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  Aching For It

  Stanley Bennett Clay

  Dominican Heat, Book One

  Handsome Hollywood photographer Jesse didn’t expect to fall in love when he and fellow black gay comrades ventured on a ”sexcursion” to the Dominican Republic, where gorgeous young locals offer erotic delights for a reasonable price. But fall in love he did when he met, under the noblest circumstances, the young and hauntingly beautiful Dominican bodega worker Étienne.

  A whirlwind romance of deep love and hot, steamy sex ensues, but getting his man to the States is no easy task for Jesse. He’ll do everything within his power, even a little law-breaking with the help of his devil-may-care sister, to ensure that his and Étie’s love flourishes just as hot in Southern California as it did in their island paradise.

  A Romantica® gay/GLBT erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  ACHING FOR IT

  Stanley Bennett Clay

  Dedication

  For Reny

  Chapter One

  In 1999, I was a different kind of man. Seeing Étienne Saldano working behind the counter of a bodega in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, changed me. I was completely in love, as sure as my name is Jesse Lee Templeton III.

  Before I met Étie that year, the pain of my ex-lover Sean cheating on me ached inside me like stomach cancer. So when my good friend, travel agent William Castle, told me he was planning a two-week sexcursion to Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic, where young male sex workers, known as bugarrones, were readily available for as little as twenty American dollars, I told him to count me in. Spending two weeks forgetting about that slut Sean and fucking and getting fucked by some of the hottest men on the planet was right up my alley.

  Once we checked into Casa de Mita, euphemistically called Casa de Juan, or House of John, the sex fest was on. As promised, hot Caribbean hunks found their way to the open-air lobby of House of John where we horny Americanos waited with bated breath.

  A stunning, burnt-yellow bandolero with a jet-black mustache as thick as his whiskey-colored lips was the first to arrive. A copper-toned hottie, bow-legged from the weight of his bulging package, followed. A mocha beauty with a killer smile and dimpled cheeks licked his lips and caressed his balls in the entryway of the lobby.

  It was Christmastime in the Caribbean as one gorgeous bugarrone after another entered bearing the ripe-and-ready fruit of sexual promise and gratification. Each hand-selected boy toy was ready and willing to give us American visitors the full tour of Dominican heat that flamed between their legs for as little as two hundred pesos a ride. It was the dream situation for any hunk-loving, ass-worshipping, dick-lover, primed and oiled for two full weeks of no-strings-attached sex. No hole would go undrilled. No drill would go unpolished.

  And so, night after night, I fed my hungry ass with luscious Dominican pinga and, as one who loved fucking as much as getting fucked, fed many a tight Latin hole with my fat black dick that more than lived up to the stereotype. I had died and gone to boy-sex heaven.

  Or so I thought.

  I soon discovered “too much of a good thing” is a valid concept. After six straight days and nights of fucking and getting fucked by nameless and shameless island beauties, I was becoming dulled by it all. Around-the-clock sex suddenly began to feel like a steady diet of ice cream and cake, and I was turning emotionally wretched by the sickening sweetness. The need to fuck my ex out of my consciousness was no longer a need. Something inside me nagged relentlessly as I constantly traded one spent model in for another. Here I was in this beautiful country spending most of my time humping in a bed underneath a squeaky Casablanca fan. I couldn’t see the paradise for the trade.

  So when I finally came up for air, that’s when it happened. That’s when Étienne happened to me.

  Chapter Two

  I didn’t want to believe it, and neither did he, but it was love at first sight when Étienne and I met at the little shop called Bodega Colonial where he worked. Even though neither one of us verbalized what was in our hearts, our meeting was ostensibly business. I was simply a professional photographer from the States asking a handsome young man to model for me. He was a young bodega-counter worker gladly jumping at the chance to make one hundred American dollars just for posing and being photographed all around the city. But suddenly we couldn’t help ourselves, couldn’t keep our feelings to ourselves. In a matter of days, we both confessed our love for each other.

