Unliely Obsession

I'm not sure what I said while I was in the garage. I was in shock. He certainly didn't say anything or let on about anything. Of course that might be because his boss was standing in the doorway to the office behind me and listening to what was being said.

The mechanic was dressed in loose-fitting coveralls—and maybe just that and the boots, because he didn't have a shirt on underneath them. It was New York in the Christmas season. I was bundled up in a long leather coat and gloves, and it made me shiver to see him clothed so lightly. The service garage doors were closed, but it wasn't warm in the car bays—and it was drafty. The armhole slits of the coveralls went midway down his hips and it was clear he wasn't wearing anything underneath. He was tall and sort of gangly here in the garage of the custom car repair shop. He looked sort of like a stork or a ferret in the light of day. He was something over thirty—maybe closer to forty than twenty. Nothing about him was that attractive, and yet he was sexy to me in ways I couldn't explain but I certainly would feel and reacted to.

"It's the oil pan," he was saying. "The rattle is because it came loose from its screws . . ."

I think I blushed when he said "screws." I know I had every reason to. He was drying oil off his hands while he talked with a rag that was oilier than his hands were. The hands were big, the fingers long and slender. They almost made me hyperventilate. But then I knew where those hands had been, what they had done. Once a man had fucked you it was hard to think of him as anything but a man who has had his way with you.

". . . but you have another problem. While the pan was loose and hanging . . ." there was a provocative word again; he may be no looker, but he definitely was hung. ". . . you ran over something that put a dent in it. I've tightened the screws, but you really need to have a new pan put in. Where it's dented is likely to give and then you'll have a mess on your hands. We can replace that, but for a baby like this, we'll have to order it. Say, maybe you bring it back around 4:00 p.m. next Thursday? Drive it as little as possible between now and then." Even the world "drive" cut into me like a knife.

The baby he was talking about was a classic 1956 Thunderbird convertible. Vijay had bought it for me for when we were stateside. Vijay bought me just about everything I owned—and he didn't stint on cost or style.

"Uh, OK, I think I can do that," I managed to say. He was giving me a noncommittal look. No smile or knowing sneer or anything. Maybe he didn't recognize me.

"Come on into the office, and we'll write it up and make a note of the next appointment," the office manager was saying.

"Uh, sure. Right." I turned to follow the office manager out of the garage bay and then turned and smiled wanly at the mechanic and said, "Uh, thanks. That wasn't as serious as I thought."

"Good," the mechanic said. "It's a sweet ride."

That made me almost hyperventilate yet again, but I looked sharply at him, and there didn't seem to be any double entendre in his voice, even though that was the second time he'd said that to me. Indeed, he didn't really look smart enough to be engaging in word play.

Still he had me hard. The last time he'd said that to me was when he said I had been a sweet ride. I turned and fled into the office.

When I was finished paying the bill for today's work, the baby blue Thunderbird was out on the concrete apron in front of the garage and the mechanic was nowhere to be seen. I drove off and traveled—gingerly, looking for potholes to avoid and trying to follow the tracks in the snow-covered side streets that other cars had plowed—to the new symphony hall that had been built for Vijay's orchestra next to the Bronx Zoo. Although I'd been trembling, I managed to maneuver into the parking garage under the building and parked in my slot, next to Vijay's, which was empty because I'd driven him in from New Rochelle that morning. I'd have to switch cars we used until Thursday.

I put my head down on the steering wheel, closed my eyes, and conjured up the scene from two Saturday's ago—when Vijay was here, conducting one of Alan Horanhess's mystical Armenian symphonies and I was slumming across the river in Chelsea.

Somewhat frustrated at the aloofness of Vijay and him being consumed with Christmas concerts and pulling together the symphony's new season program, I'd searched until I had found a leather bar. I stuck out like a sore thumb there in my preppy button-down shirt, khaki's, and loafers, without socks, on top of my all-American junior accountant looks, which pretty much was what I was for Vijay at the symphony in addition to being his bed partner.

