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© 2002 by Nikki Isaak

He wasn't muscular like Michael normally liked his men, but he was lithe and blonde, something Lewis, Michael's heavy-set ex, detested.

In other words, the man-boy—who'd wasted his breath by offering a name, instantly forgotten by Michael ­ was perfect for Michael's retaliation against Lewis.

"Shut up and strip. If I have to waste my voice on you again, it'll be more than my cock battering you."

The man-boy scanned the dimly-lit, black-partitioned maze. All around them, men in various states of undress were groaning, clutching and pistoning like the sex machines they were.

"What? Looking for love, boy? It doesn't fucking exist—especially not here at Vent."

At the mention of the club's name, the man-boy seemed to reach a decision. Michael's gaze eviscerated the man-boy as he stripped off his orange Dismembered By Cheetahs tee and dropped his jeans.

The man-boy offered Michael a knowing smile, as if to say: I know what your game is. Go ahead, play the big man, you middle-aged has-been.

Michael responded to this by taking a deep breath and unclenching his fists. He reminded himself that it was Lewis, not the man-boy, who deserved that punishment, which Michael, no matter how furious, would never deliver to anybody. It was simply an immediate reaction to Lewis's fucking around with the laundryman.

Not that this little git needed to know that.

Michael wiped that smile off the man-boy's face with "Bend over." Seconds later, Michael's cock, which had been straining at the fabric of his slacks, was freed and gloved, slipping and sliding out the man-boy's surprisingly tight, KY'd ass.

As Michael gripped the man-boy's hips, the man-boy supported himself by placing one hand on the wall while stroking himself with the other. Michael rode the man-boy's crack, bringing the full weight of his ugly emotions down on it. The pressure building in Michael's bruising cock was reflected in his face, even as tears of rage, loneliness and sorrow leaked out of his closed eyes.

A minute later, he came, spurting and shuddering. The latex-covered maze, reeking of semen, lube and sweat, tickled his nose again. He remembered where he was, his mind emptying its images of a pummeled and bloody Lewis, as well as their domestic past ­ sweet a.m. love, hard flesh bathed in 18th Street gloom; Lewis, dark and dashing in his lawyerly suit, the one he'd been wearing when they first met; Lewis's crumpled expression when he'd told Michael about his affair—

Michael quickly shed the condom and tossed it in a nearby bucket, one of many lining the maze. Pulling up his pants, he zipped up and turned to leave. He didn't want the man-boy—or anybody else, for that matter—to see him exposed like this.

But the man-boy had seen it. That knowing smile returned, and this time Michael saw it for what it was: sympathy.

Stunned, he did the only thing he could do, given the circumstances.

He fled.

© 2002 Nikki Isaak. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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