  And yes, I almost lost Étie once he found out through a chance encounter with Sylvester Winfrey, one of my sexcursion vacation mates, and Sylvester’s personal bugarrone of choice Edgar that I was just another john at House of John, the notorious whorehouse gay Americanos frequented for the purpose of sexually exploiting Étie’s fellow countrymen.

  His surprise when he saw Edgar with Sylvester, my surprise when I realized Edgar was Étie’s ex he’d left when Edgar became a sex worker was the shocking and near-fatal dénouement that threatened to smother our infant love before it was able to fully breathe.

  But love did indeed claim a conquest. When Étie realized I had abandoned my sexploitations even before meeting him, and that I had fallen in love with his country and had fallen in love with him, he forgave me.

  I checked out of House of John and into the Santo Domingo Hilton, where we shared our first and final night of intimacy before I returned home.

  And what a night it was.

  I didn’t know if it was real or just some wonderful, magical dream.

  Was I suddenly kissing him? Sweetly stunned by the taste of his warm, probing tongue exploring my wanton mouth, teasing my hunger to have any part of him inside of me, and me in him? Was the running of my fingers through his raven hair, then touching his handsome face with the beautiful scar underneath his right eye, a desire fantasized or a distinct occurrence?

  Was my twenty-four-year-old new Latin lover really naked in my thirty-eight-year-old arms? Was his thick, stiff young dick really cradled against mine? Was the hot thrill of him against me too unreal to be real?

  No. It was as real as our new and mighty love. Our lovemaking was proof positive.

  When we gave each other oral pleasure to the point of near explosion, pulling away simultaneously, forcing our passionate gluttony to hold back some for what was to come, then we knew that our love was so much more than a dream.

  When he teased and then entered my hungry asshole ever so gently with his pulsing dick and built his rhythm inside me into a frenzy of unbearable pain and pleasure, I shuddered with the deliciousness. I slammed my begging hole into his hot lap of lust and luxury. My wicked grimaces, my heedless wailings as he fucked me with a masterful skill, on my stomach, on my back, then doggy-style, were my cries for more and then more. He lathered my bucking back with his moist and warm kisses and his sweet musty sweat.

  I desperately tried to bury and muffle my unbearable ecstasy in the pillow beneath my chin. But the thrill couldn’t be tamed. So I neighed, part into the pillow I now chewed on, and part into the bed sheets I clutched for dear life, until we both exploded, he inside the condom inside my grateful rectum, me in gushes wild and splattering without me ever touching myself.

  And then we collapsed into each other’s arms again. We kissed each other, tasted each other like desperate spouses the night before one of us would be deployed to some distant, battlefield. In fact, I indeed would be deployed back to my Southern California home in less than ten hours. Our time together before my departure was short and precious. So before we knew it, we were at it again.

  He was on his back. His legs were on my shoulders. Both our dicks bobbed and weaved and shuddered with the weight of their bone-readiness.

  “I love you so much, baby,” I whispered softly, bending down to him, k
issing the crown of his precious cock, sparkling and beautifully mushroomed from the loose foreskin I’d pulled back with one cupped hand, while my other hand toyed furiously with my own naked-headed, rock-hard cock, pre-cum erupting from its slit. And suddenly I couldn’t keep myself from sucking that golden stick of joy of his, with a gluttony barely restrained, until I had spread his legs and found his other treasure.

  The sight of his glistening hole made me tremble. The sweet, sweaty pucker of his slightly hairy ass was an aphrodisiac. My nose scouted with earnest his dizzying manroma. And then my tongue bum-rushed and feasted hungrily upon the entrance to nirvana.

  “Oh yes, Papi, yes…” he moaned as my anxious tongue found its way inside him. His hunger, as ravenous as mine, was desperate for a feeding.

  “Yes, Papi, yes…it is all yours.”

  He found the condom by touch, tore open the package with his teeth, and with one hand, slipped it on me and rolled it down my nervous shaft. I lubed him gently between his legs. One finger, then two, found their way inside his warm and pleading ass.

