A gay story: The Heist The Heist
This story is dedicated to the real-life Antonio. Thank you for the friendship and the inspiration.
Antonio:
My job is boring. Boring virtual meetings followed by boring virtual research that leads to boring virtual conclusions. Just boring. My lunch hour is my only escape. Being a natural born people watcher, I always preferred to take my lunch break out by the Riverwalk. Plenty of people would come every day to see the water, the flowers and the ducks. I would go to see the people. But I don’t go to the Riverwalk anymore. I have found somewhere better to spend the best hour of my day. Now instead of watching people, I watch one person, but oh…what a person he is.
There are many food options in this quaint little downtown setting, but they are pricy and I am frugal. I also want to control what I put in my body. I am thirty-one now – not in my twenties anymore. I have to be smart about my choices. When I turned thirty, I gave up on sugar and carbs. Between that and several hours a week in the gym, I am in the best shape of my life. Hence, the brown bag I bring from home every day.
A month ago on a Monday, my boss informed me of a last-minute Zoom meeting that I needed to attend. It was scheduled for 12:30 – smack in the middle of my cherished hour-long lunch break. With other boring meetings prebooked both before and after, my lunch could only be shortened, not moved. Thirty minutes was not enough time for my daily visit to the Riverwalk. But still, I needed to get out of the office. So, I brought my homemade salad out to the back alley. At least there were steps to sit on and fresh air to breathe.
Until the air wasn’t so fresh.
I was only five minutes into my shortened break when a UPS truck backed into the alley, coming right at me and spewing exhaust. It came to a stop and mercifully, the engine was cut. Eventually, the back door rolled up. There stood a young man in the most ridiculous uniform in the history of uniforms. He was wearing a light brown short sleeve button down shirt with light brown matching shorts, a light brown hat and tan work boots with tan socks peeking out. His shirt was probably meant to be tucked in, but it was so short that it certainly would pop back out from the slightest movement. Just standing still, there was a strip of white skin visible below the shirt and above his shorts. The short sleeves were tight around his bulging biceps. Even his thighs and calves seemed to be exploding out of his shorts and boots. He wore a belt so loosely buckled that it more weighed the shorts down than held them up, revealing the Under Armour logo on the waistband of his underwear.
My dick immediately began to come to life.
He was blond haired and nicely tanned. I couldn’t see where his eyes were looking but he had a cocky smile that was arrogant, obnoxious and adorable. I wanted to know if his eyes were blue or green or hazel or whatever, but the sunglasses were a formidable foe. I couldn’t not gaze at this guy. He had a look about him. He looked like he knew that whenever he entered a room, all eyes would turn to him. In fairness, they probably did. As stupid as his shorts – who wears shorts to work? – were, he rocked the whole look. He made super-lame look super cool.
He began moving around in the truck, sorting packages. This alley serves as the receiving dock for six stores, three restaurants and a dozen offices (mine being one of them). The UPS dude had many packages to sort through. Some of them were on high shelves and when he reached for those, his short shirt would ride up to his ribcage. Sometimes, depending on his angle, he would be positioned so that I had an unexpected view of his belly button. He had to be a good twenty feet away from me, but even from this distance, I knew it was the most beautiful belly button I had ever seen. When he reached up, it was stretched out into a beautiful oval.
My dick kept growing.
As he set a box down on the floor of his truck, it snagged on the bottom button of his already too-short shirt and it popped off. Oh, my god! Now he didn’t even have to reach anymore for me to see the belly button show; it was just right in front of me. Nonstop. When his arms weren’t up, the belly button was a perfect round circle. A nice innie that was teasing me from across the alley. When he bent over, it would wink at me before briefly disappearing in a crease of skin. When he stood back up, it was like a new present was unwrapped all over again. And even though I already knew what was in that particular box, it was still the best present ever.
As muscular as this dude’s arms and legs were, he was just a touch soft in the middle. Not fat by any means – no. He was thin but not ripped. For whatever reason, he did not spend his gym time doing crunches or anything else to build his core. And I hoped he never would. He was freaking beautiful as he was.
Suddenly, a hand squeezed my shoulder. “Antonio?”
I startled and looked up. It was one of my coworkers, Robert.
“Yeah?”
“It’s 12:35. Your Zoom started five minutes ago.”
Shit. I stood up, angling myself away from Robert to hide the massive erection that was tenting my suit pants. Unfortunately, angling away from Robert meant angling toward Mr. UPS. I gave him one more glance and I could swear he was smiling. Grinning, really. Was he grinning at me? Did he know I was watching him? Could he see my hardon? Those damn sunglasses. I couldn’t tell.
I headed back in with Robert and I realized that my salad bowl was still full of salad. I’d been so completely enthralled by the show in front of me that I never ate my lunch. Who was this guy? This cocky, arrogant asshole. I bet he has some dumbass obnoxious white-boy name given by rich, yuppie parents. But then again, he’s driving a UPS truck. It’s a quandary. I wanted to know more. Does he work a regular route? Is he here in the alley every day at this same time? Putting on this same show for whoever will watch? I don’t think I’ll be visiting the Riverwalk again any time soon.
Bryson:
My name is Bryson. I am twenty three and I am a UPS driver. In college, I majored in History. I was advised against it by my parents and my counselor, but History was my favorite subject so I did it anyway. The problem was that I never wanted to teach. My degree is based on knowledge about the past. What do I do with that in today’s world? That is what my parents wanted to know when I graduated with no job and no plan. That’s when they cut me off financially. I had to get a paying job. Immediately. And since I had no interest in law, banking, business or archiving (whatever the hell that even means), it meant putting my other skills to use. My only other skill was being young and able bodied.
