Faggots Read Online Free PDF Page B

cheeks in his hands and he buried his face in it like an elegant pillow in a perfect Italian palazzo overlooking the blue Mediterranean where they could be when they were living happily ever after. If they hadn’t moved to England. Then he moved his face down and under, and inspected, like a mechanic beneath a Porsche on the overhead rack. The cock was perfect, the balls were perfect, the conjunction of all parts was perfect. Fred was glorying in the knowledge of true ownership: this Perfection is Mine! I love it!
    And in he stuck his tongue into Dinky’s asshole.
    He just did it. It tasted good. It tasted very good. It was smooth and clean, rather like a good quality moist satin. Dinky’s asshole was lined with a lovely ribbon!
    And Dinky was obviously enjoying it, because he was growing an even larger hard-on than any Fred had seen him grow during their times together, which had not always been the case, Dinky’s hard-ons, which was something Fred didn’t like to think about or look at, as he now was looking at Dinky’s own present giganticism.
    Then they went into Fred’s bedroom, which was a perfect room of plants and indirect lighting and soft music and a wide mattress upon a gray platform with a hanging black-and-brown curtain of duck canvas to wrap around it all as they had their secret picnic with each other. After a slight detour to the john, Fred then allowed himself once again to be fucked.
    It hadn’t always been such. Before Dinky, Fred had not liked to get fucked, even though he had noted over the years that those he was fucking always seemed to be enjoying it more than he was in doing it to them. No, it took Dinky to show him the way, in a manner that no number of years of advice and pamphlets and manuals on “Painless Rectal Intercourse”—replete with their diagrams of all canals and passageways and orifices and advice to “relax,” so that these could bend and sway—had been able to do.
    No, Dinky had showed him how. With tenderness. Dinky was the most tender lover Fred had ever known. He was soft and, while not actually giving—Dinky was not a kisser or a toucher, unless stoned, when he did both beautifully—he managed to convey in lying there, with Fred sitting on his cock above him, that the gentle movements back and forth—making them one, oh happiest moment of moments! Making Them One! Dinky and Fred! get the embroidered towels ready! order them now! find that spot in the country! sign the lease! Dinky will remodel! happily ever after is beginning right this very Now—were the most pleasing Fred could ever recollect receiving. From anyone. Did not such tenderness mean his heart beat for Fred!
    Indeed, to be fucked pleasurably is a gift.
    And then Fred said it: “I love you, Dinky.”
     
     
     
    Richard “Boo Boo” Bronstein stood at the dark end of an abandoned pier by the mighty Hudson and, while he was having his cock sucked by a balding, bobbing head belonging to an older gentleman, further fantasized that with which his life was now obsessed. His own self-inflicted kidnapping.
    The papers would be full of it. Richard Bronstein, the twenty-four-year-old son of the multimillionaire cake-mix manufacturer turned movie producer who had divorced the sporting-goods heiress after the bar mitzvah of their second son, Richard, in order to marry the former teen-aged cover girl from New Zealand, who was then replaced by Miss Australian Butter, and then Miss South African Gold, had disappeared. Through her tears, Mrs. Ephra Lopp Bronstein, the first, rich, and American one, would announce on Walter Cronkite that it was all her husband’s fault.
    Boo Boo knew he would cry when he saw his mother on the news. But the experience will be very good for her, he thought. She is entirely too selfish. Besides, she should hate Pop as much as I do.
    And, just thinking about it, he came in the older gentleman’s mouth.
    The father, Abraham Bronstein, he who was the son of immigrant German peasants,