  He writhed up and kissed me. His tongue dug deep into my mouth. He then arched himself and found my throbbing dick with his ass. He teased himself upon me, impaled himself with a force that caused him to gasp, to hold his breath, then let it out with a baby’s whimper.

  The pleasure dizzied me. The warmth of his tight and moist insides consumed me.

  He gently grabbed my cakes and guided me into a rhythm in step with his own. In little time, the grinding and the pumping was marvelously desperate.

  Our kisses and grasping became frenzied. Our passion threw us to the floor, against the wall, in positions impromptu and invented by lust and love.

  “Fuck me, Papi,” he begged in desperation. On a mission, I obeyed.

  His hard and chiseled body, all six feet of him, was splayed against the wall he fucked while I fucked him. He reached up and clawed that wall. He reached back and clawed my ass. He jammed me deeper into the ass I now knew completely belonged to me.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! Por favor!” He begged and screamed and demanded as his nursing hole tightened and flexed and choked my pounding penis. I panted breathlessly and licked his neck whorishly. Desperately I rode him and kissed him. I twisted stiff nipples on hard-flexing pecs with abandon. We were lost in each other, in the righteous ether of the nasty, profane and profound, until at once we exploded—me inside of him, him splattering the wall and his six-pack torso with a double load of thick, white man-cream—with hosanna-like screams and matching cries of jubilation that shattered tranquility and threatened to summon the law.

  I knew I had found my love mate.

  Chapter Three

  Some information can’t be shared with everyone, but when someone, something, delivers a level of happiness you’ve not known before, it’s hard to hold back. I wanted to declare our love, Étie’s and mine, from the highest mountaintop.

  Yet there were those who didn’t share our joy. Sylvester Winfrey was one. I suppose I really shouldn’t blame Sylvester for his cynical take on my romantic bliss. He would be the first to tell you that romantic love was not his thing, that he got involved in intimate situations just for the sex.

  “I’ll let all you other stupid motherfuckers put a hoop through your noses and get dragged through the muck and mire of emotional slavery,” he preached.

  Fortunately for me, I would only have to listen to his mouth for the hour and a half plane ride from Santo Domingo to Miami, where our connecting flights took us to separate destinations, him to Shreveport, me to Los Angeles. I guess he felt the same way about my mouth, because I did go on and on and on about Étie. But I couldn’t help myself. That’s what people in love do; go on and on and on.

  Before boarding my connecting flight, I called Étienne again, already missing him terribly. Hearing his voice dizzied me. Hearing him say, “I love you, Papi,” almost made me rebook a flight on the spot back to Santo Domingo. We hung up with the bitter-sweetness suffered exclusively by new lovers parting for the very first time.

  I then called my crazy and beautiful baby sister Francesca. Still somewhat skeptical, considering the infidelity of my ex Sean, she didn’t want me jumping at the first cute young thing that rebounded my hope after Sean had turned me into a romantic agnostic. But I was back in the temple of love again, and though Frankie had her concerns, even she had to confess that there was something in my voice different enough, encouraging enough, eyes-wide-open determined enough, that made her believe maybe, just maybe, this was the one.

  The six-hour flight from Miami to Los Angeles seemed interminable only because I couldn’t wait to see my younger sister’s expressively beautiful face. She picked me up at the airport, and we hugged and kissed and then laughed and gossiped as the warm Santa Ana breeze played in my dreads and teased her buzz cut as we sailed down La Cienega Boulevard in her Mercedes CLK320 convertible.

  Before dropping me off at home, we stopped for drinks at The Abbey in West Hollywood, where all the model-quality young white gay boys water-holed. Although they were just a haze to me, they truly struck Miss Frankie’s fancy in that usual lustful way of hers. And they flirted back, as young white gay boys do in the presence of a beautiful black diva, which my baby sister was and still is. It took me a moment to distract her flirtatious stares with the pictures I had taken of Étie.

  “Dayum, Junie!” she gasped, almost choking on her cosmopolitan. “I’d do his ass even if he was a fucking serial killer.”

  “Okay now, Miss Thing,” I warned humorously, “hands totally off.”