With limited options and having no desire to work in a warehouse, I became a delivery driver. It’s not that bad. It is a full-time job with benefits, which I needed desperately to keep my parents from kicking me out. The packages are rarely too heavy to handle and I get to spend my days outside. It’s fine while I figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. The worst thing about my job is the uniform they force us to wear. It’s brown on brown on brown on brown. No flare allowed. No bling of any kind. Not that I’m usually a bling guy, but this is drab and depressing. At least I’m allowed to wear sunglasses.
They gave me a set of three short sleeve shirts for the warmer weather. When I wore one for the first time, I thought it was a little short. I literally could not tuck it in; one slight move and it popped right out. I went back to the guy in charge of the uniforms at the depot and asked him if I could trade for a bigger size. Helping me meant more work for him. He wasn’t interested in more work. He asked what the problem was. I pointed to the strip of skin between my shorts and my shirt and I told him that I am not a toddler. I should not be showing belly. That finally got his attention. He instructed me to lift my arms. I did and I could feel my shirt ride high up my ribcage. The depot guy just grinned. He told me that additional shirts were on backorder and since I was technically in uniform and not unable to perform my duties, I would just have to live with it. I heard him chuckling as I walked away. He was imagining dozens of customers every day getting the same show he just got.
I’ve been on the job for a year but I have a new regular route. The middle part of that route takes me to an alley downtown where I have a whole slew of businesses to deliver to. I get there around noon. In order to expedite the process, I park my truck in the alley and sort the dozens of packages by specific address before making my runs on foot. It’s a system that works.
My first day on my new route I was doing my usual thing when something unusual happened. A man was staring at me as I worked. I didn’t mind his staring at first. He was a good looking black guy in a suit sitting on a set of back steps, right across from where I parked my truck. If I was honest with myself, “good looking” was an extreme understatement. This dude was freaking hot. And even though he was wearing a suit, I could tell that he was ripped. Outside of work, he probably lived at the gym.
But then his staring intensified. It was severe. It was disconcerting. I felt like I was on stage in front of him. It was so distracting that at one point when I was setting down one of the bigger boxes, it snagged at the bottom button of my shirt and ripped the button right off. It was gone; nowhere to be found. I already felt like I was on display with the short shirt and at that point it might as well have been a crop top. But I had a job to do. What difference did it make? If we were at the beach or the pool I would be showing a lot more skin than this. And no one would care. We were both guys. I’m sure he saw more skin every day in the gym locker room than I was flashing right now.
But his gaze was borderline creepy. He was pretending to eat his lunch. I say pretending because I never saw him take a single bite. I thought maybe there was salad in his bowl but I guess he wasn’t hungry for salad. He seemed hungry for me. I knew that with my sunglasses on, he couldn’t tell that I was staring right back at him. He was watching my every move. He couldn’t help himself. And when a coworker finally came to call him back inside, his salad bowl was still full and so were his pants. The dude was sporting a major erection. He had a flagpole tenting those suit pants. Did that make him more creepy or less creepy? I couldn’t help but grin as I tried to decide. I don’t know if the alley steps were his lunchtime destination every day but I kind of suspected that I would see him again tomorrow. I hoped so. In anticipation of a repeat audience, that night I ripped the bottom button off of all three of my shirts. Gotta give the people what they want.
Antonio:
I ate my lunch on those same back alley steps at that same time again the next day. I had wished and hoped and dreamed that this guy had a regular route that included my alley. Well, the UPS Gods had smiled down upon me. My Belly Button Boy was back. And damn if that bottom shirt button wasn’t missing again. Was he wearing the same shirt on consecutive days? Did the bottom button pop off of all of his shirts? Was that a common hazard of carrying large packages every day? Whatever the reason, I wasn’t going to complain.
I have a belly button fetish. I always have. It’s not a path I chose, it’s just how I am. It’s how I’m hardwired to be so how can that be wrong? I don’t think I’m exactly ashamed, but it’s not something I tell people about either. They wouldn’t understand. There are groups and forums and communities online, but I didn’t join any of them. I’m more of an anonymous navel gazer. And while there are some decent girl belly buttons out there, it’s the male navel that excites me.
The internet has everything. As I grew older and embraced this fetish I that didn’t really understand when I was younger, I did a little web surfing. There are about a billion images of the male navel out there, some wonderfully sexy and some repulsively disgusting. There are also extreme fetishes that involve gut punching and even navel stabbing. This I do not understand. I do not judge other people for their fetishes. Whatever makes you happy… You do you. But personally, I don’t get it. Curiosity drove me to briefly explore those worlds. They were just not for me. If I ever had the opportunity to get up close and personal with a belly button that wasn’t my own, I wouldn’t attack it or hurt it. I would worship it.
Up until now I have fed my cravings with weekend trips to the beach. I could see hundreds of shirtless dudes in one afternoon at the beach and none of them would be near as exciting as this UPS driver. I found him to be intoxicating. He literally has the most perfect belly button in the world. It kept invading my thoughts the whole rest of my workday. When I got home, I had the best masturbation session of my life as I closed my eyes and relived my too-brief lunch break.
So, yes. I was back the next day. This young man moved with a languid grace that was poetry in motion. He could have been performing a dance. Every move he made, every bend, every reach, every twist… It occurred to me that if he had been working shirtless, I would of course have still stared, but this stolen glimpse was thrilling. Seeing what I was never meant to see was magical. Something about the belly button peeking through the teepee of fabric flaps formed by the too-short shirt made it almost scandalous. It was a secret private showing that went on for an hour.
But I did two things differently on day two. One: I forced myself to look less conspicuous by actually eating my lunch. Two: Like him, I wore sunglasses. Now he couldn’t see where my eyes were trained any more than I could see his.
