a cute, square face with large brown eyes surrounded by thick lashes,
heavy, dark eyebrows, a turned-up nose and a wide, sensual mouth. His head
was completely shaved.
Teague.
At least, he said his name was Teague. This little shit told so many lies
you never quite knew what to believe.
I unlocked the door, opened it wide and took in the full picture.
He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of the jacket, his head cocked
cheekily to one side and wore his invariable tight acid-washed jeans and
the red Docs that I'd bought him. Those boots were immaculate; always rely
on a skinhead to treasure his fuckin' boots . . .
"Wanna dirty-fuck?" he asked.
I regarded him coolly.
"You stink," I remarked. "When did you last fuckin' shower?"
"Dunno; three, four days."
"What the fuck have you been upbizarre
relationship. I closed the front door, threw my robe onto the banisters,
put my heavy combat boots on and eased my hefty cock and balls through a
thick, heavy metal cockring. I groped my crotch and felt my dick swell as I
regarded myself in the mirror before heading downstairs.
Teague had already stripped naked, put his red Docs back on, and was facing
the wall with his legs spread wide, his arms above his head, also stretched
wide and leaning against the wall: the `strip-search' position. A single
overhead light shone directly onto his body and formed a small circle of
light around him, leaving the rest of the cellar space in gloomy, shadowed
darkness.
I skirted `round the edge of the light as I made my way to the sound system
and threw a Hummel CD into