  “Well, all I can say, Big Bro, is that he is totally beautiful. And you deserve some beauty in your life.”

  “Thanks, Sis.”

  “I just hope to God he’s as beautiful inside as he is outside.”

  “He is, Frankie. He really, really is.”

  * * * * *

  A month later, after my heart threatened to burst, I returned to the Dominican Republic and to my baby Étie. Señor Trujillo, Étie’s boss at Bodega Colonial, gave him a few days off so he could spend time with me.

  Seeing Étie again in the flesh after an agonizing month-long absence, and being with him for those precious few days, was beyond words.

  We booked accommodations at a lovely, all-inclusive resort in Punta Cana, a storybook repose on the northern shore of the island, and wasted no time once we checked in to our room.

  As indelible as the picture of him was in my mind, beholding Étienne in the flesh, watching him slip out of his white linen shorts, revealing his full nakedness before me moments after we were securely behind closed doors, was seeing him new again. How could I have forgotten how perfectly formed he was? Or was my love for him so newly intensified that this beholding simply magnified his beauty?

  “I wait so long to give you this,” he purred, standing in the puddle of linen, his jet-black hair gleaming and tussled by the T-shirt he’d pulled over his head and discarded. A curly lock dangled lazily over his right eye. He stood generously before me, a welcome-home gift poised to house my love.

  Before I knew it, I was kissing him and he was kissing me. We were in each other’s arms. The feel of his nakedness against my leisure travel wear was a challenging impediment, so he tore my shirt open, popping buttons in his quest, tearing it off my sweaty torso. Hungrily he kissed my chest then returned to my lips. He then worked my pants down over my own stiffening penis, which he grabbed as he kissed me, playing with it rambunctiously like a child’s favorite toy. His mouth wanted a taste, but as he went down, I stopped him, pulled him back up toward me, and chuckled breathlessly as I looked into his pleading eyes.

  “Hold on, baby,” I said in a husky pant. “Let me shower off the funk of that six-hour plane ride first.”

  “I no care,” he whispered in the ear he was now nibbling on, grabbing my sweaty balls with one hand while finding the moist crack of my ass with the other. “I lick your funk clean.”

  He then pulled the ball-caressing hand slowl
y from my crotch and licked and sucked his exploring fingers, savoring with closed eyes the musk of my genitals, causing my heart to flutter with the thought of those sucking and licking lips sucking and licking me.

  We grabbed each other and in the heat of our passion, tumbled to the floor, kissing and moaning and laughing and giggling as our naked bodies collided and we tussled like wrestlers in love. We touched each other everywhere, probed each other’s pecs and limbs and feet and appendages and orifices and genitals with hot and moist mouths, spit-lubricated fingers and twittering tongues.

  My sweat was now his sweat, and our commingled funk enveloped us in a haze of sixty-nining. He was on his back, sucking my dick and licking my balls dangling just above his head. I was on my knees, my face buried in his solid, sturdy ass cheeks, my tongue dining ravenously inside his tight hole.

  “Damn, baby, I love you so much,” I managed to say between eating his ass and sucking his dick.

  “I love you too, Papi,” I heard him say, over and over, with panting and smacking and slurping.

  And then it was happening. I knew I was near. I knew, and he knew that he was near too. Desperately I turned myself around and climbed his straining body. I was on top of him, kissing him hungrily, and he was kissing me with equal hunger. Our dicks, sandwiched between us, were rock-hard and ready to explode as we grinded each other into an intense heat.

  “Ah! Ah! Ah!” he shrieked passionately as he shot hot cum against my dick and stomach, against his stomach, flooding the airless crevices that barely existed between our entwined bodies.

  And before his rod was drained, my panting cries announced the second coming—my bucking, braying coming. The flames of intolerable bliss shot through my quivering body as I held him, kissed him desperately, shook savagely, cried his name and exploded furiously—gloriously—into that hot, delicious milk of his. I dumped what seemed a bucketful as I twisted and shouted on top of him, deliriously lost in the love puddle we had birthed. He held me tightly, laughing and crying as much as I, until the storm of ecstasy had calmed.