Middle Men

For two guys in their early forties, this was an invitation from the gods, especially as the guy issuing the invitation was a twink with the sex appeal of the hottest Hollywood hunk, only ten times more available, and all because of the occult.

There’s a lot of bullshit talked about the occult. How do I know? Simple, really. Whenever the coffers run a little low for utility bills or there’s some little luxury the long-term bf covets, I stick out the shingle that reads, Tarot Readings to the Gay Gentry and wait for the loot to roll in. Not that I’m not legit. Over the years, I discovered a certain affinity for reading the cards and most of my clients go away happy or, in a few cases, relieved.

The first time I advertised in the gay press I was inundated with requests—for readings. The questions most men wanted answered concerned sex or the variations thereof, such as relationships, wealth or the body beautiful. No one ever, not once, asked about world peace or the cure for cancer.

Whether it was about the boyfriend, one-night stands or the likelihood of bedding that hunky barman, it all boiled down to that little piece of flesh dangling between their legs or that little puckered hole just to the south of their balls. And in a small percentage of the cases, that little piece of flesh got hard, or that little puckered hole got the itch, and I found myself servicing the bits in question.

Not long ago the spiritual urge took over once again, the DVD player went on the fritz, so out came the Aleister Crowley tarot cards, and out went the flyers and advertisements. Unbeknown to me, the occult was about to put a little spice back into my fifteen-year relationship with Warwick, my significant other. Don’t be a smart-ass; of course I couldn’t see it coming. I can read people, I can’t read the future.

Let’s face it, if you have to consult me about a relationship or your chances with a certain gym dandy, you have a snowball’s chance in hell because what you should be doing is getting out there and doing it, not sitting back passively consulting bits of colored cardboard. Can anyone say the word loser?

Steven sounded like all the other typical clients when he rang for an appointment, although he seemed far too young to be suffering the relationship battle fatigue of middle-aged gay men. Most asked simple questions such as “How much?” “How long?” or “Can I tape it?” Steven asked more penetrating questions such as “How old are you? Do you have a partner? Do you live with him? How long have you been together?”

I was about to fob him off with the “none of your business” response I use when people get too personal, but he sounded so sexy I curbed my tongue and answered him truthfully, thinking the worst he could do was waste my time. To my surprise, he made a booking even when I told him the truth—that we were probably the same age as his parents. I was even more surprised when he turned up, somewhat early, for his appointment.

“Himbo,” Warwick whispered as he brought him into the makeshift tarot room, our living room but with the lights dimmed and the curtains pulled, the jasmine and patchouli incense lending a slightly decadent air to the proceedings. Rather than a psychiatrist’s lounge, which would have been the most appropriate piece of furniture for most of my visitors, or a conventional table and chairs, I lay the cards on a multicolored silk cloth spread over the coffee table while seated on the floor. My customer would perch on a comfortable cushion opposite me to shuffle and cut the cards. Warwick ushered them in then disappeared to watch TV in the bedroom upstairs.

Steven was tall, blond, skinny, and had a terrible, terrible problem. Or so he said. He was young and had an older lover—by older he meant midthirties. The lover was cute, filthy rich... and possessive. But that information came out only much later.

I usually chatted to my clients, especially on their initial visit, to calm their nerves and see if I could ascertain what they wished to consult me about. Tarot readers are the opposite of bar staff, priests and sex workers who listen to people’s woes and life stories, nodding sagely, offering relief with alcohol, forgiveness or sex. We card readers listen to problems, nod our heads and usually tell them what they want to hear so they go away elated, although sometimes we have to be cruel to be kind. It’s no use inflating the impossible dream when you sense there is no happy ending. We’re not like clairvoyants who offer hope of a hereafter to bereaved relatives or lovers.

Watching Steven cross his legs under the coffee table opposite me, I thought he looked eager as a puppy, far from distressed. In fact, I’d never seen a more confident and endearing young man. I wondered if it were a trap of some sort, a newspaper expose of aging gay tarot readers preying on young and impressionable young men or perhaps a joke by one of my erstwhile friends, or an enemy, to make me look foolish.

