Hot guy in your kitchen; second installment of “Closet Case” …

Hi, friends and readers:

Okay, all of you know I like my young men . . . willowy. But, come on: look at the guy in this morning’s photo post. How’d you like to find him in your kitchen this morning? Aye-yi-yi, what a handsome guy.

There’s another reason why I put this photo up this morning: the guy reminds me a bit of Ian, the narrator in my story, Closet Case, which I’m putting up for free on the blog this week. There’s nothing “willowy” about Ian at all. He’s a hunk, just like the guy at left.

I’ve already taken my morning walk and swim. I’ve showered and shaved and eaten breakfast. My went through my e-mails and took care of business. Now, it’s time to get busy on edits for my novel, Convict Ass. 

I know everyone’s eager to read the second installment of Closet Case, so I’ll put it up here. Remember, the story comes with the following caveat:

This story is not for the squeamish, nor for those under eighteen years of age. It contains graphic descriptions of a sexual encounter between two males. It also contains elements of BDSM. If this sort of material offends you, don’t read Closet Case. 

* * * *

I said, “Sure, why not?”

We don’t have basements in Florida—the water table’s too high—but one room in my house I’ve converted to sort of a sex chamber. It’s soundproofed and the windows are blacked out. There’s a bed, of course, and a padded bench. A metal frame, nine feet high with an adjustable crossbar, is anchored to the floor; it faces a mirrored wall. I have spotlights on the ceiling with dimmer switches, a lantern with a red lens and a black light as well. I can alter the atmosphere to suit any occasion. A footlocker holds toys: cuffs and dildos of varying sizes and shapes, instruments of discipline, cock rings and butt plugs and so forth.

Danny studied the trunk’s contents, arms crossed at his chest, weight resting upon one leg. The ceiling lights were on and they reflected in his hair and eyes. He licked one corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. He said, “I’m sure you’ll think I’m boring. I’ve never, you know…”


“Done more than get blown.”

“You’re kidding?”

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his front pockets and studying his shoes.

I came to him and crooked an arm around his neck, pulling his chest to mine. I kissed his neck, just beneath the jaw line, then I ground my stubble against his smooth cheek. His breathing accelerated and I felt his heart thump in his chest. I whispered, “You can do anything you like in this room. What happens here is our secret.”

He said, “Okay.”

When I moved my mouth to his, he turned his face.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“I don’t kiss—not guys anyway.”


He turned his face toward mine, and his eyes narrowed. “I told you, I’m not gay.”

I lowered my gaze, thinking, Sure, pal. Then I looked him in the eye. “When you jack off, do you sometimes think about men?”

His cheeks reddened and he glanced away. “Once in a while.”

“Describe your fantasies. What happens?”

He smirked. “Why? Are you a psychologist?”

“Just curious,” I said. “You’re uncomfortable right now, aren’t you?”

He dropped the smirk and nodded.


“I told you already, I don’t do this often. Guys suck me off in their car and that’s about it.”

“But you’ve thought about doing more?”

“Yeah, of course.”

The only sound in the room was cool air flowing from a ceiling register. My thermostat was set at seventy-four degrees, but Danny’s T-shirt was dark in the armpits and I seized it by the hem. “Let me take this off you.”

Our eyes met and he blinked two or three times. “All right,” he said.

He raised his hands and I lifted the shirt from his torso, yanking it over his head. His chest was smooth and defined, with quarter-sized areolas and nipples like match heads. His shoulders and biceps were underdeveloped, but his belly was flat and his abdominal muscles rippled under the skin.

He said, “Take your shirt off, too.”

And I said, “Why don’t you do it for me?”

His hands shook when he did so. Once I was bare chested I pulled him to me so our hipbones met. I nuzzled his ear with the tip of my nose. His chin rested upon my shoulder and I smelled his hair and it reminded me of fresh straw. His erection nudged my groin.

“Tell me,” I said, “what you’d like to do.”

He swallowed and didn’t answer.

I reached for his butt cheek and squeezed. “Come on, say.”

He exhaled, shifting his weight. “Sometimes my wife…ties me up.”

I thought, Hmmm. That’s better. Then I said, “You’re naked when she does this?”


“What else does she do? After you’re restrained?”

“Different stuff.”


He giggled nervously, shaking his head. “This is embarrassing.”

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2010

* * * *

Okay, friends and readers, that’s the second installment of Closet Case. I hope you’re enjoying it so far. I’ll post a third segment tomorrow morning. Right now, I have much work to do, so I’ll be on my way. Enjoy your Tuesday, wherever you might be.

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