The thing that wasn’t so different was another complete failure to conceal my raging boner when it was time to stand up and leave again.
Bryson:
His sunglasses didn’t fool me. As I predicted (hoped?) he came back the next day. Like eating his sad salad and hiding behind a pair of Ray-Bans was going to trick me. I knew why he was there. And just maybe, he knew that I knew.
I played it up for him. I took longer than I needed to arranging the order of the packages for the customers that this alley served. I stacked and restacked. I would twist and bend my body in different ways to keep things interesting for my admiring fan.
And he really was ridiculously hot. His tucked in Oxford shirt was so form-fitting that I could actually see the shape of his eight-pack abs through the thick fabric. Unfortunately, I had no packages for his address. If I had, what would I have said? What would he have done? It certainly would have been an icebreaker. Maybe if our little game here continues long enough, I’ll send him something myself. But I don’t know his name. I’m not sure that addressing a fake package to “Hot Black Guy” would go over too well. Or maybe it would. Based on his mammoth hardon two days in a row, maybe the handsome man would be open to receiving a special delivery from me.
As it turned out, he ate his lunch in that spot at that time every day for the rest of the month. Would I ever be brave enough to approach him?
Antonio:
I was becoming obsessed with the new object of my unique and unusual desires. I watched him work every day all month. I jerked off every night to the new images filling my mental photo album. And while I would never tire of watching this magnificent creature, I was getting bored of my own hand. I wanted more. I wanted to do real things to this real person and not just in my fantasies.
The logical, simple thing to do would be to walk up to the guy and start a conversation. It could be about anything. The weather, the Red Sox, I could ask him where he bought his sunglasses. One of us might suggest we catch the game at a bar one night. A friendship could form. Maybe more than friendship? That would take time to build to. Time that I was too impatient to spare. And if I did approach him and he turned me down, then not only would I lose my chance for an up-close and personal experience with the belly button of my dreams, but I wouldn’t have the balls to continue our lunchtime game anymore either. I would lose everything.
I needed a different plan.
I started stalking him after work. It was easier to do than I thought it would be. First, I needed to find him. Who knew where his route took him after he left my alley every day? I Googled UPS sorting facilities and found several in a twenty-five mile radius, but only one was close to my office. So, about a month after our little game started, I headed to that facility to scope out the situation. My SUV had tinted windows and I didn’t think that if I found him, he could identify me.
It was only the second night when I saw him. He was walking out of a rear door with three other guys who were dressed just like him. Well, their properly fitted shirts were securely tucked into their little brown shorts, but other than that, they were the same. The four of them said their goodbyes and split off in different directions. My Belly Button Boy went to an old blue Honda Civic that had seen better days, but now I knew his car.
A plan was beginning to take shape in my mind. That Friday afternoon, I would only work a half day. I needed time to make some preparations. Working only a half day meant I would have no lunch break. No lunch break would mean that for the first time in a month, I would forfeit spending an hour gawking at that beautiful young man. That was disappointing. But my reward for making such a sacrifice would be so much greater.
I dug through my closet and found a black ski mask and a pair of black leather gloves. I stopped at the hardware store and purchased a supply of nylon zip ties. This was going to be the weekend of my life. And of Belly Button Boy’s too. The Heist was on!
Bryson:
It’s Friday at the end of my shift and I’m feeling a little down. My hot hunky stalker friend was not in the alley this afternoon. There could be a million logical reasons why he couldn’t make it. A conflicting meeting, he was home sick with a cold, he pulled a muscle at the gym, he was taking a vacation day, etc. With so many reasonable explanations, why am I so fixated on the unreasonable possibilities? I’ve been so busy enjoying our little game that maybe I missed my chance to meet the guy. Maybe he quit his job. Maybe he transferred across the country. Maybe he got hit by a bus. There are just as many scenarios where today wasn’t a fluke. He could very well never be back on those steps in that alley again.
I know he hadn’t tired of me. I could tell. And that wasn’t just my ego. I was shown physical proof every day when he stood up at the end of his break and his steel rod was pointing at me. No, he hadn’t found a new, better muse. I’ll fret over it all weekend and hope that he returns on Monday. I will be double devastated if our little game is in fact permanently over and if I missed my chance to meet him.
I promise myself that if he does come back, I will be brave. I will simply walk up to his perch and introduce myself. I’ll have no script or plan beyond that. The ball will be in his court and we will see what happens next. Undoubtedly, being so close to those shapely abs (his shirts are painted on) and his rock hard erection, I would develop a protrusion of my own. And my stupid light brown shorts would do little to conceal it.
Having returned my truck and signed out for the day at the sorting center, I am heading out to my car in the employee parking area, walking with three other drivers whose shifts had just ended as well. As I approach my car, I discover that the rear passenger tire has been slashed. Who would do that to me? Do I have an enemy and not know it? My car is a worthless dated heap of scrap metal containing nothing of value. And no windows appear to be broken. What was the purpose? Was this some kind of revenge? Was someone mad at me? What could I have done?
Two of my coworkers had already gotten into their cars without noticing my predicament and had driven away. The third, Carlos, is still with me. He says, “What the hell happened here?”
I shake my head, unable to think of any helpful words.
Carlos says, “I have nowhere to be. I can help you change it.”
It’s sweet of him to offer. “My insurance includes roadside assistance. All I have to do is make one call and help will be on the way.”
He scoffs, “Bryson, two strapping young men such as ourselves can change this tire long before that service guy ever arrives. We got this.”
I pay for the service, I figured I might as well use it, but whatever. Carlos is right. We could do this. And we could do it quickly. I shrug, “I’ll get the owner’s manual.”
I walk around to the driver’s side door and I let out an audible sigh.
“What’s wrong?” asks Carlos.
