Watcher and the Stranger · Part 1

Watcher and the Stranger · Part 1 (1/2)
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Now that he thought of it, he _did_ remind himself not to pack so much this time. At the curb, an army of bellpersons stormed him like so much smoke. "I'm fine, really. I'll handle it myself. Thanks." In unison, the squadron turned heel and scattered. Some of them didn't speak any English, but they all knew "fuck off" when they heard it.

He liked to dress for travel. His trademark beat-up sweatshirt and jeans didn't win him any compliments as he boarded in LA, but that was okay. But this, this was different. Shlepping his (must be 200 pounds; did I pack an anvil in here?) luggage across the threshold of the Grand Kempinski's entrance doors left him feeling very slovenly indeed. His back spasmed briefly as he lowered his bags. Use your knees, stupid.

He shrugged off the sneer from the counter help as he checked in. Against his objections, she rang for a bellhop. No avoiding it now. A uniformed mule snapped-to and shouldered the bags. A slight rolling of the bellman's eyes said it all. Great. Now _everyone_ knows I brought too much shit.

The room was about as nice as a hotel gets; they all have a certain claustrophobic squalor to them. He had flown out on a Friday to get the super-saver fare. Better things to do with a Friday night than sit alone in my hotel room, he thought. The parties and heavy drinking didn't start until next week–what _would_ he do with himself?

Actually, there was no mystery here. He always worked from the same menu of harmless vices when he traveled. Liquor was an absolute priority. Room service booze is for idiots. A call to the front desk revealed the location of a store nearby. While he was out, he thought he might indulge that _other_ vice.

The clerk at the liquor store smiled broadly. Drinking was reserved for trips, and only after all the business of the day was done. He had no fears of drinking problems, even as he stuffed his three bottles into the paper sack and headed out. He could put it away. Enough liquor and mixer to last the week, for sure. Maybe even enough to share, if it came to that.

It never seemed to. He always traveled primed for that chance meeting he read about in the Playboy fantasy pages all the time, but he never managed to make so much as eye contact.

He had located a shop–it was a fair drive away–that offered up the tools to satisfy the rest of his shopping list. The Marine behind the counter silently filled his request for quarters, firing off a look of disgust that had "I'm only doing this for the money, you scumbag" written all over it. Pushing the curtain aside, an array of poorly-constructed booths lay before him, with equipment whirring and a jumble of scratchy soundtracks filling the room. There was plenty of eye contact to be had here, but all the wrong kind. It was Friday night, and the hookers and pushers were cruising up a storm. It was okay, even a little exciting; nobody ever said a word or got pushy.

He did notice that he was being tracked–at a discrete distance–by an athletic blonde in a cut-off shirt. Those muscles were his business card, and when he knew he was being looked at, he'd immediately lock eyes with his examiner. Eyes that said, "I'll do you real good." Nice technique. Left no doubt that the man knew his business.

Light moved the shadows for a moment as a squat, nervous man wobbled into the room. Here was a man with a mission, he thought, watching the little man scan quickly from booth to booth, looking for that familiar circular hole between the booths. Finding one, he seemed greatly relieved. The man shot a look around the room, locked onto Mr. Eyes, and hurried into the booth. Quarters hit bottom, and moaning male voices came squawking through the speaker. The hooker took the booth next to him, arching eyebrows at the observer as he disappeared. "Could've been you," he intoned in a practiced voice.

He suddenly felt self-conscious–how long have I been standing here watching this? The wry smile on the pretty black woman clued him that it had been long enough. Well, damn it, he was here to shop, but not for _that_. He nodded politely at his would-be hostess, found a booth that _didn't_ have the requisite glory hole, and stepped inside. The black woman shuffled away as he did, muttering to herself. Shitty break, he thought, but fucking a hooker wasn't his idea of fun.

The floor was soaked, and his nose wrinkled as he pushed some tissues over to try to absorb a recently-expelled load. The musky smell was something he had gotten used to, though, and even liked a little. All eight quarters found their way into the coin box, and the screen came to life.

