The Paulo & Preston series is an ongoing set of short stories set in Sister City, my fictional mill town. 
PRESTON is a lifestyle Dominant, recently retired from a career on stage at the exclusive club run by his mysterious best friend Tasim. When the series begins, he's single and looking forward to a quieter life.



All that changes on the night of Preston's last performance when PAULO, a complete novice, takes the place of Preston's usual stage sub. By day Paulo does odd jobs and sings in the Sister City Gay Men's Chorus. After that first night with Preston, however, he wants more.  He wants everything.
Each story chronicles a new phase in Paulo and Preston's relationship and features song lyrics mangled in deliciously naughty ways by Paulo.


DING DONG MERRILY introduces Paulo, a singer with the Sister City Gay Men's Chorus, who has an irreverent way with lyrics.
Paulo appears as a supporting character in this one. This story appeared as part of a Torquere Press holiday event. 
"From that very first moment of meeting, there’s a humming spark of awareness between Arlie and Hal, and the story leaves me with visions of snug nestling and sweet kisses dancing in my head.
On a more important note, this is also a great introductory piece, not only to Benoit’s unique talent as a writer, but it also gives us a taste of this author extraordinary sense of humor. Because seriously…
'Angels frotting on my thigh, sweetly stinging bites and pains…'"
AngusDevotee, who reviewed GLBT fiction on her now-defunct LiveJournal site. 
HEARD ON HIGH: Hal is a composer and director of the local gay men's chorus. Arlie's a young tenor who comes highly recommended, but his voice doesn't measure up to his reputation. When he takes Arlie home, Hal finds out it’s not all about the singing, and that if Arlie can just find the right range, everything can work out. 
(Paulo appears as a supporting character in this one.)
"Lee Benoit had fun taking old stand by holiday tunes and rephrasing with sexual innuendos. The Dialog was funny and touching, the sex was fun and hot, and the story left me with a smile on my face."
BethAnne, Joyfully Reviewed
"I can’t help but feel a warm familiarity with these characters, and would dearly love to revisit them. ...Paulo just exudes personal magnetism and enthusiasm..."
EPIPHANY: SHINING THROUGH: When Paulo goes to see his friend Jim perform at a BDSM club, he's fascinated by the man's Dom, Master Rose. So, when he finds out that Jim isn't feeling well on the night of Epiphany, he jumps at the chance to fill in for the final performance of the holidays, not knowing this is Master Rose's final performance at the club, not knowing how far he'll be pushed. Or how far both of them might fall. 

"A thoroughly enjoyable interlude."
BethAnne, Joyfully Reviewed


In LAVATORY LUXOR, Paulo struggles between wanting to pursue Master Preston and wanting to make a good, submissive impression.

This story was part of the "Picture Worth 1000 Words Challenge."


MASTER PRESTON'S BRIGHT BOTTOM: Months ago, Paulo had one, intense public scene with Master Preston Rose, and now he can’t stop thinking about it. He's determined to become a part of the retired Dom's life, but will all of his work be enough to get him the collar he dreams of?

Part of the TOY BOX: COLLAR anthology with stories by Zoe Nichols and Allison Payne.

"... this story feels like a true seduction, as Paolo proves to Preston just how much they need each other."

LUA-DE-MEL: Paulo and Preston celebrate a honeymoon of sorts.

This story appeared as part of a Torquere Press anniversary event. 


ADAPTATIONS: In this episode, Paulo worries that Preston has lost interest in topping him.  The real reason comes as a surprise, and Paulo and Preston have to work together to find a solution. A set of anal beads comes in handy…

Part of the TOY BOX: BEADS anthology with stories by Syd McGinley and S. Blaise. 

"Benoit has created two great characters that return in this story that is both touching and excitingly erotic. ... I loved this story and can't wait to read more about these wonderfully complex characters!" Emily, Rainbow Reviews 

BEARING WITNESS: Even though he’s learned a lot during his time with Preston, Paulo’s still a novice sub.  After attending a ceremony dissolving a Dom’s relationship with his sub, Paulo develops a fear that his and Preston’s relationship might have an expiration date.  Preston is hard pressed to reassure his boy. Advice comes from family and friends, but in the end Preston will need to come up with something special to reassure his lover of his place in Preston's life. His permanent place.