I'm in good shape and enjoy blond good looks and haven't hit thirty yet, so I drew some interest in the smoke- and obscenities-filled air with a slim guy in tight black leather pants and not very much else doing a bump and grind to loud music on a pole on a small platform jutting out from the side of the bar. I guess that's why I went in the bar—to assure myself that I could still draw men's attention and catcalls. There were catcalls aplenty. The pole dancer was getting a few more than I was, but he was working harder for them than I was.

One guy, leaning into the bar, stood out in looking at me like he was looking through me, like he had no interest in me at all. Of course that meant I was interested in him. He certainly wasn't a looker. He was thin and tall and rather gawkish, with a face that was all sharp angles and a mop of greasy black hair. Still, I'd say he was muscular, in a tight, sinewy way, in that there were knots of muscles in all the right places and he was hard bodied, without an ounce of fat on him. His veins stood out in a pattern that made me want to follow them with my tongue and that had me going hard for him even though there shouldn't have been anything about him that was appealing.

It was a biker's leather bar. He was in black leather—tight black leather pants, biker boots, nothing on top except for a black leather harness. He had a funny thing around his waist for a belt, and I shuddered when I realized that it was the strands of a black leather hand whip, with the handle dangling down one of his slim hips. He was covered in crude tattoos that looked like he might have burned them in himself when he was drunk, and there were silver bars pierced in his nipples. His chest was covered with a matting of curly black hair, which ran down into the front of his low-rise trousers in a line that radiated in a way that emphasized his tight six pack as it descended.

He was repulsive and compulsive at the same time. Clearly a bad boy. And wasn't that what I'd come to a leather bar to find? I'd been a bad boy in college and now my life was threatening to go very conventional. Something inside me was fighting that.

He was smoking a cigarette and hefting a beer bottle, and he was covering the ground of both looking past me in contrast to most of the other men in the room ogling and trying to make me and lasering me with his eyes when I glanced his way.

I saw him push himself off the bar, give me a piercing look, and then slowly back to the rear wall of the room and push through a doorway covered with a wooden beaded curtain. Telepathy told me that he commanded me to follow, and so I did.

He went into a small bathroom off a dimly lit corridor. The bathrooms obviously were for assignations, as there were four of them, two on either side of the hall, all one-holers, all with locks inside the doors, and none with a gender designation on them. They obviously were meant to be private and to be tied up for longer than it took to take a piss.

The leather guy went into one of these and when I followed, he pulled me past him. The door didn't lead directly into the stall with a toilet and sink but there was a short corridor little wider than the doorway you had to go through to get there. We never fully got into the bathroom stall. He propelled me abruptly past him and down toward the broken-vinyl tile floor, and I sank to my knees. He kept me there with one hand, while he locked the door with the other and then unbuttoned what was a square codpiece at his crotch on the black leather pants.

He did that slowly, smirking at me, letting me know I was going to suck his cock. And then, when he was free, showing a god-awful-long nine incher—not particularly thick, but particularly long—he pushed it between my lips and into the back of my throat, and I gagged as I serviced him in what he wanted to be a deep-throat experience.

When he was hard as a rock, he pulled me up to my feet, pushing me against the wall of the narrow corridor into the stall, undid my belt and unzipped me, pushed my trousers and briefs down to my knees, and commanded me to kick them off my legs, which I did. There was no kissing. He stiff armed me on the throat with one forearm while staring menacingly into my eyes, while the other one felt me up. I went hard for him. His hand went up the back of my shirt, which he had unbuttoned before feeling up my chest, and I saw his eyes narrow and his mouth form a leery little smile.

He had felt the welts on my back. He knew why I'd come into a leather bar. He probably knew why I had zeroed in on him. It certainly wasn't his looks. It mostly was that hand whip he was using as a belt.

He pulled my shirt off my back, leaving me naked down to my loafers; turned me facing the wall in the passage; forced my arms over my head, palms on the wall, and to leave them there, which I did. The space was so narrow that he leaned his back on the opposite wall, pressed his knees on my thighs under my buttocks.