Of the 11 channels, six were rewinding, and four were so noisy that the picture wasn't visible. He mashed the channel button repeatedly in frustration. What a waste! He parked on channel 3 and waited for the others to rewind.

The soundtrack synced with the one the little man had selected, and two muscular men writhed around the screen. He was caught, for a moment, by the shapely curve of one man's ass. They were both naked, and, by any standards, both very attractive. On the screen, the men wrestled, laughing and tumbling on the floor, muscles straining and sweat glistening. Finally, the man with the nice ass (well, he had to admit, it _was_ nice) seemed to lose, and the winner began running his hands over his prize.

The watcher stared as the men caressed each other, very lovingly, and exchanged kisses that seemed deep and real. This wasn't something he was used to seeing in porno. He watched on, and hardly noticed that his heart had begun to race.

The caressing continued, hands drifting over backs and inside thighs, kneading and circling. The winner's hand inched, teasingly, up his conquest's thigh. As the cocks on the screen began to rise, so did the watcher's. He felt a little flush–this was new–but he remained fixed. Finally, the winner's hand found its way to the stiffening cock, first gently massaging the balls, then tracing lines up the staff. He then grasped it firmly, causing his parter to raise his (yeah, nice!) ass off the bed. The camera went to close-up to show the exquisite stiffness, the purple head fully engorged thanks to the expert handling.

Several seconds of manipulation ensued, and both men became involved in stroking and kissing, cocks at full mast, hips pushing into each stroke. The loser began to kneel, but his bester shook his head and invoked the privilege of collecting war spoils. He kneeled before his defeated foe, never ceasing to pump slowly with one hand, and cupped the balls in his other. He licked his lips, and let his target stand on its own, twitching in anticipation as he approached it. His lips parted, and SNAP! The screen went back to the title display, shaking him out of his daze. He panicked for a moment, thinking he forgot what channel that was– 3, right? He memorized the title, and exited the booth.

There were the eyes, locking first with his, and then jumping south. The watcher's eyes followed instinctively, and he was surprised by his own crazed erection. He looked up to meet the eyes again, but this time they were no more than a foot away. The watcher swallowed hard and feared for his life, and felt a hand brush ever-so-slightly against his dick. "Twenty for everything you saw in there." The eyes motioned toward the booth–he must have heard the soundtrack. Something inside the watcher's head said "go for it!" as he stood toe-to-toe with the smiling boy. But no. Shame and confusion overtook him as he tossed the curtain aside and rushed into the parking lot.

He looked back nervously to see if he had been followed. No one.

A deep breath was called for, and taken. He sank into his car's seat, fumbling for his keys. Got to think this one through. I watched two men getting it on, and found it very exciting. They seemed so into it, I couldn't help myself. What does that make me?

Wait a fucking minute. He stopped in mid-fumble, and mentally slapped himself. What am I getting so shook up about? I got randy over two men making out. I'm not some neanderthal. I can deal with it. Forget that, I want to know more!

He was already back inside by the time that last thought was completed. He marched purposefully up to the clerk, and asked to rent the title he had seen on channel 3. The clerk winced ("great, a _faggot_ scumbag. I wish my mom would let me move back in"), and the watcher rushed to pad the order with the first hetero porn title his eyes came upon. The clerk handed over the bag as if contaminated, and disappeared. "Probably washing his hands," thought the watcher.

An all-night "regular" video rental place handed over a rental VCR in exchange for a $200 imprint of his credit card. He parked in the garage, hoisted his booty, and headed for the doors of the hotel. The bellhops converged, then dispersed again as they remembered that the fuck-off man could handle his own bags, screw you very much.

Minutes later, the room was stocked with ice, a glass filled with liquid sedative solution (and a twist of lime), and the VCR cabled to the TV. He reached for a video, and grabbed the channel 3 title. Not yet, he thought. A little too much to deal with in such short time. The hetero porn tape went into the VCR, and he carried his drink to the bed.