Part of the TOY BOX: GUICHE anthology with stories by Jay Lygon and Mychael Black. 
BEARING WITNESS received 4.5 stars at Reviews by Jessewave! Read the review. 
Carole at Rainbow Reviews says: "Bearing Witness ... is a welcome addition to the Paulo/Preston series of stories. I loved seeing another angle to the relationship between these two men..."
FIDDLER IN THE BUFF: Preston springs for a penis piercing for Paulo’s birthday.  But before he can share the surprise, the two find themselves playing host to an unexpected house-guest.  Is the newcomer just a flirtatious diva, or do his come-ons spell danger for Paulo and Preston?  Can their relationship withstand the “Fiddler in the Buff?”

Part of the TOY BOX: PRINCE ALBERT anthology with stories by Heidi Champa and Mike Shade. 
PAULO'S SANTA KINK: Paulo’s harbored an unusual fantasy for years. Working up the courage to tell Master Preston about it is only the first step. Preston has to figure out a way to fulfill his boy’s Christmas wish without losing his authority as a top. Flannel pajamas, hot chocolate, and Christmas cookies join red velvet, black leather, and willow switches in this tale of nicely naughty gift-giving.

Part of the TOY BOX: TWISTED PRESENTS anthology edited by M. Rode and with stories by B.A. Tortuga and Andy Slayde & Ali Wilde.

FIREFLIES IN THE BATHTUB: Arthritic hands and bathroom renovations aren’t sexy. Well, not usually. When Master Preston’s hands prevent him shaving himself, neither he nor Paulo expect how sexy it will be for Paulo to serve his master in a new way. With Preston’s birthday approaching, refurbishing their old bathroom to accommodate their shaving scenes gives Paulo the perfect opportunity to show his master the depth of his love.

Part of the TOY BOX: SHAVING anthology edited by M. Rode and with stories by Winnie Jerome and Sean Michael.

Jenre, in a guest review at Reviews by Jessewave, said, "I really felt the emotional  connection between Preston and Paulo which made parts of this gentle story quite lovely.  This story appealed to the romantic in me...." Read the rest of the review. 

FULL FRONTAL: Preston has never heard Paulo's safe word within a scene. When he does, everything stops, and Paulo and Preston are forced to confront a demon from Paulo's past. Paulo insists he’s ready to move on, but the incident shakes Preston's confidence. To make their way forward takes courage and trust and...wax?

Part of the TOY BOX: WAX anthology edited by M. Rode and with stories by Kiernan Kelly and Syd McGinley. 

Donna of Dark Diva Reviews gave TOY BOX: WAX 4.5 Delightful Divas and said, "The parts of this story that have to do with the book’s theme of wax are unexpected and tender. This is my first experience with reading Lee Benoit’s writing and based on the quality of this short story, I will be seeking out additional works by this talented writer." Read the review.
Angelina of Two Lips Reviews had this to say: "The love between Preston and Paulo is tangible, and the story left me wanting to go back and see where it all began." Read the rest.

In FULL FRONTAL Alex, the flamboyant saloniste and his lover, bearish top Bruno, got Paulo all squeaky smooth for that story's climactic scene.

In Full Frontal, they're older, in their fifties, veterans of a decades-long relationship. But just how did Bruno and Alex get together in the first place? Both gay, but from completely different worlds, how did they meet? What sparked their connection? Travel back to 1978 when Bruno was a closeted leather boy and Alex was trying to find meaning on the disco 'round. Preppy guy walks into a leather bar...
...and the result was A BETTER FATE THAN WISDOM. It appears in the CHERRY ON TOP anthology.

As children, my sister and I spent a lot of time on car trips.  By a lot, picture a meandering drive from Baton Rouge, Louisiana to the coastal extreme of the Yucatan Penninsula in a 1952 Plymouth.

These were the days before handheld gaming devices and personal music players. The car (after the Plymouth died, we spent a lot of time in the way-back of a 1967 Chevy wagon) seldom had even FM radio.  Grownups were boring (who cared if we were lost?), and so we had to find ways to entertain ourselves. Games involving license plate digits and headcounts of grazing cattle can only hold the attention of children for so long.



So, we played with song lyrics.  The first one I remember is my sister's cheeky revision of the folk classic, "There's a hole in the bucket."  It began, "There's a hole in my butt, dear Lee, dear Lee, there's a hole in my butt, dear Lee, a hole."

Decades later, we still amuse ourselves in this way, and  gleefully pass the game on to our next generation. Paulo's character grew out of my efforts of inject a new level of...spirit into hackneyed winter-holiday musical fare, and I've never looked back! 