“It’s the front left tire too. I only have one spare. I’ll have to call that service after all. I need a tow.” I already have my cell phone out of my pocket as I scroll through my contacts.
Carlos says, “Two tires? What the fuck?”
I make the call, read some numbers off my insurance card and repocket my phone. “Carlos, thanks for offering to help but I’m all set. The guy is finishing up with another customer and he’ll be here in about an hour.”
He checks the time on his phone, “I could wait with you. Keep you company.”
I smile, “An hour is too long. My night is shot to hell, but yours still has potential. Go get out there and find something fun to do. If you stayed here, I’d just have to go with the tow guy anyway once he arrives. I’ll have shit to deal with.”
He seems to finally agree. He nods and tells me, “Text if you need anything.”
And with that, Carlos is gone.
Antonio:
I can’t park my SUV in the facility’s employee lot, as I am not an employee, so I park on a nearby side street. It’s not full-dark outside yet, but it’s dusk and the light has dimmed. I am crouched behind a van near my Belly Boy’s car, out of sight. I feel ridiculous in my black hoodie, black jeans, black ski mask and black gloves. And I’m hot. It was a warm enough day that my target will be wearing shorts (and barely a shirt). I, meanwhile, am bundled up for late autumn.
He appears from a door in a small group. When one of the guys he’s walking with, Carlos apparently, offers to help and to stick around, I start to panic. I can’t handle two of them. I was already nervous enough about manipulating just Belly Boy. But eventually, My Guy convinces Carlos that he will be fine waiting alone.
If he only knew.
Carlos had called his worker friend by his name. After a long month, I finally know Belly Button Boy’s name. Bryson. I knew it! I could just tell with that blond hair, the summer tan, muscles in some places but not others… He might not actually be rich, but I was spot on when I predicted he had some lame white-boy name given by yuppie white-boy parents.
My dick twitches in my black jeans.
I get a glimpse of Carlos as he walks away. He seems genuinely disappointed to not be part of the solution for his work friend. Maybe he has a little crush on his buddy. Understandable. I certainly do. And Carlos is kind of hot himself. I wouldn’t be mad if I was offered a good look at his belly button. But that’s a thought for a different plan another time. His shirt is properly sized and tucked in.
Once Carlos drives away, it’s just Bryson and me, but he doesn’t know I’m lurking. His back is to me and his attention is on his phone. It’s almost too easy. I wait until he pockets his phone again before I creep up behind him and, pulling my weapon from my hoodie pocket, I stick the muzzle of my gun in his back.
He yelps and his hands instinctively shoot up.
I lean in close to his ear, “Keep quiet and you won’t get hurt.”
He keeps quiet.
“We’re going for a little walk, just you and me. No noises or quick moves. If you try anything funny, my gun comes back out.”
He nods and I pocket my weapon. We walk side by side off the lot and up the sidewalk to my waiting escape vehicle. His eyes are wide and afraid. If he cooperates, all will be fine. At the rear of my SUV, there is still no one around. I order him, “Hands down and behind your back.”
He complies.
I pull a pre-looped nylon zip tie out of my pocket, slip his hands through and pull it tight around his wrists. I have been patient for hours. Weeks, really. I deserve my first close look. I need it. I put my hands on his shoulders and spin him around. His eyes are wide circles of fear and his mouth and his belly button both gape at me in wide surprised “O’s”. It is even more brilliant up close and personal. I very much want to touch it, but that will have to wait until later. At my house. The two of us alone with no witnesses. I open the rear door and pull out an eye mask to use as a blindfold. With that in place, I grab another zip tie and bind his ankles together. He is completely helpless, just like he’ll be all weekend.
Bryson:
One minute I’m waiting for the roadside service guy and the next I’ve been abducted. My captor threatened to hurt me if I tried anything, so I’ve been doing exactly what he tells me to do. This may have been a mistake though because now I’m blindfolded and bound. He guides me into the rear cargo area. He takes care to make sure I don’t bump my head. Lying in the far back, bound and blindfolded, he hogties my wrists to my ankles. He nudges me onto my side so I am facing him. I can feel that the bottom of my shirt is spread apart and my stomach is stretched and taught. I can also feel his eyes on me.
Finally, he says, “Amazing!”
I’m helpless to save myself. All I can do is wait.
He slams the liftgate shut and settles himself in the driver’s seat. It’s maybe a fifteen minute drive before we’re parked again. The rear of the trunk opens and he cuts the connection between my wrists and my ankles. With his help, I’m able to stand. He pulls off my blindfold and says, “I’m freeing your feet so you can walk. Like I said earlier, don’t try anything, or else.”
We are in a garage. It is completely nondescript. We could be anywhere within a ten mile radius and I did not see the outside. He leads us into the house and up the stairs to a bedroom. His bedroom? Maybe. There is a four-post bed centered in the room. He tells me to lie on my back. It’s uncomfortable because I’m lying on my tied hands, but I do it. He pulls several more zip ties out of his pocket and uses two to secure my ankles to the lower bedposts. My legs are spread far apart. He has a Swiss Army Knife on the side table and he cuts my wrists free. I’m still bound by my ankles and he still has a gun in his pocket, so fighting him would be a suicide mission. He ties me, one wrist at a time, to the two remaining bedposts and I am now completely spreadeagle on my back.
He is wearing all black. Black jeans, a black hoodie, black gloves and a black ski mask. And from the tiny bit of skin showing around his eyes and mouth, I can tell that he himself is black. For a long time, he does nothing but stare down at me. He stares and stares and stares some more. His eyes do not roam over my body, they concentrate on my midsection. Even though he is wearing jeans, I can tell that he has an erection.