The tape went exactly as every other porno tape he'd ever seen: bad acting, superfluous plots, limp dicks and overdubbed soundtracks. It was that or Oprah reruns, and it was as good a background as any for the drinks. Oddly, he viewed the humping and sucking on screen with a detachment he hadn't experienced before; there was no burning need to unbutton his fly, in fact, no hard-on at all.

Partway through the third stiff drink, the film faded to black. Hallelujah, he thought. It wasn't until he came to his feet that he remembered how much he had to drink. He liked that slightly off-balance sensation. He wasn't bombed, but was clearly inebriated. Cruising altitude.

Any embarassment or shame he felt earlier was gone now, drowned or just plain gone. The "other" tape threaded and whirred away, and the watcher settled back onto the bed with a fresh (and considerably less alcoholic) drink in hand. The titles rolled, complete with cheesy music, and the watcher noticed an erection coming on before any skin was visible on screen.

In an opening scene, two somewhat less attractive men had gotten down to serious sucking, but the watcher was similarly enraptured. They knew just what to do, taking the shaft deep for a few strokes, then backing off and swirling around the tip. As he studied, he felt the same flush he'd felt earlier, and found that his cockskin seemed about ready to split. He'd never been this excited, and he reached for the snap on his jeans.

The phone rang. Shit! He considered not answering, but he was there on business. Could be some client with an emergency.

"Hello?"

"Larry?"

"What?" The soundtrack seemed much louder now.

"Is this Larry?"

"No. Nobody here by that…"

"Look, I'm in the lobby. 1714, right? I'm on my way up to get those drinks you promised me."

"But…"

Click. The stranger was on his way up. Did I make an appointment I forgot about? Or is this the guy from the adult bookstore? There wasn't time to think. The elevator chimed, and the door rattled with a powerful knock only seconds later. Might as well open it and figure this thing out. Besides, he was at least one sheet to the wind, and not thinking clearly enough to formulate a strategy.

He opened the door. A tall, well-formed man with wavy brown hair stood in the doorway, but not for long. "Hey, nice room. I wound up at the Holiday Inn. What a shithole." The stranger was inside, and made a beeline straight for the liquor. "Ahhh. Booze. You can't know how happy I am to see this."

The stranger's eyes settled on the TV, where two scantily-clad men were wrestling furiously and pulling at each other's clothes. The mixer he was pouring overflowed the glass and spilled out onto the counter as his eyes and mouth widened simultaneously.

Geez! The watcher sprinted to the VCR and fumbled for the STOP button. Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit! as he pressed one button after another. The men were tearing clothes off each other in fast motion now, the first pair of briefs coming off just as the cord was pulled from the wall. "Video store fucked up" was the only explanation he offered. "Help yourself to a drink and have a seat." He moved briskly to the bathroom to see just how red his face was. A few deep breaths, a splash of cold water, and a flush of the toilet left him feeling a bit less rattled.

He listened intently at the bathroom door to see if he could figure out what the stranger was up to, and swore he heard the crappy soundtrack music very low. He opened the door slowly, to find the stranger eyeing the description on the box of the evening's first tape. "She's cute. But she isn't in the movie, right?" Good, no reason to be ashamed of a liking for porn. Wait–where is the other box? I left it…

His eyes shot to the counter where he remembered laying the box down; it wasn't there. It had been moved to the table, or had it? Maybe he was drunker than he thought.

"No, the great-looking women on the boxes are _never_ in the movies, or, at least, not looking as good as that." The stranger chuckled and eased back in his chair. There. Crisis averted. Now to find out who the hell this guy is.

"You have me at a disadvantage; I must confess that I don't know who you are." "That's okay," the stranger said as he waved off any significance to the question. "We met at this show last year. We rested our feet in the bar after a particularly long day. You left after one drink, telling me you preferred to drink in your room. Cheaper, and better atmosphere, you said. That's when I invited myself to share a drunk with you sometime, and you said "sure." Maybe you didn't mean it, you know, like "let's do lunch." If you want me to leave…"

"No, no, if I said "sure," I meant "sure." But how did you come to call me Larry?"

"Wrong one, huh? I'm lousy with names. Look, it seems like I'm not welcome here, so I'll just go."

