Einar responded to Moe's bewildered expression with an almost indifferent reaction—he simply retrieved a tube of lube and condoms from the nightstand, neatly placing them beside the pillow. The actions were calmly measured, businesslike, reminiscent of a ten-year-strong marriage, as if no one straddled Moe's thigh with a wet cock a moment ago. The sensations were peculiar, unfamiliar, but Moe dismissed overthinking it—well, he'd give marital-like sex without the actual marriage a shot; that was the main point. It was something he hadn't experienced before, so he chalked up the oddness as a complementary element to the silk sheets. There's always a touch of bitterness or peculiarity, even in a perfect dish, and this particular nuance seemed oddly appealing.
Einar demonstrated adept skill in kissing and caressing, and before long, Moe, exploring and growing accustomed to Einar's impeccably sculpted physique, was breathless. Taking matters into his own hands, he squeezed some lube onto his fingers to apply. He explained, "I always do it myself; I had a bad experience once."
"I understand," Einar initially displayed impatience, shifting onto his hands and knees to provide Moe with space, his gaze fixated where Moe's fingers were at work, swallowing greedily in anticipation. "May I?"
“You should,” Moe opened up wider and extended his neck in the same slow motion that Einar was pressing in, spreading the stubborn, tight walls. “Oh my God-”
“Just call me Einar,” Einar pressed his lips together with a chuckle, moving in shallow thrusts, and soon Moe wasn't analyzing —once fully in, Einar paused for a moment to let him get used to it, lifted one of Moe's legs onto his forearm, and began pistoning hard and vigorously, letting go, releasing himself from restraint.
Moe moaned rhythmically, squinting in a mixture of pleasure and a hint of pain – Einar was a bit bigger than he was used to. He willingly kissed Einar's lips, dry from the race, gripped and scratched his smooth, muscular shoulders, expertly grasped his firm buttocks, and met the powerful and pleasurable thrusts of the iron shaft. The climax, predictably intense after a month of abstinence, surged abundantly. Moe, shuddering one last time, gave a husky warning, “No knot.”
“Damn, you could have mentioned that earlier,” Einar grimaced, squeezed his cock at the base, and exited, breathing heavily. “You're a buzzkill, Mickey.”
“Moe,” Moe corrected him, sliding lazily along his body to the still hard cock with the swelling knot. Removing his fingers, he wrapped his own around the knot, massaging it softly and firmly, pulled off the condom, and took the wet, cum-spewing head into his mouth, creating a vacuum inside. Einar sobbed, arching up, bucking under the unexpected caress, moaning, “Yaaah, that's it. More, Moe...”
Moe milked the knot until it was soft, spitting the cum carelessly onto the silk robe on the floor, wiped his lips with the palm of his hand, and plopped down beside Einar, who was panting, quivering residual pleasure.
“I believe I've earned a place to stay.” Moe nudged Einar in the shoulder. "A solo night's stay, sound good, kid?"
“Huh?” Judging by Einar's bewildered expression, he was a bit out of sorts. “What?”
“Just let me catch some Zs,” Moe mimicked sleep with folded palms against his cheek. ‘Snooze, snore, sleep like a log, in the arms of Morpheus, suspended animation...”
“Understood,” Einar shifted to the edge and tugged the blanket, but Moe smacked his arm. “What?”
“I'm used to sleeping solo,” Moe nudged him off the bed with his feet and settled in the middle, getting comfortable.
“You've got a lot of nerve,” Einar, who had landed on the floor with a thud, got up, rubbing his backside. “But because of that blowjob I will let it slide, good night.”
"Good night," Moe playfully blew a kiss, switched off the bedside lamp, patiently waited for Einar's departure, and then shifted to a more contemplative mood, gazing wistfully at the ceiling, hopeful for a night without nightmares. Taking a deep breath, he eased into relaxation, preparing for a peaceful slumber, softly murmuring the timeless, "Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch the tiger by the toe if it hollers..." and drifted off to sleep.
He awoke to an unusual and absolute calm, feeling remarkably refreshed after a long sleep. A disbelieving smile played on his lips as he surveyed the semi-darkness, observing the predawn sky adorned with lingering stars and the fading moon. Morpheus had been kind to him during this night of apparent luxury, bestowing upon him a peaceful sleep free from nightmares. Moe greeted the morning with a lazy stretch, appreciative of the respite, and felt his rested muscles gradually springing to life. This dawn deserved to be savored, prompting Moe to tiptoe out of the bedroom and into the living room. Aimlessly navigating, he eventually stumbled upon the kitchen, where the sight of a gleaming chrome coffee machine prompted him to offer a whispered expression of gratitude.