Then he pulled his "belt" out and gave me a taste of the whip on my back and arms and buttocks. The space was too confining for him to get much of a backswing and they weren't hard lashes, but enough to sting—enough to make me anticipate something more taxing. Trembling and writhing a bit, I moaned for him.

"Like that, do you?" he growled.

"Yes," I admitted in a small, "can't help it" voice.

It was just a taste. He quickly went for the fuck, in a crouching position, his shoulder blades against one wall, his knees pressed into the opposite wall, and me sitting on his thighs. When I'd raised my arms, I found there was a towel bar high up on the passage wall. I grasped that with my hands, my back was pressed against the opposite wall from his, my legs were spread and bent, passing by his chest on either side, and my feet were pressed into the far wall on either side of his chest. He had a choke hold on my throat with one hand and he was flicking my chest and thighs with the whip with the other, while he fucked me with his long, long cock, going deep, taking long slides. I helped by moving to his rhythm, using the leverage of my feet on the wall behind him.

It didn't last for long. I was keyed up, and the taste of the whip was just right. Still we were at it through two banging attempts to let someone in the bathroom, which we ignored. Our intensity was for each other. I wasn't looking for beauty; I was looking for nasty, and he was giving that to me. Our eyes were locked throughout the fuck.

I stroked my own cock to completion while we were fucking in that taxing position. When he'd come in his condom, he pulled back, let me sink to the floor, buttoned up his codpiece, unlocked the door, and, with the growled comment, "That was a sweet ride," was gone, leaving me panting in a puddle on the floor. Later I kept running over in my mind that "sweet" was not a word I'd employ for the ride that had been. But I couldn't claim that "satisfying" wasn't a good word for it.

He'd left the door open and a pair of guys started to enter the bathroom, probably to use it the same way the leather guy and I had, but, upon seeing me on the floor, panting and moaning, they just grinned and went into one of the other johns.

I didn't think I'd ever see the leather guy again, although both the nine-incher and the whip were exactly what I had been looking for that Saturday night.

And I

didn't

see him again—the mechanic who serviced my Thunderbird—until today at the custom car garage just off Westchester Avenue in the Bronx.

* * * *

When I was able to compose myself, I went up to the concert hall, where Vijay was conducting a practice of Gustav Holst's

The Planets

for a concert the next weekend. Vijay Kohli, considered a musical genius now at forty, had been the conductor of the Ahmedabad Symphony—and, indeed, still was—when he was plucked up and offered the position of the conductor of the New York Symphony. This symphony had once been a competitor for the New York Philharmonic, but was subsumed by that orchestra in the 1920s. Now, a consortium of well-heeled music aficionados who weren't being given traction with the New York Philharmonic had decided that there was enough musical talent and interest in New York City to justify another symphony. There certainly was audience demand during the Christmas season for more concerts in New York City than were on offer. This was the money season for musical organizations. The investors had built a new hall in the Bronx and looked for a conductor who would provide symphony music to both compete with and be compatible with the Philharmonic. Vijay Kohli, a mystical Parsee from the Gujariti region of India, who specialized in the mystical music of such composers as Horanhess, Messian, Saint-Saëns, Holst, and Sibelius, fit their bill.

I had studied such music and combined that with entertainment management in graduate school. The symphony backers had hired me, subject to Kohli's approval, to be his management assistant. Kohli had vetted me in symphony management and in his bed and now I lived with him. We spent half the year in New York and half in Ahmedabad. I preferred New York, as Kohli lived like a sovereign prince in Gujarat, which means his fetishes weren't reined in there as much as they were here. I was the only one in his bed here. In Ahmedabad he had a harem of young men in his palace—and I was confined to the boredom of an imprisoning harem. He'd had an established harem and a stable of young men there from before he came to New York. If customs permitted here, I wouldn't be surprised if he would have a harem here too—and would indulge more in his sexual interests.

Regardless of where he was, it was clear in our relationship that I was there to serve him solely, but not as his one and only.