And then it hits me. I know who this is. This is my lunchtime admirer. The staring dude in the alley whose abs and erection I can’t get enough of. For a second I feel relieved. I feel like I’m safe. I almost think of him as a friend. An ally. But I was wrong. He freaking took me prisoner!
I pull at my restraints to no avail. My first words to my captor are, “I know who you are. You are the lunchtime alley guy.”
Antonio:
Well, that didn’t take long. Having been busted, I pull off the hot and sweaty ski mask. Next off come the gloves and the hoodie. I’m now in black jeans and a black t-shirt.
“You slashed my tires, didn’t you?”
I nod.
“What do you want with me?” he demands.
“Hey, you asked for this. You’ve been asking for it for a month now.”
He looks at me like I’m insane. Like I just grew a second head. “How?”
“Oh, please. You’ve been teasing me since the first time I saw you. You’re all arms and legs and belly. You know you’re fucking hot and you paraded around in front of me for weeks. Your shirt was ridiculously tight and short to start with–”
“That was the shirt they gave me. I tried to ask for a bigger size.”
“Uh huh. And then you popped off the button.”
“That was an accident!”
“No… Do you only have one shirt that you wear every day or did you have an accident with each one?”
He says nothing.
“You’ve known exactly what you’ve been doing. The way you stretch and twist and flounce around… You’ve been putting on a show, parading your belly button in front of me. Always turning to face me, no matter what you’re doing. It was obvious. It was all a tease. A game. And it worked. You have got my full attention. You successfully motivated me to take action. I finally made a move of my own.”
I know he knows I’m right because his cheeks turn pink right before my eyes. “But the game I started was harmless. It wasn’t real.”
“It was real to me.”
“But it was all visual. It was in our imaginations. What you’ve done has crossed the line. You’re holding me captive.”
“Of course the next step would have to be physical.” I sigh, “I just want you to be my plaything for the weekend. If you relax, I know you’ll enjoy yourself. Trust me.”
“How can I relax? I’m bound and pulled taught like a rubber band. And trust you? Why? You’ve vandalized my car, stuck a gun in my back, abducted me, threw me in your trunk bound and blindfolded, driven me to an unknown location and now I’m being restrained in a spreadeagle position. Where does the trust come in?”
He has a point. “Bryce–”
“My name is Bryson!”
“Not this weekend it’s not. I won’t say that. It’s too… I just can’t.” I run a hand over my face, “Look, I have no intention of hurting you. I have no desire to hurt anyone. I desire to do many things to you, but causing pain in any way is not one of those things.”
“The first words you said to me were a threat.”
I take a moment to contemplate the lovely boy lying helpless before me. I have not even begun the process of stripping off his clothes yet and this is already the sexiest display I have ever seen. And that belly button! Stretched out like he is, it’s not round right now. It is the most beautiful vertical oval I have ever seen in my life. My dick is firming and my mouth is watering. Not only would I never hurt him, I would probably throw myself in front of a bullet to save him.
I say, “That was just to ensure your cooperation in getting you here. Ask yourself this question. Have I hurt you yet? The ride in the trunk may have been uncomfortable, but have I hit you, roughed you up even? Have I done anything to suggest that I will?”
He tries to keep looking me in the eyes but his eyes seem to keep dropping down to my waist. Is it my abs? The bump in my jeans? This is the first time I’ve ever seen him without sunglasses on. Is it possible that he’s been watching me the whole time I’ve been watching him?
He says, “If you want to earn my trust, you can start by doing two things for me.”
He is so not the one in a position to call the shots here, but I hear him out.
“Tell me your name.”
“Antonio.”
He nods. “And take off your shirt.”
Bryson:
I relax just a little. His name really is Antonio. It has to be. He answered without hesitation. No strain in his voice. I asked and he answered. And he also took off his shirt when I told him to. Maybe he doesn’t mean any harm. And maybe this will be fun. I wanted to ask him to grab a beer with me some time, but he decided to just grab me. He skipped a few steps in the traditional process and the zip ties are a little extra, but maybe he’s right. I mean, I don’t think I exactly asked for this, but I asked for something. Didn’t I? I was willingly playing the game.
So now I allow myself a moment to take in the beauty of my captor. Antonio. His absence from the alley this afternoon did not mean I would never see him again. And those abs that I’ve gotten a hint of so many times these past weeks through his form-fitting shirts… Oh my god! He did not disappoint. He is cut! So tight and defined. A true eight-pack. And tight over every ridge is the most flawless, beautiful dark brown skin I have ever seen. I want to touch it, kiss it, lick it… Does he shave or is he naturally hairless? I desperately want to run my fingers over his whole body, but I’m tied down and I can’t move. Well, one thing can move. And it does. My shorts are filling up with the beginnings of what I know will become an obvious and massive erection.
Antonio:
He has been watching me too. Why else would he ask me to take my shirt off? If it puts him a little at ease, I’m happy to comply. I’ve waited too long. It’s time to explore my prey. His arms and legs are as muscular as I thought they were from a distance. And his tummy is so soft and vulnerable. Thin, but free of muscles and lumps. Just smooth blemish-free skin bulls-eyed with the perfect target. I’ve seen this belly button contorted into many different positions and shapes and it’s hard to pick my favorite, but this oval is at or near the top of the list. It is a half inch deep. I have a tape measure on the bedside table and I snag it. Yep. A half of an inch exactly.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“Relax. I’m taking official measurements.” I work the fabric in a couple different directions. I tell my guest, “A half inch deep and in this stretched out position, it’s three quarters across and an inch and a quarter long. In case you ever wondered.”
As I work the tape measure, he giggles. Of course he’s ticklish. None of this would be any fun at all if he wasn’t.
