Page 15 of Sweet Thing

Chapter 6

SCARY MONSTERS

(and super creeps)

Bastian Roth stood on the street outside number six Tucholsky Straße. His blond hair was wet and tousled, and his lavender linen shirt was damp from the incessant rain. He’d laid the couture suit jacket over his right arm, covering his throbbing hand. A black Mercedes-Benz S-Class Limousine pulled up to the curb. The driver quickly got out and opened the car door for his employer.

“Bring mich nach hause, Lewis.“ Bastian snarled as he ducked into the vehicle and sat. The dark, smoked glass privacy screen in the Limousine rose as Bastian slumped onto the back seat. He was shaking, his right hand hurt like hell, and he wondered whether he had broken it. His gaze flicked to his left hand, which was marked by Simeon Duchamp’s teeth. Bastian sighed deeply and reached to the in-built drinks cabinet with his left hand, shakily pouring himself a whiskey and knocking it back in one gulp. The burn of the amber liquid mingled with the delicious, bitter, salty taste of Simeon’s cum. Bastian settled back into the black leather seat. A glance at his reflection in the privacy screen was met by a look of self-loathing. What was that? Simeon had asked the question, and Bast had no answer. What had he done? What kind of man had he become? Bastian switched off the light, so he didn’t have to look at his reflection, and sat in inky darkness as he was driven through the streets of Berlin, heading north to his home in the Prenzlauer Berg district.

Things had never gotten so out of hand before. Bastian was appalled by his behavior. He had never spanked a lover without verbal consent. But he’d done exactly that—laid his strong, broad hands to that flawless creamy ass and spanked Simeon until he was as rosy as an apple. Admittedly, it was a beautiful sight, and Bastian was awed and alarmed in equal measure that he found it so intoxicating. He adored the sounds Simeon had made—moans of pleasure mixed with yelps, whimpers of pain and the sharp thwacking sound of skin against skin. Bastian found Sim’s tears strangely erotic too. The heat of the young man’s pummeled skin, when his face pressed against it and his raspy stubble caressed, it sent a thrill of longing through his veins. Simeon Duchamp was sublime, edible.

Bastian had been emotionally contained for such a long time. He couldn’t recall when he’d last lost control. Tonight with Simeon Duchamp was the culmination of months of grief, emasculation, frustration, and longing. Bastian had jerked and spanked Simeon to a violent orgasm that saw him spill in his waiting hand. Bastian didn’t recognize the man who had committed that act—who licked that precious gift clean from his fingers as if he’d been starving.

But he was starving.

It had been so very long.

The messed up night was the closest Bastian had come to actually having sex in nearly fifteen months, and still, his body denied his release. Still, his limp prick defied what his mind truly wanted—the sharing of tender, sensual pleasure and the release of orgasm with another man.

At first, Bastian had tried Viagra. Even though he got hard and came, in his heart, he still felt empty, and the orgasms made him feel bereft. Drugs were not the answer.

Bastian felt thoroughly ashamed of what he had done to Simeon. The young model was very attractive, and there was a spark of so much promise between them. He’d recognized sadness in the other man’s eyes and in a way it reflected his own. The compulsion to get to know Simeon—to make his eyes light up with a smile, like the first time they saw each other outside the gallery was so strong, but Bastian had surely ruined it.

Simeon was everything he was looking for in a lover—tall, dark-haired and androgynously beautiful, with a boyish physique and a long slender cock. His perfect pert twink ass was as intoxicating as his smart, flirtatious, and playful personality. From the photographs on his living room wall, Bastian knew Sim was experienced and sexually confident. Simeon knew how to use his body, knew his desires and how to quench them.

He was everything that Bastian was not.

Initially, Bastian had recognized French male model Simeon Duchamp as his car had pulled up outside the Franzen Gallery. He saw how the photographers flocked around him like moths to a flame and was impressed by the way Simeon handled them. Bastian was instantly attracted, and felt a slight stirring of his cock for the first time in ages. The young man was stunning and displayed a streak of wildness that Bastian longed to tame.

But not like this.

Spanking him to submission was never Bastian’s intention. He had been enjoying the taste of the man, the closeness of kissing and touching, enjoying running his hands over that lithe warm body. But then Simeon tried to unbutton his trousers and free his limp prick. Bastian was deeply ashamed of his impotence and realized, to his chagrin, that he couldn’t go through with it. His body knew it would be a betrayal. He would be cheating.

Mattieus had been dead for eighteen months now, but still, Bastian’s body refused to respond to another man. Bastian didn’t have the words to explain to Simeon—a virtual stranger—that he had a problem. Sex with another man was too revealing, too intimate. Bastian couldn’t find the words to express his loss and the reasons behind his inability to get hard. Talking about such feelings with a stranger, talking about his beloved Matti—No, he couldn’t do that.