I went into the hall and sat about half way up and watched him at work. There was no mistaking that he was Indian. He was dark both of skin and hair and, although not a thin man, he moved with grace, like a dancer. He was an animated conductor, connecting with all of the musicians at the same time. They loved him and the connection he maintained with them with his dark, long-eyelashed eyes, was almost mystical. It certainly had ensnared me. As with me, he was clear with them that it was all about him, and, like me, they gave him all that he demanded of them. The only difference was that they totally worshipped him in the process and I was using him as a means to an end no less than he used me. I enjoyed being fucked by him—and almost as much being used cruelly by him—but I didn't worship him for the privilege of serving under him.

He dressed exotically—in what would be called a Nehru suit, with a long-sleeved, form-fitting shirt with a Mandarin collar, but with the front open several buttons down to let his black chest hair cascade out. The suit was of a white silk material. The trousers were tight across the crotch and wider at the hem. He wore sandals without socks, even in the cold season in New York. The tops of his feet, with their long, sensuous toes, were covered in curly black hair. He was an exotic being in New York and appreciated as such. The complete package was pure animalistic sex, and it was impossible to watch him work and not get the impression that he was having sex with the music—and the musicians. The audience couldn't be blamed for feeling they were being stroked as well.

The symphony had been an immediate success in New York, given the combination of the mystic material, the excellent musicians, and the sexy, animated conductor.

I was as mesmerized as all of the rest were—when I was with him. When I wasn't, he scared me a bit. I had not enjoyed what he enjoyed in sex before we met. I had been experimental, bad, and sometimes outrageous sexually in college, but nothing like Vijay demanded of me.

He had brought me along, but I was afraid of where he'd taken me—and how much further we might go. I'd been with him in Ahmedabad for one season. My management presence wasn't as pronounced there, as I knew how to get things done in New York but it wasn´t the same in Ahmadabad, and Vijay had a staff there that efficiently served his every whim. In Ahmadabad I was more another young man in his harem than his administrative assistant, and in Ahmadabad he took more liberties in sex and release in using me than he did in New York.

The effect of the harem was that, being only one of several who might be selected, and otherwise being left for extended times with nothing but anticipation of having some attention given me, when he did call me to his bed, I was willing to give him anything. He, in turn, took everything before sending me back to the harem to pine for the next time. The next time usually was long in coming as a night with him left me with welts and evidence of beating that he would want healed before he used me again.

Thus, I had mixed feelings after I drove him back to New Rochelle that evening in a light snowfall and saw that he was packing and learned that he was leaving for India earlier than planned, right after New Year's, but didn't need me to come out there early. He didn't ask me what I thought about it, and I knew that his mind was still in the concert hall, going over that weekend's program. He could go through an entire symphony in his mind, individual instrument note by note, and not miss a dynamic or a nuance.

His possession by the current musical work didn't stop him from taking me hard and totally that night, though. His bedroom was more mystical temple than bed chamber. Vijay was a combination of an ascetic and an aesthetic. His furnishings were sparse, but those he had had to be beautiful and sumptuous. His bedroom was dominated by a wall of cascading waterfall spilling down behind a trench of open-flame, flickering fire, fire and water being agents of ritual purity in his Zoroastrian religion, and by a gigantic four-poster bed with thick, carved posts at the four corners. The strength of the posts was functional, because they supported restraints and could withstand the writhing of a full-grown man.

That evening, Vijay "sexed" me up by laying me, naked, on my stomach and kneeling over me, in his white silk robe and loincloth, and sucking and tonguing on my hole until I was begging for his cock even though I knew what he needed to prepare himself to fuck me—and that his preparation of himself necessitated bringing out raw pain in me.

When I was fully wanting it, he made me kneel at the foot of the bed, my arms extended and bound to the posts at the foot of the bed and there, in the dark other than the fire in the trench playing on the cascading water and the sound of my moans and groans mixing with the sound of the waterfall and a recording of Orff's

Carmina Burana

permeating the room, he strapped me on the back and legs with a wide strap of leather until he had hardened up enough to saddle up behind me, strip off his loincloth, and fuck me hard, fast, and deep. His cock was unusually long, reaching into the core of me and working me there with his magic. He was training me to the need for a long cock and the sting of the whip.