He still seems to be unable to stop looking at my abs. He and I are so different and I don’t even mean our completely opposite skin tones. While I was taking measurements, my dark hands against his tanned but pale plate of skin was a beautifully striking contrast that to me complimented the other so well. Our true differences are under the skin. I am entranced by his gentle, delicate vulnerability and he seems to be enthralled by my well-earned, rock hard washboard eight pack that I am proud of, but not so attracted to on other men. And I can say with confidence that he is enthralled because he has a rock hard development of his own taking shape before my eyes, barely concealed by his cute little brown shorts. I’ll get to that later.
Bryson:
My god is this man gorgeous. His belly button is a shallow innie. Very shallow, but an innie nonetheless. It is perfectly nestled at the center of the junction of four of his square eight pack muscles. I want to do things to him so badly. My response to him is obvious. My dick is begging to be set free.
He begins to unbutton the remaining buttons on my shirt.
Antonio:
Finally! The full view. It was well worth the wait. He might not work out his abdominals but he certainly has nicely developed pectorals. The shirt is still in my way and I have no intention of cutting his bindings, so I grab the scissors off my little table. Before I left the house I stocked my table with my tape measure, scissors, massage lotion, lubrication, a condom and zip ties. It’s quite the eclectic mix of items and I fully intend to use them all. I move to cut away his shirt.
“They’ll dock that from my pay. If I need to get a replacement shirt, I’ll have to pay for it myself.”
I chuckle. This kid. He’s a prisoner for the weekend and yet so practical. I tell him, “I’ll give you fifty bucks for a new shirt when I set you free Sunday night.”
I cut the fabric across his shoulders and the shirt falls away. Wow! Fantastic! Spectacular! Vulnerable masculinity. My favorite kind. I take my finger and begin a slow drag from his wrist down his inner arm. He twitches and giggles. I cross the elbow and take a ride along his bicep. He reacts some more. When I detour and swirl around in his armpit, he laughs out loud.
I tell him, “By the way, I live alone. Feel free to laugh, yell, scream… Let it all out. Don’t be shy.”
I do the same to his other arm and then I massage both armpits at once. He decides to take my advice and he lets loose with howls of delight. I’m calling them “howls of delight” because they certainly are delightful to me.
I tickle his neck first with my wiggling fingers and then with my darting tongue. I think he really likes this when he screams for me to stop. When I suck on each nipple, his screaming intensifies. After about thirty minutes of nonstop upper body torturous pleasure, I give him a brief rest to catch his breath. There is a beautiful man tied helplessly to my bed wearing nothing but boots and shorts. This is the sexiest display I have ever seen in my whole life – real or online. And I have looked at a lot of online stuff. This is the most amazing night of my life.
I skip past the belly area, saving that for later. It’s too soon for the main event. As sexy as my prisoner looks right now, it’s time to lose the rest of it. I’ll have to give him a hundred bucks instead of fifty because I’ll soon be destroying his shorts too.
I head down to the foot of the bed. As I begin to untie his right boot he thrashes and demands, “Do not tickle my feet. I can’t take that.”
That had not been on my agenda for the night. I am actually not a foot guy. I’m not into them. They don’t interest me. I just want him naked. But now… Hmm. Just the way he demanded me not to means I pretty much have to. I finish untying the lace and I slip the boot off. We are at the end of a warm summer day and this young man spent that day working outside with his feet trapped inside of ugly tan work boots that somehow look cute on him. His sock is sweat soaked and clinging to his ultrasensitive foot. I peel it off.
No, I never had a thing for feet, but this is a good looking one. A nice manly size, well-manicured toenails and smooth skin. It is surprisingly delicate. Not being a foot guy, I’m not even sure where to start or what to do. I try wiggling my fingers up the length of his arch and he howls in laughter so hard that I am compelled to explore this further. I tickle the base of his toes and his foot scrunches in futile defense. Then I scratch up and down his sole and he just about loses his mind. But I’m getting bored. I take off the left boot and sock and leave the new foot untickled.
It’s time to get serious. Time for the main event. I move toward the tempting belly and grin down at the sexiest dimple on the face of the earth. I’m starting to drool.
Bryson sees the hungry look in my eyes and he squirms. “Antonio, please. I’m so sorry I teased you all month. I really am. That was my bad. But seriously man. Don’t tickle me there. Do my armpits again, even my feet, but PLEASE, not my stomach.”
He is in no position to bargain. And even if he were, offering his feet is a nonstarter with me. But really, he could offer me a million dollars and I couldn’t be bought off of this opportunity of a lifetime. I begin to draw circles around his navel with one finger and each circle tightens in closer to the center.
He giggles as I close in on my target. “I mean it, Antonio. I’ll go crazy.”
“I shall do my best.”
As I trace the rim, his giggles appropriately turn to belly laughs. I force myself to abandon the alluring crater and I focus in on the lower belly. Just like the first day I saw Bryson in the alley, his underwear is visible above the waistband of his brown shorts. I drag my finger along the tight skin just above the Under Armour band. He twists his body and laughs maniacally. I tug down on the legs of his shorts and pull them as low as they’ll go. Blond pubes tuft out of his shorts and his hipbones jut up to the ceiling. He is even more beautiful than he was a minute ago.
I swipe my fingernails from the left side to the right and his stomach bounces and quivers wildly from the sensation. He screams for me to stop. I don’t. I let my fingers rake from side to side over and over again and I think he might hyperventilate. I have decided against tools. No Q-tips, no feathers and no electric toothbrushes. I’m going old school with just fingers (and eventually tongue). I keep this up for a good thirty minutes and his voice is getting hoarse from the constant screams.