He handed the cards back and as I laid them out, he watched with interest but none of the chatter that normally accompanied the process, particularly with people who shuddered at the more grisly cards without understanding their significance. He’d chosen the Knight of Cups as the card that most represented himself: romantic, confident, artistic and welcoming of new experiences. It seemed to fit him perfectly. If he had a dilemma, it had nothing to do with romance. I had never seen so many propitious cards for such a young man. “You don’t have romantic problems. You’re already in a relationship that pleases you. Money is not a problem. You’re young and healthy. You have a rosy future ahead of you. So we must look elsewhere for the reason you wish to consult the cards.”

I’d had a few men turn up for a reading whose sole purpose had been for sex, seeing my fee as a payment for the same. They were invariably disappointed and their fee was promptly refunded, although if sex grew out of mutual attraction during a reading, I was more than happy to oblige, although I usually scheduled it for a future date. That way, neither of us felt exploited.

He nodded imperceptibly. He wasn’t one of those people who sat, arms crossed over their chest, smugly refusing to engage in any way, goading me to tell them their problem from the cards alone. It was usually easy but wasted a great deal of time and they felt cheated when their session wound up with little headway made on a solution.

Steven was not like that; he’d volunteered a certain amount of information and now, remembering what he’d asked during his phone booking, I made one of those fortuitous stabs in the dark.

“I see a minor problem with your love life,” I said warily but knowing I was on the right trail when he sat up straighter, paying rapt attention to every word. “Your lover is somewhat staid in his ways; I suspect he’s a top.” Again, the automatic head bob that I was sure even Steven didn’t know he was making in agreement.

“You find playing the same role repeatedly somewhat... unfulfilling. Sometimes you’d like to bust loose and change the ritual. The main source of your frustration is”—I took a deep breath before continuing, hoping that I was correct—“a lack of multiple orgasms.” He looked deflated by my euphemism. Perhaps he didn’t understand, as I’d skirted the issue.

“Your boyfriend is too possessive for you to suggest it. He is too insecure as yet to trust your affection for him. Given time, he will come around although you will only indulge on those occasions where it occurs spontaneously. You will never plan such an eventuality. And you will both be happy in the results and learn to trust each other.”

“Great!” Before I had a chance to move from psychic to sexual mode Steven had all his clothes off. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, so did Warwick.

I stripped to join them. Steven’s hairy blond ass was bobbing freely so I kneeled on the carpet to rim his funky buttcrack, licking and swirling my tongue in his luscious hole. He took time out from Warwick’s rather substantial dick, which was dripping precum and saliva, to announce, “I want to be fucked from both ends at once like a human kebab.” That would be no trouble at all.

I was sucking and chewing on Steven’s hot, wet hole, priming it for Warwick’s cock, once our visitor had finished deep-throating it with such skill Warwick was groaning in a manner that meant he was about to lose it.

From the taste of Steven’s swollen butthole, I knew he was craving cock and as my tongue was no match for Warwick’s throbber, I gracefully gave way. I ripped open the condom packet with my teeth before I joined Steven, taking turns at slurping on Warwick’s spit-soaked prick. During a brief lull in the oral maneuverings, I slipped the rubber over his cock, nodding that he should take care of a little anal business. He loved nothing better than gaping twink ass, quickly kneeling behind our visitor, and lining up his cock with the inviting hole after he’d added a little lube to my spit.

I’d managed to insinuate myself onto the coffee table to take his place in order to pull Steven’s face down onto my cock. I watched as he buried his face down to my balls, licking the underside of my shaft as his head nodded like he was bobbing for apples.

There was a slight muffled yelp of pain when Warwick breached his ass, Steven hesitating mid-suck, his eyes opening wide, to absorb the pain before Warwick thrust harder still. I guessed it was the sense of euphoria that caused his smile that began with slight curls at the corners of his lips until it spread, lighting up his entire face.

I watched Steven taking my cock in and out of his cute little cock-sucking lips, pushed down the shaft by Warwick’s battering of his rear. I pulled his face up and planted a kiss on those swollen lips, but he seemed more interested in getting his mouth back around my cock than tongue wrestling. I let him go and he sank back to his task with a contented sigh.

Warwick had more stamina than me and as I didn’t want to lose my load down Steven’s throat, I suggested we swap positions. Being on the receiving end of blow jobs is my least favorite role. When it comes to oral sex, I’ve always believed it is more blessed to give than to receive.