The stranger stood, but the watcher was determined. If his mood was to be ruined, at least he could have a drinking companion for a while. Besides, he had a nice…

Stop that! Stupid asshole. Don't let your liquor and libido gang up on you. Jerking off to tapes and smiling at gigolos are one thing, but get that _other_ thought out of your mind. The block was in place. It was shaky, but it held. He poured a mild drink for himself, bade his guest to remain, and resumed his station on the bed, propped up by pillows.

The unidentifiable sitcom was pre-empted by the stranger's hand on the volume knob. The TV was the only light in the room, so he didn't turn it off, but obviously wanted to talk and didn't wish to shout.

"You sure know how to travel."

The watcher remembered the elephantoid load of luggage and sneered. "Yeah, right. I fucked up my back lugging the entire contents of my closet into this place. I definitely do _not_ travel well."

"Oh, but you do where it counts. Liquor and porn, in the comfort of your own room. Porno might be bad, but it's always better than whatever's on regular TV." The stranger picked up a videotape box, eyeing the revealing photo again. "You're sure she's not in that movie?"

"See for yourself." The stranger rose to turn on the VCR, and the watcher remembered that the other tape was still loaded. He sprinted across the room–"I'll take care of it"–and practically knocked the stranger out of his seat. He hunched over the VCR to conceal the label of the tape as it came out. He had already pressed "eject" (found it easy enough this time) before he realized–"I thought I unplugged this thing."

The other tape was tucked away in preparation for a good hiding place. Under the blankets on the bed seemed passable, but his stride was broken by the rattle of plastic. Oh, no. Just as it was about to be swept under the bed, the stranger piped up. "What's that? Hey, it's not fair to keep the good stuff for yourself." A hand dashed out and snatched the tape. The stranger grinned as he read the title. He held up the tape. "This is the one you got by mistake, right?"

Does that mean he bought my story? "Yeah, that's it."

"That other tape looks boring. If I can't see the woman on the cover, I'm not interested. Let's watch this one instead."

Before any protest could be lodged, tapes had been exchanged and the lewd screenplay resumed from where it was. The stranger poured himself another drink. Glancing to the squirming bodies on TV, then the watcher's eyes, then the TV again, he said, "looks familiar." He paused. "Looks…interesting." The scene from the booth played again, with the watcher settled on the bed, and the stranger in his chair nearer the TV. The watcher felt a little self-conscious, but couldn't help but get wrapped up as before with these two men stroking and kissing each other.

There was no quarter's worth now, and things advanced again to the point where the winner was collecting his spoils, and continued this time. The watcher's erection was stiff and moist, and seemed to be aided by the fact that he was no longer watching alone. He studied the stranger's face, and traced down the rest of his physique. The stranger would occasionally look back with a "look at that" or "how do they _do_ that" expression, forcing the watcher to avert his eyes quickly. But he began to feel that he was being studied, too.

The men on the screen had truly gotten down to business. They were locked in a fearsome 69, with the winner on top pumping his cock into his adversary's mouth. His balls were being tickled by adept fingers, and the mix of saliva and jism left a glistening sheen on the shaft as it appeared, then disappeared again. The loser wasn't being neglected, either, because he was being sucked with abandon as well. The winner's technique was a mix of hands and mouth, and his poor subject apparently had all he could do to keep from blowing his load. From the bottom, muffled groans of pleasure could be heard as the cock was driven, again and again, into his mouth.

If it stood still too long, he'd go after it, opening his jaws wide and taking his master deep, kicking off more pumping. The winner lifted his head and moaned, more frequently as the session went on, but always working with the hands, keeping his partner's nerve endings shouting with joy. Then, as he lifted his head again, the winner closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He growled low, and everything stopped. He took a few stuttered breaths. His partner began again, moving his head slowly up and down the length of the shaft, pausing teasingly at the right moments, licking playfully at the pre-cum soaked tip.