I go back to inserting my finger into his innie hole and his eyes roll back into his head. I carefully but firmly press around inside and explore the walls of his little depression. It’s another thirty minutes before I’m satisfied. For my final serenade, I plunge my tongue into his perfect orifice. His whole body jolts like he is being electrocuted. I dart in and out, swirl all around and suck on his navel like I’m juicing an orange. I keep this up for an unimaginably long time. He is too exhausted to scream anymore. He just looks dizzy at this point. I bring him right up to the edge, stopping just short of shooting his load in his shorts. I have other plans for his man juice.
I undo his belt and cast it aside. Grabbing the scissors from the table, I cut away his shorts and underwear. His full erection springs free. The belly button play has him very horny and probably ready for a big release. I owe him that much.
Time has flown by. It’s probably midnight at this point. I kneel on the bed between his legs and pick up my trusty measuring tape. I would estimate Bryce to be 5′ 11″ and 160 pounds, much of which comes from his muscular arms and thighs. He has man-sized hands, man-sized feet and a man-sized cock. But I still want to know specifics. I grab his bobbing shaft and he gasps from the shock. I run the tape measure starting at his base and up along his length, curving around to his slit. Was I too generous with his starting and ending points? He’s earned some generosity. I tell him, “Nice. Seven inches.” I give him a few strokes and he moans in pleasure.
Bryson:
Why does being measured turn me on even more? Being manhandled and maneuvered into position doesn’t hurt the cause either, but hearing that Antonio is pleased if not impressed by my length makes me raging hard. Maybe he should check again. I bet I gained another quarter of an inch.
He plants his hands next to each of my hips and lowers his head, taking me in. I groan in delight. His mouth is warm, wet and wild. I am crazy turned on and I hope I can hold out at least a little while and enjoy some pleasure after the hours of torturous tickling. He slides up and down and on and off. He makes my toes curl as he works me in earnest. I feel the head of my dick against the back of his throat as his lips tighten around the base of my shaft and I am completely enveloped.
“Oh my god!” I exclaim.
He does not let up. His tongue swirls my underside as his suction intensifies. And then he slides up and down three more times and I’m done for. He can tell that he has lit my fuse. He stops and I’m out of his mouth for the grand finale. He grabs me with both hands and pumps up and down has his thumbs drag the length of my sensitive underside.
He says, “I want you to fill that hole.”
I could fill many holes with the load I’m about to blow. Between his upward strokes and the uniquely unusual thumb action, my first spurt way over shoots. It splashes just below my chin. I find another scream and I let it out. Each of the next ten pulses travel shorter and shorter distances and I eventually do fill my belly button.
I am panting and red-faced as he stands up and begins to unbutton his jeans. He pulls them down and steps out of them. His erection is tenting his boxer briefs. He has had this erection since the UPS parking lot many hours ago. I know. I could tell.
Then he pulls down his underwear and he is now as naked as I am. He reaches for a condom that has been sitting on the table and I say, “Measure it first.”
He grins at me.
“I want to watch you do it.”
He complies and shows me the result. I let out a low whistle. “Eight inches. I can just about handle that.”
His grin widens.
He rips open the condom and I say, “Let me watch you put it on.”
His big black cock might be the most beautiful work of art I’ve ever seen. It should be painted and framed. He slowly rolls the condom (it must be extra-large) over his penis and the sight keeps me rock hard despite everything my poor dick just went through. Then he cuts the bindings at my feet and bends my knees up to my ribs. He kneels on the bed again and applies some lube to both his sheathed sword and to my puckering hole. He pokes me slowly and cautiously at first, making sure I’m okay. I am more than okay. He slides in at a turtles pace and it takes a full two minutes before he’s balls deep.
He rocks and bumps, finding my trigger spot quickly with his most lethal of weapons. He has been turned on to extreme levels for many hours too. I don’t know how long he can last against the powers of my tight ass. As he gets close, his rocking motion intensifies. As it intensifies, he stimulates my prostate more and more. Just when he reaches his climax inside of me, my second ejaculation showers me again.
Fun can be messy. And exhausting. Antonio cuts my wrists free but I just lie there spent and lifeless.
Antonio:
I wake up Saturday morning at 10:00am. I hadn’t gotten to bed until after 2:00am, but the whole night had been so intense and exciting that when sleep finally came, (like Bryson and me) it came hard. I rarely get a full eight hours.
Arms are hugging me from behind as a manly body is spooned up against me. His lips kiss the back of my neck and I smile as a tingle rolls through my body.
My husband whispers in my ear, “Good morning sleepy head.”
I chuckle.
His hands begin a slow journey down my chest and to my stomach. Once there, they explore my well-defined abs and play with my shallow belly button. He’s not tickling me; there is a time and a place for that and this is not it. It’s not long before I begin to physically respond to his delicate touch. Before this turns into that, I spin around and face him. We kiss with all of the passion and intimacy that last night lacked. We are gentle, caring and tender with each other. Nothing like while we’re playing the game.
Bryson smiles, “You really upped the ante this month. How will I ever top that?”
“You won’t,” I smile back. “You’ll try, we’ll have fun, but I will be the definitive winner.”
I don’t really believe a word I’m saying. I’m trying to rile him. I want to inspire him. I want his turn next month to push things even further. He grins and kisses me again. We don’t kiss while we’re in character. That would be too personal. Too real. It would shatter the illusion of The Heist.
Bryson says, “The problem with you taking your turn is that I have to see you in all of your dark gorgeous glory, but I don’t get to touch you. It’s worse torture than your tongue in my belly button.”
I laugh and we kiss some more.
Bryson and I got married one year ago. He was twenty-two and I was thirty. We had met the year before at a wedding that neither of us wanted to be at. We started talking and we hit it off. Being married to Bryson has been wonderful. The most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life was suddenly my husband. I was deliriously happy. But I was also insecure. Was I enough for him? Would he get bored with me one day? Would our age difference become an issue down the line? Was our sex life already too predictable and dull?
