Brazen by Cara McKenna Page A

do for you? Or to you?”
    “Actually,
not that much.” I’d been thinking about that, about what I desired from these young men. “I
want them to sit around quietly, looking pretty, with their shirts off,” I
concluded. “And when I feel like it, I’ll wave one over and do what I like to
him.”
    “Do they need
staying power?” Will asked, and his businesslike calm made me wonder if he’d
ever worked as a casting agent in the adult movie industry.
    “Actually,
no. I don’t plan
on sleeping with any of them.”
    His eyebrows
finally rose with surprise. Or disappointment. “No?”
    I shook my
head. “No. I think I just want to take advantage of them. I don’t want a dozen
feral young men manhandling me. Although if any of them are willing to manhandle each other for my entertainment, I’ll pay them a
little extra.”
    “Right. Anything else?”
    “Yes, Will.
Please fetch me another coffee.”
    * * * * *
    And so that
is how I came to this moment, sitting primly on my overstuffed leather sofa, a
glass of decent pinot on the coffee table and a fine young man in his briefs
beside me, letting me fondle him. I don’t know this man’s name, or any of the
others’. This young man, who’s probably twenty-four or so, tall- ish and built- ish , with brown
hair and eyes whose color I haven’t bothered to notice yet, he’s not the one I
called “trouble” earlier. This one, whimpering softly as I stroke his erection
through the cotton, is exemplary. Quiet, obedient, responsive
and passive. I’m half watching Cool Hand Luke on the television
and half molesting him.
    It’s five in
the afternoon on a rainy Thursday in September. Inside my old four-story
townhouse on Beacon Street (with a fantastic view of Boston Common—what a legal
coup that was) it is cozy and comforting and I am content. If my
neighbors have the time to notice how many attractive young men come and go
from my home in a given week, I think my excuse is solid; I’ve been a
professional photographer for years. And even if they suspect the truth, I
honestly couldn’t care any less.
    It’s
difficult to worry yourself about other people’s opinions when a gorgeous man
is sprawled beside you, thighs spread, dick rock-hard, face straining to try to
hide how close he is to coming.
    “You may
moan,” I say magnanimously when I know he’s on the brink.
    He takes me
up on the offer and soon enough his grunts and groans drown out the movie.
    “Push your
shorts down,” I say.
    His fists are
clenched beside his legs where they won’t get in my way, and now he shoves his
briefs impatiently down his thighs. The cock I’ve been stroking lazily for at
least twenty minutes doesn’t disappoint. Long and thick and
dark.
    Across the
room, seated in my favorite reading chair, is the man I called “trouble”. He is
trouble because it’s his first day here and he’s already flouting my rules. One
rule is that my boys don’t wear shirts. It’s a kind of anti-uniform. Jeans are
fine or just underwear—although no billowy boxers, thank you—and bare feet.
Pajama pants, after nine p.m., are also permissible. But no
shirts. This trouble-man, he’s wearing a gray tee shirt. He looks good
in it but he’s a rule-breaker, nonetheless. I would say it’s a first-timer’s
mistake, but something in his eyes tells me he doesn’t make mistakes.
    This
trouble-man, he’s beautiful. He may be the most stunning man I’ve ever seen, in
person or anywhere. I bet he’s in his later twenties. I bet he’s six-feet even
and I bet he’s hung. That’s what his eyes are telling me with cold confidence. Piercing eyes with some vague, charismatic sadness about them. Clear, bright blue like a chlorine pool. They make my
own water, they’re so intense. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t watch my hand, busy
in the other man’s lap. He stares brazenly at my face. Staring is also against
the rules. I will deal with him later.
    I release the
currently suffering young man’s