“Naughty Boy“ Bastian sighed, although he couldn’t decide whether the words were about Simeon or himself.

A cool breeze caressed his skin, and Bastian was rocked from his introspection. The car door was open, and Lewis had been standing to wait for his employer to exit. “Sir?” Lewis prompted in concern at the dazed, disheveled man sprawled on the back seat. Bastian grabbed his jacket from the floor of the limo, winced at the pain in his right hand, and exited.

“Gut nacht Lewis,” Bastian murmured absently and strode towards the front door of his home.

****

Bastian Roth had been bequeathed a huge mansion beside the River Havel in his father, Hugo Roth’s will, but he refused to stay in the mansion, preferring to live in his own period building—an ornate sandstone property on the corner of Choriner Strasse and Oderberger Strasse in the North Berlin neighborhood of Prenzlauer Berg. The five-floored building was one of many Bastian owned in the borough of Pankow.

Bastian’s intention for the evening was to be proactive and try to cure his ‘problem’ by picking up a young man and bringing him to his home. He intended to spoil his young conquest, take it slow and just enjoy a man’s company for a few hours, maybe get drunk and watch porn together and give him a blowjob for starters. But the evening did not go his way.

Bastian took the bird cage elevator to the top floor, stalked down the hall, and opened the front door to his loft apartment. He strode into the open plan kitchen and tossed his jacket toward a chair. It missed and fell to the floor. He sighed, tutted, dragged the jacket from the floor, and fitted it over the chair back. Then he noticed it, there on the marble kitchen floor, and dipped to pick it up. Bastian held the Polaroid he had stolen from Simeon’s wall. ‘New York’s in Love.' He didn’t know why he’d done it. Bastian's eyes roamed the image of the young male models. They looked so happy and comfortable in each other’s arms, and comfortable in their own skins. Pieter Bayer was angelic, and there was an innocence to the man that made the viewer feel unworthy to glance upon such a beautiful creature. And then there was the delicious Simeon Duchamp, long dark hair, arms clutching Pieter as if he were a life raft on a stormy sea. Bastian recalled those chocolate brown eyes and his vision swam—

Deep chocolate brown eyes framed by a white sheet smiled at Bastian. Wrapped in the linen bed sheet, Matti’s eyes were alive with love.

“Ah, so when do I get to unwrap my birthday present?” Bastian chuckled.

“What do you think you’re going to get this year?” Mattieus enquired, running his fingers down the bare muscled chest of his lover.

“Something big and hard… The same gift you’ve given me for the last four years. It’s all I’ll ever want. I’m just so easy to buy for.” Mattieus flashed his eyes and sniggered.

Bastian pulled the bed sheet, and Matti spun around, laughing as the fabric fell away revealing his compact tanned, muscled body and a keen erection. He fell into his lover's arms.

“Happy Birthday, darling. We can do anything you want, your choice.”

“I just want to eat you, Matti, cherish you. You’re my world; you know that. I would be lost without you.” he kissed and licked Matti’s throat, over his Adam’s apple and then nibbled down to his collarbone.

“Well…” Matti sighed, melting into the caresses “Then it’s lucky I’ll never ever leave you. You’re my heart Bast, how could I live without my heart?” Bastian dragged Matti onto the bed.

“Matti,” Bastian sighed, his eyes glazing with tears. Bastian stood and shuffled to the fridge; he grabbed a bottle of beer and flipped the cap on the edge of a black marble work surface. He knocked back the cold drink, downing the small bottle in one, gasping as the icy liquid chilled his throat. Bastian wiped his face with the back of his bruised hand. He winced and searched in the fridge, retrieving a bag of ice and a second beer. Why did I assault Simeon?Why did I steal the photo? For that was what it was, a sexual assault. Bast knew it had begun as self-defense, as he was the one being assaulted by Simeon. But why had he taken it so far?

Bastian sat alone at the kitchen table basking in shame, drinking beer with his hand on an ice pack. He stared at the Polaroid and wondered what he could do to fix the situation. Money and gifts would not work with Simeon Duchamp; he was the son of a multi-millionaire, after all.

Bastian found it strangely amusing that he was attracted to a man that he could not control with his money. Simeon was a challenging creature; he would need to be courted, seduced. That is, if the man would ever speak to him again.

Bastian realized then that he hadn’t even remembered to get Simeon’s phone number. It was strange, Simeon Duchamp was a riddle, and Bastian wanted to know what made the young man tick—what his likes and dislikes were, and what he want out of life. What was that sadness Bastian had observed hiding behind Simeon’s eyes when they first met?

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