“Get it up, guys!” Hal hollered from the kitchen. “You’re both flat.”


 Arlie gave Paulo a long-suffering look. “He’s being such a diva about this duet. Nobody’s gonna know what we’re singing about anyway.”


 Paulo knew what Arlie meant. Hal had written some new lyrics to the classic duet from Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers. But Arlie was right: very few people in their audience would have enough French to understand the change; and even if they knew Bizet’s aria, the only real difference would be that there was a kiss at the end rather than a manly embrace. Still, Hal was all nervous about tinkering with a master, and Paulo thought that was kind of cute, so he said, “Humor your man, Arlie. Let’s do this one more time before brunch.”


 They straightened up side by side on the piano bench, and tried again.


 Brunch at Hal's used to be a lackadaisical, haphazard affair: bagels from the supermarket, your basic drip-machine coffee, lounging and chatter, maybe some music if Hal was in a mood to play. Not anymore, Paulo thought as he dipped his spoon into a grapefruit so elaborately cut, it looked like a jaundiced lotus. He sipped his freshly-drawn espresso and waited to see what fancy horror Hal served today.


 “Clafoutis!” Arlie sang as he pushed the swinging kitchen door open with his tiny little butt. Hal was right behind him with more coffee and the paper.


 “You let him kiss your mother with that mouth?” Paulo teased and ducked the business section of the Sunday paper as it sailed over the table.


 “It's a pancake thingy. With fruit.”


 Paulo tasted the puffy, crusty thing. “It’s almost... delicious,” he pronounced, earning himself a hard swat with the Arts section from Hal.


 Arlie laughed and gave Hal a melty look over the top of the Sports section.


 “Um, you guys sure you want me around for brunch every Sunday? I mean, if I wasn’t here you could have naked brunch.”


 Hal smirked. “We have naked breakfast every other day of the week. Brunch with clothes makes for an interesting change.”


 Paulo bopped Hal on the head with the Book Review section and went back to his puffy pancake, trying to ignore the feeling of loneliness that welled whenever Hal and Arlie kissed over their grapefruit.


 When they pulled apart, Hal said, “You know, Paulo, I think that new tenor’s been checking you out.”


 Paulo stifled a groan.


 Hal and Arlie hadn’t been at the Epiphany performance at the club -- BDSM just wasn’t their thing -- so they hadn’t witnessed Paulo jumping in with both feet, submitting to the notorious Master Rose on stage. When he told them about it later, they hadn’t understood what it was like to fly, how it had moved him that Master Rose took care of him afterward. And they were just plain baffled that he was still carrying a torch.


 “I don’t want to see anybody new, Hal,” he said, as gently as he could manage. He knew his best friend was just trying to help.


 “Don’t push, Hal,” Arlie added. “Paulo will find someone when he’s ready.”


 Hal shook his head at both of them. “I know him, Arlie. He’s pining for someone he can’t have.”


 “Who says he can’t, er, I can’t?” Paulo knew he was being all angsty, another thing Hal didn’t understand about him.


 “And you’re not pining?” Hal put on his big-brother look. “How long has it been, Paulo? Three months? What does that tell you?”


 Paulo covered his hurt with a barrage of circulars and coupons. He could be patient. At least for a little longer.