“Greetings, machine," switched it on, rummaged through the cupboard, fetched a cup, made a double Americano, retrieved a slice of jamon and cheese from the fridge, tore open a pack of croissants, sliced one open, put the jamon and cheese inside, garnished it with the discovered mini gherkins, took a bite of the sandwich, grabbed the cup, and retreated back in, leaving the light on.
By the time he returned, the dawn had painted the sky a delicate pink, pushing the moon and stars away, and Moe relished the tranquility, alternating sips with bites. He hadn't accompanied Einar yesterday for nothing; he had received an unforgettable night after an ordinary sex. Having finished his coffee and croissant, he fidgeted - it was time to depart before receiving a metaphorical kick. There was no sense in presenting himself as a stray dog in front of his benefactor, who had gained access to his body for some inexplicable reason. He cleansed himself in the shower, rinsing off the remnants of yesterday's indulgence, brushed his teeth with a fresh brush, took his pills with tap water, adorned himself with his watch - that's it, the maximum of the minimum was accomplished, and he could take off.
He exited, but just beyond the apartment door, he was promptly intercepted by two imposing figures with equally impassive expressions. They proceeded to frisk his pockets and inspect his backpack. Moe glared defiantly as one of them extracted a bottle from his backpack, arching an eyebrow in silent inquiry.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Actually, that's mine. Ever heard of respecting private property, asshole? Put it back!”
“Easy, Sam. If he wanted to steal, he'd go for something more valuable than wine,” the other guy wrinkled his nose, and the first one obediently returned the bottle.
“Damn,” Moe concluded, snatching his backpack. “Perhaps a cavity search? I might have diamonds up my ass.”
“I reckon the owner put something else in there,” Sam chuckled, and Moe retaliated by kicking him in the shin, infuriated. Sam snarled and raised his fist, but the other, evidently more seasoned and composed, intercepted his hand, and Moe wearily suggested,” Fuck off already, will you?”
Moe, aware that he had pushed his luck to the limit, decided not to press further and hurried toward the elevators. This was the price he paid for a luxurious lodging! Next time, think before agreeing. However, in the elevator, Moe began to cool down. It wasn't the first time he was manhandled, and it certainly wasn't the first time he had faced confrontation. That was tolerable, and he leaned against the wall, casually observing the changing numbers on the display, contemplating his next destination.
He decided on the beach as the next destination. Moe deposited his backpack and watch inside a locker, reclined on a deck chair still cooled by the night, and gazed at the vibrant sea with its soothing surf, relishing the quiet joy coursing through his entire being. The proximity of children's laughter woke him abruptly. He sprang up, clutching his bare wrist before remembering the watch was in the locker. Settling back, he pondered lazily about his plans. With enough money for a couple of days, part-time work could wait, and he resolved to immerse himself in everyday routines.
Reaching the still-chilly morning sea, he waded in up to his waist and took a refreshing dive. The water ignited his body, finally awakening it. Snorting contentedly, Moe swam breaststroke toward the bright, eye-blinding sun. Exhausted, he returned to the shore, rinsed off in the prepaid public locker room, dressed, and briskly headed to Downtown, scouting for a laundromat along the way.
In the laundromat, he exchanged a five-dollar bill for coins, arranging rank clothes in rows from sealed bags, causing the indignantly clean neighbors to recoil. Loading the first batch, he settled onto a folding armchair, fixating on a clock displaying local, Singapore, and Madrid time, getting lost as usual in thoughts of the two contrasting places, never seen before but immensely significant to him. He snapped out of his reverie at the machine’s beep, retrieved the clean clothes, loaded the second batch, and placed the first one into the dryer, paying for it as well. Seated again, he gazed at the clock, which transported him from the tropical island to the European continent, feeling a warm smile—this time, in this place, was comforting and pleasant. When the final batch was done, he wiped the inside of his backpack and the laundry bags with a wet disinfectant wipe, ridding them of dirt and odors—he didn't want any more mold or fungus. Neatly folding everything, he slipped into the straps and sluggishly made his way towards the subway.