On the other hand, Warwick believes that anything wrapped around his rampant prick, hand, mouth, ass, blow-up doll, is fine by him and he’ll reward the giver with a juicy load. It may have something to do with the fact that he’s horny as fuck and ready for seconds within five or ten minutes of his initial ejaculation. He can come up to five times in a night if he’s really horny and three times in a matter of hours if he’s saved himself. Twice if he hasn’t, although his cock stays hard regardless.

Steven shook his head enthusiastically. I rammed his ass so hard he was impaled down to his Adam’s apple on Warwick’s cock, gagging him enough that mucous leaked out his nose and the corners of his mouth, and his eyes watered.

I wasn’t about to tell Warwick he was big, but not that big. Besides, Steven was doing things with his ass muscles that threatened my sanity. I was having a hard time keeping his hand away from his own cock because he obviously wanted to jerk himself off as we shot our loads, but I had other plans for him.

As I withdrew my cock until only the head remained inside him before plunging back in to my balls, I realized it would be only a short time before Steven would be wanting two cocks at the same time up his rapacious ass. His boyfriend would be in for a hell of a ride to keep this one happy.

I saw Warwick pulling those faces he makes when he’s trying with all his might to stop his money shot so I sped up my rhythm, fucking at different angles to find the tightest squeeze, while kissing my lover to show how much I appreciated his nonpossessive nature. Steven squeezed his sphincter as I tore into his hole, humming his approval of what we were doing to his body.

With a roar, Warwick shot his creamy bolt into Steven’s mouth and I followed seconds later, blowing my cock snot deep inside our middle man’s asshole. Steven was still incredibly frustrated because he hadn’t come, but I intended remedying that situation with all speed.

If I judged correctly, Steven was totally Warwick’s type for extramarital fucking and opportunities with such a gorgeous twink were few and far between, so he wasn’t going to waste any opportunity to indulge.

He pulled his sticky cock out of Steven’s insatiable craw as I handed him a condom that he slid on with expert ease. He shuffled off the coffee table as I withdrew from Steven’s wet, warm ass to dispose of my mucky rubber. Warwick and I had partner share down to a fine art, so he knew I was eager to get someone hard in my own ass. He maneuvered Steven so that I could lie on the carpet, raising my legs so my butt was within striking distance of his frustrated cock. It twitched in anticipation.

“Be my guest,” I panted, breaking open the foil, expertly rolling the protection down his cock and praying that he wasn’t so close he would spew before he got inside me. Warwick helped guide him toward the puckered prize after I’d applied lube to my butt. Steven slipped inside with minimal pain to me even though there was no finesse to his technique. He was obviously inexperienced in this regard.

Once I’d relaxed, I reached around his body to hold Steven’s buttcheeks apart, giving Warwick ample opportunity to sink a hole in one. The weight of two men atop me pushed me along the carpet, giving me burn on my shoulder blades. I’d worry about that tomorrow because right now I was in cock heaven. I just wished there was another one or two guys to fill a few vacant mouths, although that would have stopped the murmur of satisfaction all three of us hummed.

To get me to shut up, Warwick fucked Steven hard, which pushed my head against the leg of the coffee table. There’s nothing more off-putting to a threesome than receiving psychological counseling from one of the participants while in the throes of fucking.

What Steven lacked in experience he made up for in stamina, fucking my pliant asshole for a good fifteen minutes while Warwick groaned in his concentration to match him. The friction of Steven’s stomach rubbing against my prick was making me sticky with precum. They could keep fucking all night for all I cared, but I was going to lose it very soon. I attempted to pant a warning, but Warwick’s action pushed Steven against my painful hard-on causing me to lose control, squirting spunk between our bodies. It set off a chain reaction, my ass muscles tightening around Steven’s cock so that with a scream of “Oh fuck, I’m coming,” he blew a load inside me while his sphincter gripped Warwick, milking a second load out of him.

We were hot and sweaty, sticky with spooge, collapsed side by side on the floor. It was quite a while before any of us spoke or even moved. We came around slowly, disposing of the rubbers, stretching cramped muscles, grinning like fools.

“Don’t scare him off,” Warwick said, slapping my ass, before grabbing Steven’s hand to help him off the floor. “Come on, time for a shower. You don’t want to go back to your boyfriend smelling of some stranger’s cum.”