© Lee Benoit

Paulo didn’t mind vanilla sex. It was pleasant. Mannered, even. Getting off, especially with Master Preston, was always his first choice, however it happened.
But when Preston started diffidently inviting Paulo to make love, instead of issuing his usual orders -- warmly inflected -- to fuck, Paulo started to worry.
Then the spankings stopped.
And the bondage.
When Paulo had gone four days without calling Preston ‘Sir’ and didn’t earn so much as a raised eyebrow, he knew it was time to call for reinforcements.
“Tasim, I don’t know what to do. He won’t even top me anymore.”
“He will not penetrate you? He asked you to penetrate him?” Preston’s oldest friend, evidently, did not swear. Tasim’s new sub, a silent blond angel, blinked at the floor every time Paulo said “fuck.”
“No, I mean, of course not.” The very idea was alarming. Was topping his Master in Paulo’s future? Not if he had anything to do with it! “I tried a little experiment the past few days, you know? Dropping my ‘sirs’ and being kind of cheeky.” There was the raised eyebrow he’d been hoping for. Too bad it was from the wrong Dom. “He didn’t even notice,” Paulo trailed off miserably.
“I believe you are mistaken,” Tasim said equably, dismissing his sub with a gentle kiss and fixing Paulo with a rueful, top-heavy stare.
Paulo was fully clothed -- dressed up even, for this visit to his Master’s friend -- but Tasim’s look stripped him bare and kept him that way.
“Pour the tea, and listen,” Tasim said, and Paulo wondered if he ever raised his voice. Paulo knelt on the lapped antique carpets to pour glasses of hot, sweet tea and remained kneeling after serving Tasim.
“Your ‘experiment,’ as you call it, has confirmed your master’s fears.”
Preston had fears?
“You are much younger than he.”
Well, twenty years, give or take, but…
“And his health is more fragile than yours.”
Whoa! “What? He’s fine! He would have told me if he had any new problem.” Wouldn’t he? Paulo was grateful he’d knelt, or surely his knees would have buckled. As it was, his spine sagged at the thought of Preston having a serious health condition.
“Consider his old problems, Paulo,” Tasim said patiently.
“Old problems…” Paulo thought out loud. “He only has the one. Is something else wrong? Why wouldn’t he tell me himself?” The panicky edge made his voice go sharp, and Paulo winced.
“And that one, were it to worsen?”
“His arthritis? That’s no big deal. I give him massages with my vovo’s liniment, I take good care of him!” Paulo hated to contradict Tasim, but really, Preston’s hands were fine. His grandmother’s salve made a real difference. It did.
“When was the last time he bound you?”
Tasim didn’t wait for Paulo’s embarrassed answer before continuing. “Flogged you? Spanked you?”
Paulo couldn’t contain his moan of dismay. “And when I tried provoking him he thought I had-- oh, gods!”
Tasim finished for him. “He thinks you have lost respect for him. He believes without his hands he is useless as a top. Perhaps he is right?” The North African Dom reached out a long-fingered hand and raised Paulo’s chin, forcing eye contact.
“He’s wrong,” Paulo whispered. “So, so wrong. I thought he’d lost his… desire for me.”
Tasim chuckled, keeping hold of Paulo’s chin. “Oh, I think that would take more than sore hands. Much more indeed.”
Now that he knew what the problem was, Paulo knew he could fix it. He told Tasim so.
“Beware, Paulo, of topping from below. There is no surer path to destroy the accord you and your master share.”
Paulo thanked Tasim for the tea and the advice and hurried toward home, formulating a plan along the way.
The first order of business was to get Preston to admit what was wrong. Then Paulo could convince his master to try his solution. That wasn’t topping from below, it was being proactive.
Wasn’t it?
© Lee Benoit
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Men sat in a rough ring in a dark room, waiting for the Master and his boy. They knew the others were there, felt them, but seeing was another matter. Many wouldn’t have known each other, in any event; some were Dominants and submissives, others were artists or connoisseurs. Some of those attending were alone; more sat in pairs, some for the evening, others for life. Their circles didn’t often intersect so intimately. This was a special night, rare and strange.
The room was dark almost everywhere, barely enough light to see their own drinks and food trays. The food was expertly prepared and presented, the wines artisanal, the liquor top shelf, only as expected in this most unusual of homes. There was a trio with one particularly vocal member whose exclamations of delight over the delicate miniature lahmejun --"lemony, nutty meat pies!" --then the gingered melon --"spicy!" --might have been an annoyance in another setting, on another night. Tonight, the amused indulgence of the assembled didn’t allow anything to distract from the purpose of the evening, a purpose that had been merely hinted at in the handwritten invitations each guest had received. Nothing interfered with the building focus that sharpened around a crisp spotlight describing a circle in the middle of the room. The circle was empty but for a stack of richly colored pillows, but it was the center of the guests’ anticipation.
Even the noisy epicure’s voice stilled when a figure entered the circle and sat cross-legged on the largest of the cushions. Anyone else would have looked casual, relaxed, but not the man with short, crisp black curls and a pressed linen tunic over darker linen trousers. He looked inexplicably commanding as he regarded the edge of the lit circle. Surely he couldn’t see the men arrayed beyond, his witnesses, but his sharp, dark eyes gave the impression that he saw every one of them. Saw them and knew them. No one moved, and every breath sounded like it came as the result of a carefully considered decision.
The next wait wasn’t long, but warm drinks cooled and cold drinks warmed during the interval. No one wanted to shatter the air of expectation. The music of an oud, dumbek, and tambourine drifted through the room from a sound system of such quality that the musicians might have sat just outside the visual range of the assembled.
The soft voice came as if from nowhere, so nearly shocking in the trance atmosphere of the dark room that the collective gasp was audible.
The seated man, the evening’s host, turned his head and spoke. "Jesse, dear one. Come." The host made a graceful gesture toward the remaining cushions and beckoned with a smile.
Into the circle of light stepped a young man, round muscles rolling under oiled skin. He turned toward the circle of witnesses and gave a small bow. He turned toward his Patron, but slowly, so that, as he knelt, the witnesses took in his various adornments: tooled cuffs at his wrists and ankles, a band of gold holding his dark hair off his face, barbells in his dark nipples, and a golden cock pin set with a red gem.
