Okay fine, skip all this if you must and scroll down to the naughty bits! I had some good financial news this a.m., enough at least to pull my chestnuts from the fire (see below as to why I must have chestnuts on the brain). And now I can R E L A X and get this book going! TBH I was not at all in the mood to write hot sexin’ as long as I had this nagging anxiety, blocking my energy and therefore my libido. That’s cleared up temporarily, and shit, temporarily is all we ever get with financial anxiety, right?
I watched a really good documentary last night called Showrunners on Netflix, about the people who design, build and maintain TV series. And one guy (I think it might have been Shawn Ryan of The Shield but I didn’t take notes :0) who said basically, there are people who’ll come in to a network with an idea for a show and say, “We have five seasons all plotted out.” And his reaction was, well, they must not be very good ideas if you have that many already.
And I remembered that Vince Gilligan was always revising his ideas around Breaking Bad. Jesse was supposed to get killed in the first season, but Gilligan realized that the part and the actor were too good to let go.
The point being, I’m okay with not having my ending yet. WHY does Satoshi’s Hoard suddenly come into play in the world? I DON’T KNOW. And I don’t have to, yet. Let me see how the story plays out, let me let my subconscious do its job. My plots almost always change as I write them, sometimes because of ongoing research (Given the Circumstances changed a lot as I found out about byzantine NCAA regulations), sometimes because characters who were supposed to be tertiary (like Ryan in Would I Lie to You?) suddenly acquire personality and depth. So yeah, it’s okay. I’ll think of it, I always do.
So…without further ado…what you’ve all been waiting for while I dallied with werewolves and space opera and princes…raw first draft as always…
There was something inherently nerve-wracking for Jesse Winchester about laying face down on a table in an empty room. Sometimes he thought of it as PPSD, or “post-prison stress disorder.” He wasn’t necessarily powerless, but he was certainly vulnerable. It was the same reason that a man instinctively covers his privates when the barber washes his hair – the instinct that kicks in when he’s got his head back, his neck exposed to the predator’s bite. It doesn’t make sense, but, that’s Nature for you.
Jesse wasn’t in a cell. Far from it. Yeah – a massage table, in a private room, in the spa of the Sport Hotel Hermitage, in the town of Soldeu, in the European principality of Andorra…that was about as far from prison as it got.
All the same. He was unarmed, naked, with only a towel across his backside. Although, if he could find enough water to soak it in, he could beat a man pretty badly with a towel if he had to. There was a slate fountain in the corner, its steady splash creating ambience and discharging negative ions.
Jesse mentally calculated the volume of water in the little pool, reaching back to finger the fabric of the towel – way too thick and plush, alas, to get fully soaked from what was in the fountain.
He wasn’t really scared, but he was certainly bored, and the calculations helped pass the time. “Relaxing” wasn’t in his repertoire. He never would have chosen to spend a week at a luxury resort, getting pampered. But circumstances had chosen Andorra for him, and well, if you had the money, you might as well enjoy it.
Okay, fine, he admitted. I’m a bit nervous. He’d had a day to wonder about the mysterious message that had been delivered from Leonid, the gangster who’d helped him while he was in prison…and who’d helped him get out of prison, in a legal if not quite procedurally normal way.
“Dear Jesse. As I once told you, some day I would call on you for a favor. That day is here. I’ve waited until your plate was empty, so to speak, but now it’s time. A man will contact you soon, at your hotel. Take a spa treatment on Sunday, and ask for a private massage session with Erik. He will give you the details (and, yes, a professional massage too).”
And there had been another message, too, one of interest to both Jesse and Marc. Both their nemeses, Chip and Walt, had surfaced at last. What would come of that, was yet to be seen.
Jesse smiled, remembering how he’d left Marc in the hotel room upstairs.
“Maybe I should come along,” Marc had said with a raised eyebrow. “And chaperone you and ‘Erik,’ your masseur.”
Jesse pondered this, his face serious. “I tell you what. If it comes to making sexy time, I’ll be sure to call you to come join us.”
Jesse sighed, impatient and ready to get this over with. He’d never doubted that Leonid would call in the favor one day. It was just…now he was with Marc, and they had resolved to have no more secrets, and that had meant telling Marc what was in the note.
And now Marc was involved in what was no doubt going to be some criminal enterprise. And Jesse wasn’t really all good with that. So the faster he could find out what Leonid wanted, and give it to him without involving Marc, the better.
There was a discreet knock on the door before it opened, and a man in white scrubs entered.
His monogamous relationship with Marc was in no danger, Jesse realized. This was not a ‘sexy time masseur’ by any stretch. The man was thick, slabby with muscle, and his face was about as attractive as that of “Battling Bob,” the punching dummy with a face, and Erik’s had probably taken more hits.