The day of rest demanded a cultural agenda, practically insisted on it, and Moe dutifully headed to the Museum of Natural Sciences, intending to spend the entire daylight hours there with only a brief break for lunch. He lingered at each exhibit, attentively following the audio guide—perhaps, no tourist, at least in Moe's estimation, had ever devoted so much attention to the museum. After exhausting himself, he took a one-hour break in the museum cafeteria, enjoying a cup of coffee and a burger, and then continued, following the schedule of lectures outlined in the program. During the lecture on the Neolithic period, Moe comfortably settled into the dimly lit hall, shielding his watch with his fist to prevent any potential theft, and rose with a sigh when his muscles began to ache from sitting in an uncomfortable chair. He then proceeded leisurely to another hall.
Moe departed from the museum as dusk settled in, steering toward West Adams. He secured all valuable items, including his watch, and half of his possessions in the familiar locker, just in case his backpack was snatched. After lightening his load and halving the weight of his backpack with a swift movement, he entered the bustling crowd with caution, maintaining a vigilant gaze despite his familiarity with the area—he knew better than to let his guard down in West Adams. It was only in a familiar back alley, "fragrant" with the scent of decay and filth, that he allowed himself to relax. Seated with Uncle Henley, he greeted the elderly man, shook his arthritic, dry hand, and handed over sandwiches he had bought on the way, a bottle of wine, and the head of cheese from the previous night, arranging his backpack comfortably behind his back.
“Hi Hen, how are things?”
“Hi, Moe. They are better now," Henley, invigorated by the sight of the bottle, busied himself, searching for a place to hide it. “I have something for you, hold on,” he sifted through a box deteriorating from moisture and age, retrieved a tattered book, and handed it to Moe. “Take a look.”
“Maugham?” Moe raised his eyebrows in puzzlement. “Thanks.”
“You don’t get it, Moe,” Henley said, trembling and licking his lips impatiently. He deftly uncorked the bottle with an iron chopstick he'd swiped from a Korean joint and poured the wine into paper cups taken from the same place. “Firstly, it's an old book, and I specifically went to a secondhand bookstore for you.” Henley drank half a glass without waiting for Moe and sighed, savoring the moment and softening. “Wonderful wine, Moe, wonderful! Secondly, Maugham wrote about the tropics, including Singapore. Find the short story "The Four Dutchmen" and get a feel for the colonial atmosphere.”
“Oh, thank you,” Moe responded in a different tone, absent-mindedly taking the wine glass, and began to read aloud, “The Van Dorth Hotel at Singapore was far from grand. The bedrooms were dingy and the mosquito nets patched and darned; the bath-houses, all in a row and detached from the bedrooms, were dank and smelly. But it had character. The people who stayed there, masters of tramps whose round ended at Singapore, mining engineers out of a job and planters taking a holiday, to my mind bore a more romantic air than the smart folk, globe-trotters, government officials and their wives, wealthy merchants, who gave luncheon-parties at the Europe and played golf and danced and were fashionable. The Van Dorth had a billiard-room, with a table with a threadbare cloth, where ships' engineers and clerks in insurance offices played snooker. The dining-room was large and bare and silent. Dutch families on the way to Sumatra ate solidly through their dinner without exchanging a word with one another, and single gentlemen on a business trip from Batavia devoured a copious meal while they intently read their paper. On two days a week there was rijstafel and then a few residents of Singapore who had a fancy for this dish came for tiffin. The Van Dorth Hotel should have been a depressing place, but somehow it wasn't; its quaintness saved it. It had a faint aroma of something strange and half-forgotten. There was a scrap of garden facing the street where you could sit in the shade of trees and drink cold beer. In that crowded and busy city, though motors whizzed past and rickshaws passed continuously, the coolies' feet pattering on the road and their bells ringing, it had the remote peacefulness of a corner of Holland.”
With each word, amidst the sweet-tart aftertaste of the fine wine, Moe drifted away to distant Singapore. He remained oblivious to the modern crowd, the hustle and bustle, the sharp shouts of local youth, and Henley's clucking. The latter was already savoring the remaining wine like a connoisseur. Reading aloud to himself, Moe was lying on a mattress in a twenty-foot container, converted into a home by some eccentric. There, he pressed himself against the side of Henley, who instantly started snoring. Moe fell asleep well past midnight, clutching the book to his chest.