” The bartender looked Jonah up and down. “He doesn’t look breakable to me.”

“And I don’t do vanilla or switch,” Red said, stretching his long legs in front of him and reaching for Jonah’s beer. He took a long swallow and wiped his hand over his mouth.

“Hey,” Jonah muttered.

“Not going to object,” Red leered.

“Uh—“ Jonah looked away. He wanted to be mad; he also wanted to ask this Red to buy him another drink. He swallowed and crumpled the napkin in his hand. Maybe he should deck the guy. And he’d get hit back. The guy was older than him, but he’d kept himself in good shape, and he was no small, skinny thing. He looked like a real man, a man who could do a day’s work outside and still bed his wife at night.

“Told you. He’s a sub all the way,” the bartender said with a grin. “You should have seen him send all the pretty boys away.”

“He telling the truth?” Red jerked his head toward the bartender while his pale blue eyes never left Jonah.

Jonah managed a nod. He wanted alcohol, but he wasn’t going to take another drink of his beer after this stranger had so casually helped himself.

“You looking for some action?”

Jonah nodded again. God, he must be looking like a bobble head doll. He had no experience with any of this. All he could do is sit here and look stupid.

“Done this before?”

“Yes,” Jonah forced from his throat.

“Ah, he speaks,” Red said with a grin.

“Anything you don’t like?”

“No piss and shit.” 

“I can do that. Safewords?”

“Amarillo and Austin.”

“Texas boy,” Red said with a crooked grin that showed a chipped front tooth. “We on?” Red stood up and held out his hand.

Jonah’s hand slid toward Red’s. What was he doing? Noah had always been so careful. They’d negotiated everything endlessly. It been worse than getting a home mortgage, and now he was going with someone he only knew as Red. He should have his head examined, yet his stomach fluttered with reckless excitement. He wasn’t a fragile, broken submissive. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

“Strip boy.”

Red had led Jonah to a back room. A spanking bench was against one wall and a broken down sofa against the other. 

“We doing this? I want to see my prize.”

“Sorry.”

“Sir,” Red prodded.

“Sorry, sir.”

That’s better. Red stroked down Jonah’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m still not seeing your skin.”

Clothes. Take his clothes off. Jonah bent and fumbled with the laces on his hiking boots. His t-shirt was next.

“Nice.” Red patted Jonah’s abdominals, his thumb tracing the layer of muscle. “You’re a gym rat.”

Jonah shrugged. He liked looking good.

“Let me see that ass.”

Jonah pulled down his pants. This had been a bad idea. He was an idiot.

“Present, boy.”

Present. Hands behind his head, feet spread, shoulders back.

“Good boy,” Red said softly and planted a kiss on Jonah’s bare shoulder. “I see what you need, boy.” He traced his thumb down Jonah’s back. “Shiver for me. That’s right.”

“Sir,” Jonah choked. He should tell this man he’d changed his mind. This was obscene, naked in front of a total stranger. Shit! His cock was hardening. He was panting. 

“I’ll hurt you so good, boy,” Red purred. “Over the bench.”

Hurting so good. Jonah wanted that. He wanted the sting of the lash and the amnesia that followed the whip. He welcomed the pain. He needed punished. Noah had never punished. He’d been too soft. Jonah had always been the fragile boy who needed babied like some virgin girl.

The smell of the bench’s leather wafted through his nose. His skin slid against the slippery surface. A big hand with calloused fingers caught his wrist and pulled it forward. Padded leather. His hand froze in place. Red trapped and restrained Jonah’s other hand, his grip sinking through the bones as he buckled the cuffs.

“Beautiful and all ready for me.”

The first lash. Too soft. Almost a caress. The second. Not a flogger with its many tails. Thin. A crop. Not as good as the belt. Jonah wanted the belt. Three more hits. Five more hits. Harder. He needed harder. Faster now. His skin burned. Maybe he’d get welts. A hand squeezed his ass. A moan escaped the prison of his teeth.

“You like this, tough guy. Harder? More?”

“Yes, sir. Please.” He was begging. His ass searched the air for another strike. He was shameful, hopeless.

Pain. Thank the Lord, pain. It was his only anchor, his only reality. Those noises—they were from him. Moaning. Begging. Pleading.

Fingers. Please inside. He needed fucked. 

“Fuck me.”

“Not here.” Fingers caressed Jonah’s shoulders; lips touched his ear. “My place. There’s a bed.”

A nod. Jonah was too desperate to speak. He nodded again, a broken marionette, head moving wildly.