More than one witness sighed with regret when Jesse obeyed, hiding from their eyes the tiny links of chain glittering as they swung between the band under his cock head and the jeweled ball holding the pin’s staff in his hard, dark prick. Another band circled his balls, drawing them down while two more slender chains connected them to the cock pin and pulled them forward. The display was both understated and obscene. Jesse didn’t appear to be wearing a collar.
"You came to me to learn certain things," the one called Patron said to Jesse’s bowed head. "Have you learned them?"
"I have, and more, Patron," said Jesse. There was a tremor in his voice.
"Tell me what things you have learned."
"Discipline, Patron, over myself and my craft. Pride in my work. How to share my art without losing my soul. Sanity, most of all."
Though the words were for Patron alone, they signaled very different meanings to the witnesses depending upon their stations. The artists knew that Jesse was a sculptor and that his Patron was perhaps the best promoter of artists in the region and heard an apprentice declaring his independence, while the practitioners of dominance and submission heard a boy begging his Master's recognition.
Whatever their station, no witness failed to sense that this display, this ritual, was fraught with transformation, with a shift in a very delicately balanced power. The witnesses watched more carefully than ever.
"And you are ready to end our relationship?"
"No, Patron, I am not." Jesse’s voice steadied. "But I am ready for it to change."
The host gave a small, tight nod. "Then change it shall. Present for me."
With a grace the submissives in the room couldn’t help but envy and the Dominants craved, Jesse lowered himself to the cushions. A collective gasp arose from the witnesses as he bent his head and chest to a pillow and spread his thick thighs. There, nestled between them, just behind his plump balls, another barbell pierced the skin of his perineum, as thick around as a birthday candle, capped by golden beads the size of marbles. This was Jesse’s real collar, the one no one but his Patron had seen during the years of their association.
Their host stroked his hand once over Jesse’s hair and stood, walking around his presented body to kneel behind him.
"I pierced your most intimate flesh when we committed to each other, and reduced the gauge every time you hit a milestone in your training or your art. I remove it today to free you from the contract that gave me rights and privileges. But know that I am now and will be your friend, should you ever need me, and that this is your home, whenever you decide to return."
Gently, Tasim unscrewed one of the balls. No one saw his hand shake, so maybe it didn’t, but he did hesitate.
"Patron?" Jesse said, his voice muffled somewhat by the pillow. "It’s all right. I’m ready. I’ll stand on my own from now on, but I’ll always need you. We have a new contract, as you promised we would. The professional one? You’ll represent me? And I’ll always be your friend, too. I’m ready."
The bent man’s voice was resolute, and Tasim nodded once and drew out the heavy barbell. In its place, he clasped a slightly narrower gold ring with a captive bead, perhaps something Jesse had chosen, something his body would shrink to accommodate over time. It made a less dramatic presentation, but if one knew what was happening, as the witnesses now did, it made sense, this new, self-contained adornment.
"Thank you, Patron." Jesse knelt up and turned to face Tasim, who opened his arms and wrapped them around his protégé. They knelt that way for a long time.
"I’ll miss you, Jesse. I’m proud of you."
When the two men separated and turned the witnesses could see that both men were smiling. Their smiles were warm, proud, though each pair of shining eyes carried an ineffable sorrow. It mingled with the sesame and lemon and ginger and wine on the guests’ tongues and more than one of them was sure he’d never forget the taste.
And if their hands were clasped a little too tightly for friends or professional colleagues, no one thought of saying a word.
As Tasim and Jesse finished their ceremony, the light over the circle of pillows gradually dimmed while the lights in the rest of the room gradually brightened to match it. The small collection of witness stood as well, and many quietly applauded a power exchange that had shifted without rancor or injury.
Preston withdrew his arm from where it had rested around Paulo’s shoulders during the ceremony so he could add his own applause to the acclamation. He was surprised to feel Paulo’s hand catch his wrist, stopping his from breaking their contact. He turned away from the sight of Tasim and Jesse sharing what he imagined must be a bittersweet kiss so he could look at Paulo. The stricken look he saw in his sub’s eyes told him they’d be cutting their evening short.
© Lee Benoit
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Preston was in pain, but not so much that he’d hallucinate a naked man playing a violin in his back bedroom.
He was still standing at the corner of the patio, looking through the open bedroom window and swaying to strains of Ravel, shaking his head at the sight, when Paulo bounded up from the direction of the garden shed.
“Welcome home, Sir! What’s in the bag?”
They shared a kiss and just like every time they kissed, Preston found his thoughts progressively difficult to gather. He tightened his fingers gingerly around the rolled-down edge of the paper sack he held to keep from dropping it on the patio stones.
“Very nice, boy,” he murmured. “Have you been home a while?” He knew Paulo had spent the day helping his cousin Tiago power wash their grandmother’s house, but he seemed to have skipped a shower in favor of getting right into the garden when he came home. He smelled delightfully of gasoline, solvent, potting mix, and sweaty young man.
“Just long enough to greet our guest. I hightailed it out here as soon as I showed him his room.” Paulo’s gaze followed Preston’s through the open window. “Huh. He had clothes on when he arrived.”
Something, perhaps some strain, in Paulo’s voice had Preston shifting his focus from his submissive to the sublime noise from the bedroom, and back again.
“So, who is he?”
“You don’t know?”
If Paulo didn’t know who the naked fiddler was, and Preston didn’t…. He shook his head negatively.
“Well, he came with a note.”
Preston waited patiently. He trusted that all would be made clear.
Paulo grinned. “You know, like Paddington in the stories? ‘Please look after this bear’?”
© Lee Benoit

