Greg Wharton  is employed by a nonprofit arts education organization. He is husband of 18 years to an
extraordinary man, father to two cats, an avid antique toy collector and designer of warped images. He lives in Chicago and travels, usually in his mind, throughout the United States and the world. His work has been featured in the anthology Quickies 2: Short Short Fiction on Gay Male Desire, Black Sheets #16,and online at The Church-Wellesley Review and Venus or Vixen.

Visit Greg's New Webzine: suspect thoughts: a journal of subversive writing

Thief
by Greg Wharton

You lie there, so beautiful, head propped up on my pillow, your bedroom eyes watching me. Your legs are spread open for me, one bent leg up, one down, your cock plump and heavy resting on your washboard stomach. I rub my finger up and down from your asshole to your heavy balls and back, teasing you. I caress your leg with my face, drinking in your scent.

What do you want? What do you like? You like that?

I want to tell you the truth. I want to tell you that our chance meeting wasn't by chance, that I had been watching you for weeks, that I had waited for you, followed you, stole your mail. Didn't you wonder were all your bills had gone? And your letters, the ones from your ex, but you probably didn't miss them, did you? You didn't even know he wrote you.You don't know that he's sorry, that he misses you.

Did you know I ate lunch every day watching you from afar, arriving before you to get a seat in the back, knowing exactly where you sat, what you ordered? I knew you wouldn't notice me while you ate your salad and read. I wanted you to notice me, the time just wasn't right yet. 

I needed more time. I needed time to get to know you. I was afraid you would say no, afraid you would turn me down, so I waited. I think it was worth the wait don't you? I'll make it worth it, you'll see.

I'd like you to fuck me, fuck me like you did John, the one in your letters, the one that left you. Did you know it was coming, was he mean to you? Did he used to do this to you? Or this?

I'd like to be the one you have breakfast with, come home to, the one you fight with. Did he make you cry when he said he didn't love you any more? Or was it over already? Did you fuck around on him, too?

I want to greet you when you come home from work with a martini, and slowly undress you on the couch as you tell me about how tough your day was. I want to kiss your lips and tell you that it's going to be alright, to console you. Daddy's here, Daddy's here. I want to run my tongue over your chest, across your neck, then tenderly whisper into your ear how much I love you.

I want to bite your nipples and make you writhe in anticipation. I want to bury my cock up your ass, and grind, slowly, then harder and faster into you and make you feel like you've never felt before. When I fill you with my spunk, you'll scream out how much you cherish me and call me King.

I want to make you suck my cock as I suck yours. We'll come at the same time, and we'll drink each other up, over and over, filling each other's belly with our spilled love. 

You like that baby? You want me to make you come?

Yeah, I'll make you come; I'll make you come until you think you're dying. You'll beg me to stop, and then when I do, you'll beg me to do it again. And I will. I will fuck you again, because I can keep it up all night. I'll fuck you until you're raw. I will fuck you until you wish you were dead. You'll wish you were dead.

When I have you trained as my love slave and you can't live without my worship, I'll lie to you. I'll tell you I'm seeing someone else, that I don't love you anymore. I will make you cry. I will leave you. I'll ruin you. You'll be a broken man.

Oh, yeah baby. Oh careful, I'm gonna come... No... Yes! Oh, yes, I'm shooting! 

I think I love you. Please, don't hurt me. 

Copyright © 2000 Greg Wharton. All rights reserved.