****

Shit! Whose sheets? Whose room? His ass hurt. This couldn’t be. They’d rutted like rabid rabbits last night. How many times? They hadn’t made it to the bed the first time.

Jonah listened to the shower, reality brutally returning. He was a faggot whore. He’d gone home with a stranger, a man who he only knew as Red. Next time was he going to pick up Shorty or Slim?

He struggled out of bed, almost bumping the wall that was way too close. His clothes were on the chair. Pants and shirt. No underwear. He’d been commando last night; he’d planned to be filthy. 

“Your car is ten kilometers away. It’s a long walk without breakfast with a sore ass.”

Red was in the bathroom doorway. His body covered by a meager scrap of a towel that did nothing to hide his broad chest sprinkled with graying hair. He smiled, sad and wistful and ran his hand through his dripping hair.

“It was that bad?”

“No,” Jonah said with a swift shake of his head. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Your welcome includes a shower, my world famous huevos rancheros, and a ride back to your car. Deal?”

Jonah didn’t answer. He looked at the floor. His ass ached, walking would be torture.”

“I hear your accent. You’re safe here,” Red said softly and way too kindly.

“No,” Jonah shouted. “It’s not that.” Rage filled his mind and his heart, rage without meaning or reason. He grabbed his boots, trying to shove his feet in without socks. They wouldn’t go. He hurled a boot at the wall.

“Try socks first,” Red said with a hint of humor in his voice. “Usually it takes at least two dates before my life is threatened by flying objects.”

“Fuck you!” Jonah charged toward the door.

“Stop, boy. Sit now.”

A command, it was unmistakable. Jonah collapsed onto the floor. Cuffs. Some sort of plastic. He was being hoisted to his feet.

“I don’t play this way.” Red’s voice was full of exasperation. “Why me?”

 “Sorry, sir. I’ll be a good boy, sir,” Jonah babbled.

“Shh. You’re going to take a shower and get dressed with socks and shoes, and we’re going to start the day again. Do you understand me, boy?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Red released the cuffs and slapped Jonah on the ass. “Go.”

Hot water. Tile against his shoulders and welts. Oh, God. He jerked the towel from the rack. Those were his eyes in the mirror. He was an adult, a math teacher. He wasn’t a raving maniac. He had to go out there. He couldn’t stay hidden in the bathroom. He just wanted to go home, lock the door, and never come out.There was no way to escape the house without going through the kitchen and by Red. He was stirring something in the skillet.

“I…”

“Ah, you look much more human. Sit down and have some breakfast.

It was fucking domestic. Put the napkin on his lap, drink the juice, Jonah coached himself.

“Hey, my fault this morning. You were having sub drop and I disappeared into the shower. No harm done. We’ll just start again.”

That man lied. He lied worse than a used car salesman and a preacher wrapped together. Jonah had flipped this morning. He should be committed and the key thrown away. His father had been right as always. Jonah was broken. No wonder Noah had held his breath around him and treated him like a wounded puppy.

“Eat your breakfast.” Red flopped into the opposite chair. “Cold eggs are gross.”

“I don’t need your sympathy. You can stop pretending,” Jonah said in the coldest voice he possessed. 

“Civilized isn’t sympathy. I beat you black and blue and fucked you into the mattress last night for my pleasure. The least I can do is feed you and take you to your car. It’s not like I’m handing you a ring and proposing.”

Jonah felt the flush rise up his face. He couldn’t meet the man’s eye.

“I’m a fucking disaster at commitment,” Red said. “Join the club. Now eat up.”

“You?”

“Oh, I can play. Just don’t expect anything more.”

“You—“

“I just try not to be a complete animal which means fed and washed before you leave. Then I disappear. I don’t ask questions. Boy, I don’t know your name, and you don’t know mine. I’m fine with that, more than fine with that. The pleasure of the flesh without all the complications.”

“Jonah.” It was a whisper that fluttered in the air and disappeared.

“I wasn’t asking for that. Finish up and we’ll hit the road.” Red hesitated a minute, swiping his tortilla across his plate. “Hugh, but everybody knows me as Red. Eat.” He shoved the last of the food in his mouth. 

Conversation was over. This was safest. This was what he wanted. Why did he wish Red would say more? Why did Jonah want those blue eyes on him and not the chipped coffee mug?

Eat. Get out of here. He’d gotten what he wanted. His ass was well used. Nothing more—an exchange of animalistic passions. All he needed. All he wanted.