He took the cock in his mouth again, excruciatingly slowly engulfing it from tip to base, then starting a rhythm again. First, slowly, then rising in tempo until his partner nearly shouted in pleasure as his cock was swallowed again and again. The loser squeezed his master's ass hard in time with the strokes, and traced between his buns to tickle his hole and balls. Finally, the great groan was heard, as the cock jumped out of the loser's mouth. It was immediately met with two hands–one tightly gripping and stroking the shaft, another vigorously massaging the taut scrotum–and there was cum. It came in great spurts, each one causing his back to arch.

It seemed to go on forever as his partner giggled happily.

The watcher's erection threatened to unbutton his pants for him. The scene drew to a close as the men kissed and cuddled on the screen, then faded out. An attempt at plot intervened as both members of the film's audience drew heavy sighs.

The stranger was first to stand. He stretched and arched backward, revealing that he had problems of his own. The outline of his swollen dick was clearly visible through his thin dress slacks; you could even discern the shape of the head. The watcher didn't know what made a cock "nice," but this one, shrouded though it was, led him to some wild imaginings.

It had been some time since the last drinks, and the stranger held up a drained bottle. "I can fix that," the watcher proclaimed as he headed for the bag in the closet. He bent over to pick it up and–zing!–his back spasmed again. "Whoa." The stranger rushed over. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I must've really messed up my back downstairs."

"You go back and sit down. I'm mooching your liquor, so the least I can do is mix for you." He did, and shortly a full glass was placed in his hands. "You know, you probably didn't do any serious damage. I know how to fix it." The spasm had subsided, but this sounded interesting. "How would you do that?"

"Lie down, face down, and I'll show you." The watcher pushed a pile of pillows aside and stretched out on the bed. Felt nice. The extra pressure against his cock brought an instinctive push into the bed. Mustn't do that.

The stranger stood next to the bed. His hands were warm and strong, and worked the watcher's back and shoulders through the fabric. "Um, it works better," the stranger said, "if you lose _this_." He tugged at the shirt. The watcher turned face-up, grasped the cuff of his shirt and pulled it over his head. The stranger watched approvingly, then offered more advice. "Actually, if you want a _real_ massage, you have to dress down a little more. Then you won't have to get up again. Okay? Go change, and grab a towel from the bathroom. Wearing something that loose will help relax you."

Relax? The watcher's heart was pounding as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. "This is stupid, this is really stupid" he thought as he took off his pants. Standing in his briefs, his nervousness had lost him the erection he'd started hours ago. Now he had to decide how much more to lose. The briefs hit the floor, and a towel was tucked–_securely_–around his waist.

He came out in his towel to find the bed had been rearranged. "Lie down," he was instructed, "close your eyes and relax." The watcher obeyed, taking a giant tug on the drink on the nightstand as he descended.

The stranger knelt on the bed, and spoke again. "I found this," holding a bottle of baby oil close enough to see, "on your dresser. Okay if I use it?" The oil was there, well, for _personal_ use. Seemed appropriate now.

A nod was offered in response, and the sounds which followed added to the suspense. The popping of the top, the squirting of the oil into the palms, the rubbing together of the hands to warm them. Then, first contact. Aahhh, wonderful. He was being worked on at the shoulders first, kneading the muscles and working between the shoulderblades firmly. There was just the right amount of oil–no dripping.

The stranger's hands felt good as they worked their way down, fingering the muscles on either side of the spine, and pushing out to the sides. Nerves there were sensitive; when the hands reached around toward the front, it should have tickled. Instead, it sent a rush of warmth. The watcher lifted his arms over his head to give the hands more room.

Every response was noted, for when the hands would come upon some region that elicited a reaction, that region would be revisited repeatedly. The hands worked the sides of the watcher's torso a lot.

The massage went on, deliciously, for a long time. Every muscle in his back and sides was manipulated, every nerve stimulated. When the lower back was reached, a nerve was struck–"yow!" "That needs work, but–don't take this the wrong way–the towel is in the way." About ready to melt into the bed, the watcher needed no encouragement. "It's history." Bu

Watcher and the Stranger · Part 1 (1/2)
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