Jesse started to sit up, but Erik pushed him flat with one huge hand. “You lie down,” he grunted. Erik turned on a sound system, adding New Age music to the ambient noise from the fountain.
To Jesse’s enormous surprise, Erik really was a masseur, and a damn good one, if you like the kind of massage that involves inserting fingertips inside muscle groups and kneading them like pastry. Which Jesse most definitely did. Marc would not be happy to hear his grunts and groans, he thought – Erik was definitely pleasuring him.
Jesse had learned in prison to be awake to every sensation, to grasp each like a gift, to find pleasure even in the sight of a green weed breaking through a concrete yard. Erik applied some floral essence oils to Jesse’s skin, and he let his mind wander through the field of herbs and flowers, identifying each, inhaling through his nose like a parfumier.
The only thing that seemed off was that the binkle-dinkle New Age music was rather louder than ambience required. But maybe Erik was deaf, Jesse thought for a moment.
Then he discovered otherwise. Erik started kneading Jesse’s trapezius muscles with his knuckles, digging in hard. And as he did, he bent down and whispered in Jesse’s ear.
“WallStreetWolf3774@zmail.com, and password 6, 4, 4, 5, Capital A, x, pound, star. Yes?”
Jesse nodded, the information instantly cut into his memory as if chiseled on the inside of his forehead. He knew the context perfectly well, from a conversation with Leonid long ago.
There was a pause, and a draft from the open door, and Jesse realized Erik had left. But once again, as he went to get up, a hand pushed him down.
A different hand. Two hands, softer, less meaty, but surprisingly strong, kneading his muscles just as deeply as Erik’s had. They were working down Jesse’s back, these hands, digging, then sprawling across his lats, moving down, deliberately, slowly.
Jesse drew a sharp breath as the fingertips drew over his tailbone, just above his ass crack, as if redirecting all his body’s electrochemical traffic into the southbound lanes.
Each hand now moved in opposite directions, drawing a straight line across the edge of the towel, over the arc of his glutes, around to his hips, where they trailed away off his body. The loss of contact was excruciating, as if some part of himself had been removed.
“You vant happy endink?” Marc whispered, in imitation of Erik’s tone.
“Who doesn’t?” Jesse murmured into his forearm, where he’d buried his face about the time Marc had reached the base of his spine.
Jesse felt the thick towel slide off his ass, its deep fluffy fabric tickling as it traveled. Then he felt a hand, gently, reaching between his legs. He spread them willingly, his cock throbbing and swollen.
Marc’s hand was well lubricated with the infused oils. He made Jesse jump a little when he touched Jesse’s taint, just below his asshole…so very close to it, but not quite. Marc painted the root of Jesse’s hardon with lazy watercolor strokes, and Jesse groaned.
Jesse arched his hips, trying to give Marc room to reach his cock, but Marc’s other hand pushed Jesse’s ass back down. “You let masseur do job,” Marc rumbled in the phony accent.
Jesse shut his eyes tight. Marc had extended his strokes to Jesse’s balls, freshly shaved that morning in anticipation of Marc’s arrival. They contracted, almost ticklish, as Marc pulled on Jesse’s sack, manipulating his balls with all the agility of a poker player flipping the chips in his hand.
At long last, Marc put his other hand below Jesse, along the V where his abs met his hips, and lifted him up, just an inch…just enough for Marc’s cupped hand to slide up Jesse’s shaft, cradling Jesse’s balls in his palm.
Four fingertips slowed their course, as if landing a plane. They reached Jesse’s head, the oils mixing with the juices already leaking out of him.
And then Marc began to work Jesse’s substantial cock, letting Jesse lift his ass up higher so Marc could slide his cupped hand along the underside. Jesse was dying to have Marc grab it, enfold it and beat the cum out of it, but no…
“Vat vas ze secret, tell me and I let you cum.”
“No, I’ll never talk,” Jesse said through gritted teeth.
Marc’s hand retracted and Jesse threw his arm out, grabbing Marc’s wrist just before his hand could depart Jesse’s neither regions.
“Wait. I’ll confess. I’ll tell you everything. After.”
“Excellent,” Marc said, and now Jesse got what he wanted, that strong hand like a vise around him, pulling, pushing, stroking…
“O fuck…” Jesse groaned, his sphincter tightening, his prostate cramping until…
Pow. He blew his load into the 1,000 thread count sheet, far too thin to absorb the spreading puddle Marc had extorted from him.
He rolled over to see Marc, grinning, dressed in the same white scrubs as Erik. “Come here,” Jesse demanded.
Marc yelped as Jesse pulled him down onto him. “There’s gonna be a giant wet spot on my white scrubs,” he protested. “How will I walk out of here like tha…”
Jesse’s eyes went dark, and with a wrestler’s agility, he flipped them both over. Hovering above Marc, pinning him down, Jesse grinned.
“Then we’ll just have to strip ‘em off.”