Date: Thu, 26 Apr 2007 20:06:01 +0800
From: J.D. Carson <dear.carson@gmail.com>
Subject: The One With Submission and Need - Chapter 1

The One With Submission and Need

Disclaimer: This chapter is part of an ongoing story that I will continue
to add to. It depicts a number of celebrities, though I rarely mention them
with specificity unless they are not very `mainstream' and well-known
(can't have a reader too confused, right?). Of course everything written
here is purely fictional, and no assumptions or assertions regarding the
true sexualities and/or their sexual/private lives of any depicted
celebrity are intended. This is just a fantasy. That I hope is enjoyed.

Comments are welcome and flattery is quite appreciated. =) Please email me
at: dear.carson@gmail.com

- J.D.Carson


Chapter One


	His clothes were off while I was still hesitating. Going to a
cruisy gay bar with some gay friends can be excused, especially in these
times when an open-mind is heralded with far more enthusiasm than an open
mouth hungry for dick. Going to a gay bar when you're `straight' is
perfectly acceptable—doesn't Tom Cruise do it too?—and the way I figure
things is that maybe following a man home can be weaseled out of too. I
mean, if the press somehow get hold of the information... though this
perfect slice of hunk heaven assures me that he understands my situation
and isn't the least bit interested in making the gossip columns. (But what
does that mean, anyway? Is my situation that common? Are there more
ex-heartthrob young actors, finished with a hit sitcom that put millions
into his bank account and made him friends with the world? More actors like
me, now almost 40 and quite tired of playing the straight guy who acts gay
so naturally? `Cuz if there are, I'd like to get acquainted. Please.)

	This man with his clothes off in the middle of his dark living room
is devastating. When was the last time I allowed myself this pleasure? All
the money one can need in the world and I'm too paranoid to even use my
card for gay porn on the internet, let alone buy another man drinks while
some vulture stalks from behind a camera. This man tonight, in particular,
bought the drinks. He brought one over with the cutest little kink to his
perfect lips, then never left my side at the bar while I laughed my
straight laugh and jammed my hands down to the bottom of my pants
pockets—so that my hands wouldn't find their way slipped down his pants
after just that first drink. He was the kind of man that turned my insides
out... made me more afraid of relaxing... But he switched my beers into
cocktails before the initial semi-introductory courtesies were
complete. And from the way my bottom lip hurts I do believe I had been
biting down too hard—which he probably noticed before I did. This man has
the kind of eyes that know everything—deep hazel green, like an autumn
evening filled with flaring flecks of gold. You can play it perfectly
straight all evening but he knows exactly the kind of bottom you are, the
kind of pussyboy starved for hot meaty cock, too afraid to ask but not
above begging for it when you're on your knees in front of him and your
face is at crotch level. This man knew it from across the room, before he
even recognized me from TV.

	He is almost fully erect now and even in the dim light, coming from
somewhere out on his patio and through the glass sliding doors, I can see
his gracious proportions. In my mind I am begging him to take me by
force. Maybe I could claim date rape if I find my pants down on the cover
of tomorrow morning's daily dish. Maybe it was a non-consensual encounter
in which I unwittingly followed this man to his house.. after having been
dared to by my buddies... and then being drugged and anally ravished by a
perverse stranger... who had the most beautiful cock and body I had been in
close proximity with since... Well, I lose track of the time in between my
moments of weakness and passion...

	So I am standing there with a lump the size of my painful hard-on
in my throat, unable to move. He seems to read my mind and moves over to
stand right before me, so close that the tip of my nose just barely grazes
his chin. My eyes are closed and I tilt my face down and forwards, finding
my nose trailing the smoothness of his neck, his beating pulse, and the
thin sheen of sweat that was developing over his olive skin. I finally
breathe and the warm musky male scent of his neck greets me. I open my
mouth and find his collar bone between my kisses. I move between his collar
bone, to his shoulder, then to his neck again.. not daring to take it any
further. His fingers curl into my hair at the back of my head, and with a
firm grip he tugs my head back. My eyes dart open in a brief panic. For a
flash I don't see his sharp, handsome features—his angled jaw, dusted over
with a light stubble, and almost brutish cheekbones that fit his entire
look into what I like to call the `Clive Owen category', though he looked
more like Josh Wald. For that split second I see a god luring me into a
loss of self control... who will turn out to be straight and ready to
blackmail my ass... or kick the shit out of it the next time I need more of
him. I always get this same vision, this same panic that I'm caught out in
the open with my knees trembling from wanting a cock so bad... God, I
needed this man's cock so bad. It was the sinking feeling deep in my
gut... sinking and sinking and never finding a resting place. I close my
eyes again to chase the thought away, to try and compose myself, to try and
stop my parted lips from quivering so bad. What must he think of me? Is he
laughing to himself, about how little slutboys get when they haven't been
given a proper dicking in a while? Poor little Chandler... never gets his
Joey....

	I feel his breath on my face before I breathed it in and craved
more in my flared nostrils. He put a bullet there and I breathed in
again. I sniffled. And it wasn't the coke. The sinking feeling was
spiraling and twisting my stomach into a knot that tugged at my lungs. The
angle my neck was pulled back at made it even harder to breathe. I was
panicking again and tears were forming in my eyes, but then the sharp sting
at the roots of my hair threw me back to earth just as this man had thrown
me onto the carpet. Momentarily shocked and breathing heavily, my face to
his carpet, I feel his hands on my waist and shoulder as he turns the rest
of my body over. He is rough with me, in a gentle sort of way... his
movements—the way he turned me over with a single tough nudge, the way he
was stroking my neck with the back of his hand—were insistent and almost
demanding, but caring at the same time. He was having his way with me
tonight, but he knew—with those eyes and what lay behind it—that it was
what I wanted, what I needed.

	"Do you want me to fuck you?"
	His voice was at my ear, throaty and smelling lightly of menthol
cigarettes, more strongly of whisky. He was straddled on my back. My cheek
was on the carpet, my arms lightly pinned down above me by his position on
my back, and I could feel his cock and balls resting just above my belt,
where my shirt was pushed up just enough for his skin to be on mine. I
twitched and felt the slight coarseness, the slip of precum and sweat.

	"Do you want me to fuck you?"

	I nodded.

	The hand he had on my neck suddenly gripped my hair and jerked my
face off the carpet. I yelped in a mixture of pain and excitement.

	"Do you want me to fuck you, Mr. Perry?"

	"Yes..."
	Yes. My first words since the complimentary comment I had made
about his house as we had rolled up his driveway.
	"Please."

	He relaxed his grip on my hair and let my face fall back to the
carpet. My heart was racing. Would he fuck my mouth first? Or would he let
me rim his asshole for an hour before he fucked my face? Will he fuck me
slowly?

	"Relax."

	I nodded, breathing hard.

	"I said, relax."

	I nodded again, taking long deep breaths.

	The man got off me and I heard him walk away. I look over my
shoulder and see him putting on his clothes. Unsure of what was going on,
my vision of being found out racing through my head, I get up in a bit of a
daze. My own clothes are hardly ruffled, just the untucked shirt tail and
the huge wet spot on the front of my pants. Absentmindedly, my hand moves
to cover the wet blotch and the bulge.

	"Is something wrong?" I ask.

	"No."

	I don't know what to say back to him. I want to ask him why he's
stopped. I want to crawl up to him, remove his pants again and suck his
cock into my mouth. And I want to cry. But I just look away from him in
silence.

	"I'll drive you home."

	I snap back into `straight mode'. I close my still-watering mouth,
imagine roadkill, and move towards the door.

	"It's fine... I'll call a cab."