Gay Erotica
"By the Numbers" a sex story by Jackie Weiss
My life is numbers.
I am an accountant for a reputable law firm in the city. I have worked in my department fifteen years. I am a forty-two year old male. Seven days ago, a thirty-one year old who's worked here three years was promoted to head of department.
I feel my frustration only distantly.
Six days ago my new 'boss' ordered a remodel of his new office. This will cost thirteen thousand dollars.
Five days ago the work crew arrived. There are three of them.
One is named Miguel.
I know, by comparing him to the height of the doorway when he moves through, that he is just over six feet tall. I would estimate his weight at two hundred pounds. He's solid as the walls they're tearing out.
He has several tattoos. He wears a sleeveless T-shirt and I can see them. Black ink on his hard brown arm. A tombstone on his right bicep has “10-25-04 – 10-28-08” on it.
I spent two days thinking about it until I got the courage to ask him, while they ate their lunch and I stood in the office doorway under the pretense of looking at the remodeling.
A corner of his lip curled, like a dog's, but dogs don't feel contempt.
“Time served,” he answered, terse and short, and nothing more.
At my desk my figures and spreadsheets and invoices mount and mount. I peck at the keyboard pretending to work.
I think of him in prison, for four years and three days. Working out. Sweat running down his corded forearms, beading in his close-cropped black hair. Grunting as he lifts the weights and puts them down and does it again. How many times? I don't know. I'm not someone who goes to the gym. I'm thin, paunching, starting to bald.
Vladimir 8 by Nancy Murrian
I think of him counting the days. Tally marks on a wall. Do they really do that? I don't know but I imagine. Rough fingers dragging a pencil (are they allowed pencils?) down the wall. Mark four, the fifth line crosses the group. Start over.
I think of him fucking, in prison. Would he have done it, or been done to? I look at the breadth of his shoulders and I can't imagine that.
I think of his heavy work-boots planted firmly apart on the short-nubbed office carpet by my desk. I think of that horny-palmed hand, thick with calluses, on the back of my neck pinning me to the desk, holding me there, bent over. Jammed so hard against the wood that I can feel each individual button on my dress shirt leaving a mark in my skin.
His fingers would be thick, brutish, rough as they forced my trousers down. He wouldn't use anything but spit. He'd push into me and if I cried out he would tell me to shut up, white man, you want this.
He'd fuck me on my desk, knocking off the ledgers, spilling the pens from their mug, and he'd come in me as messy as he eats his lunch. Grunting. Like an animal. Wiping his cock-- seven inches long-- on my ass and tucking himself back in like all he'd done was take a piss.
We'd do this after work. I often stay late, after five o'clock has rolled by and six comes and I am still here. The twenty-four other employees will all be gone. I'll let him in. He'll stride to the desk without speaking, won't say but ten words to me the entire time. I won't come. He won't care. He's just there to fuck me, to stain my trousers and smear my desk and show me what a real man is like.
As many times as I need it done to learn.
I sit at my desk and I watch Miguel hammer in nails and with each bang I count and I count, hunting for the magic number that will make the books balance.
How many dollars will it take to make this a reality?
Originally published February 2011