So, to keep things interesting, at six months in we began to incorporate some role playing. There was the Menacing Mechanic, the Torturous Tailor and the Dirty Doctor. Soon it evolved into more elaborate plots involving abduction and domination. We take turns each month and surprise each other. We never see it coming. Last month when it was his turn, I had been convinced on a Saturday afternoon that he was working an overtime shift. Hours before he was due home, the doorbell rang. It was Bryson, but it wasn’t Bryson. He was in a navy blue uniform (that I later learned he borrowed from a friend) and he said he was here to inspect my pipes. I asked, “What pipes?” He reiterated, “Your pipes,” and he quickly overpowered me.
He had me tied and gagged in minutes. While he “inspected” every inch of me, there was one “pipe” in particular that he paid special attention to. Over the course of the afternoon and night he had me tied to every stationary object in the house as he did X-Rated things to me. At various points I was anchored to the dining room table, the basement doorknob and the hot water heater. My favorite was when he tied my ankles to the staircase railing and suspended me upside down for an hour of delicious torture. We had been raising the stakes each month. I want him to outdo me next time. I don’t want there to ever be a winner.
It’s all just a game. It’s completely safe. In fact, he asks me presently, “What did you use for your gun? It really felt like a muzzle in my back?”
Good. It was supposed to. It was some candle wick-trimming tool, but I won’t tell him that. I might want to use it again in the future some time, so I only offer a shrug.
“Fine,” he gives me a sexy slow blink. “Be that way.” Then he swats at my arm, “Did you really slash my tires?”
I grin, “I just let the air out. No real damage done. We’ll pick up your car later.”
Now with the month and my turn both over, I have the next four weeks to anticipate how and when he makes his next move. Meanwhile, I will start thinking about my own next Heist. As they get more elaborate, they take more time to plan. I’m considering hanging a hook from the ceiling so I can suspend him bound and gagged. That might be fun. I would need to buy a stud finder, which is ironic because I found my stud a couple years ago.
Bryson:
It’s cute how he’s insecure. And it’s ridiculous too. My husband is the hottest guy on the planet. The eight year difference in our ages is nothing. And our sex life has been far from boring. And it never will be boring because all he has to do is walk into the room and I get turned on. But when he began these little roleplaying scenarios, they ended up being fun. It was by the time he played the Dirty Doctor that things escalated to another level. That doctor did some very naughty things to me that surely should have resulted in him losing his license to practice medicine. I was just too lazy to report him. And I enjoyed it too much.
From there things ramped up. We called our little game The Heist. So while I disagree that we need it, it’s too fun to argue against. I need to come up with something fantastic for next month.
I ask him, “With this month over, will you go back to the Riverwalk for lunch or will I still see you in the alley?”
“As long as you cut the bottom button off your new shirt, I’ll be lunching on the back steps.”
I laugh. I took the UPS job a year ago right after our wedding, but they only recently assigned me to this new route. It’s been a month. And on my first day, Antonio was there watching on those steps, not eating his salad and sporting an erection. When I told Antonio that his office area was now part of my day, his plan for this Heist began to secretly take shape.
“So, what if they change my route again?”
He scoffs, “If they do, then you’re quitting.”
“But I haven’t saved enough–”
He cuts me off, “Yes you have. You’ve been working hard and you’ve saved plenty of money for grad school. Besides, I make enough to support us for a while.”
I kiss him again. My parents weren’t the greatest when I “came out”. It could have been worse, but they don’t support my life choices. That’s what they say. While being true to yourself is a choice, who that true self is, is not. But arguing that with them is a waste of breath. So I just don’t bother. I have everything I need. I kiss my man again.
After a pause, he asks, “So that was Carlos last night?”
I’d mentioned Carlos before as the only person at work that I was friendly with. I look into his transfixing dark brown eyes as I draw out a slow, “Yes…”
He clears his throat, “He’s kind of cute.”
He has no cause for jealousy. I poke him in the belly button and he flinches and giggles.
“So what! Fine, he’s kind of cute. But you’re fucking hot! And you’re my husband!”
He kisses me again. “I know. But maybe you should tell him that you’re married.”
“Why?”
“Bryson, you are smart, brilliant, funny and adorable but you are also clueless. That kid has a bigtime crush on you.”
He’s right. I do kind of see it. But it’s totally harmless. I tease Antonio, “What if I tell him I’m married, show him your picture and he finds you to be as devastatingly magnificent as the rest of the world does and he inquires about the possibility of a three-way?”
Antonio strokes his chin in pretend thought, “I would be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed his adorable bubble butt as he walked away last night all dejected. I think I’m open to discussing the possibility.”
I jab my finger harder into his navel and he chortles. “Are you now?” I scold. Suddenly I’m the one feeling a little jealous. But I know he’s just messing with me.
I ask, “Are we going to the gym this afternoon?”
He nods, “We have to work off all that pizza.”
We always eat healthy, but once a month on Heist Night, we indulge.
“I’m thinking about starting some new routines,” I say. “Like crunches or that torso twist thing.”
He grabs my belly and I laugh. “Don’t you dare! If you change that gorgeous vulnerable tummy of yours, you will be severely punished.
I grin. His punishment would be something to enjoy. I tell him, “And if you don’t work your abs, you will be punished too. No turning soft on me.”
“No worries. Half of a century from now I’ll be eighty years old and never soft around you,” he says and we both laugh.
He ducks under the covers and my tummy gets buried in his face as he blows a big raspberry. And then, he buries another part of me in his face while his strong hands grip and massage my ass. I am in blissful delight.
No role playing needed.