of the balcony and settled himself in it. "I'd like to get to know you better."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mr. …" I said, trying to keep this on a civilized basis, although my knees were knocking and my hands were trembling to the point of sloshing coffee out of my cup and onto the front of my caftan.

"Ah, you've spilled that on yourself, come on over here and I'll lick it off for you. Chet, you can call me Chet. And I'd like to fuck you. Come on over here."

"Well, excuse ME . . . Chet," I almost bellowed. "But that's just a bit forward. I have a partner and we are loyal to each other."

"Ah, it's just a little fuck," Chet was saying, still dazzling me with that smile. "I don't want to marry you, I just want to fuck you. And there, I can see you want it too. Your cock is at attention under that tent of yours, and you are trembling so badly you're spilling that coffee all over and I think you're about ready to buckle at the knees. At least put the coffee down. It's very hot . . . just like you."

That was his first good idea. I managed to get the coffee cup over to the table on our side of the balcony and set it down. But I went much farther than that. I also slipped my ring—my partnership ring pledging me to Jesse and only to Jesse—off my finger and laid it beside the coffee cup. I knew, of course, what that meant. He was just so beautiful… and hulky… and hunky… and forceful. If I couldn't resist a muscled hunk, I simply melted at a cocky dominator.

I turned toward him. He put out his hand to me and simply said, one more time, "Come," and my feet betrayed me and my pledge of fidelity to Jesse. Even with the rationalization that it was all Jesse's fault anyway—he and his big mouth about my being a bottom—the guilt at what I was doing flooded me.

The guilt kept me silent, as he pulled me into in on the chair, my knees between his thighs and the chair arms, and began sucking on the coffee stains on my caftan. The guilt kept me silent as his lips found my nipples through the diaphanous material and sucked on them too. The guilt kept me silent as his lips found mine and searched and possessed. The silence turned to moans, however, when his hand went under the hem of the caftan and found my alert cock—aching for the touch and stroking that he was giving it.

Strong hands pulled the caftan over my head and discarded it to the side. And warm, moist lips went to my nipples, buried themselves alternately in my bushy pits, taking in the clean, postshower man smell of me, and worked their way down my sternum. He lifted my body up under my armpits and my knees found the arms of the chair.

All the time, I was whimpering and whispering pleadings for him to stop, that I couldn't, that we mustn't, that it wasn't right. But all the time, I was sighing and moaning for him, not wanting him to stop. Hardening for him; melting for him, my plaintive "nos" became compliant "yeses," as I let him know in murmurings and body responses what he was doing to drive me crazy.

His