Excerpt from PAULO'S SANTA KINK:

The holiday season is hard for me. I mean that literally.

When I was a kid, the same winter I finished growing (way too soon, if you ask me) and sprouted four hopeful little chest hairs, I was on my fifteen-minute break from my job scooping ice cream at the mall and had to pee. I wandered down a hallway that had all the back doors of the shops -- Gap, Kay-Bee, Hot Topic -- until I came to the men's room right next to the Macy's door. I pushed open the door and there was Macy's Santa, changing into street clothes. I sidled up to a urinal in my furtive, eighteen-but-pretending-I-was-a-man way and snuck peeks as he made his transformation. Off came the glossy black belt, then the red velvet jacket. Under it was a padded vest and a pair of very buff, hairy arms. I wanted to turn and look my fill, but I forced myself to keep my back turned, pretending to pee. Under the vest Santa had on a grey wife-beater. His white-trimmed pants were sagging without the padding and I could see the straps of Santa's jock. Oh, man!

I was gay and I knew it, but hell, I was completely inexperienced. There was only dial-up internet back then, and my Catholic high school hadn't had a Gay Straight Alliance, God forbid. I was saving up money for college and was pretty isolated in those days. I had never even kissed a girl, much less a boy, for chrissakes. Watching Santa strip off was the most erotic experience I'd ever had.

Santa shimmied out of his pants but left his boots on. He had thick thighs and a hard-looking butt, and I almost forgot to zip up before turning to wash my hands. As it was I had to bend my boner painfully to get the sides of my zipper to meet.

"Hey, kid." Oh, God! He was talking to me.

"Yeah?" He looked young without the Santa beard, maybe a few years older than me. What did he want with me? He didn't look like a pervert, but you never know, do you? Not until it's too late.

"Think you could give me a hand, here?" He clomped over with the red pants around his boot tops and leaned against the sink next to mine. I could see dark tufts of pit hair right next to my face, and I could smell him. Sweaty but yummy, like fresh jock. I started to blush, and hated myself. You can't look cool when you're blushing.

"Think you could get these boots off?" Santa said. "They're too small for me, and I think I'm stuck."

"Um, okay." How do you take off someone's boots? I backed up a little and he lifted the heel of one so I could cup it in my hand. I pulled and he wiggled, and the whole time I was staring at his clean mesh jock with stray pubes poking out the sides. I couldn't see the outline of his dick or anything, which was the only reason I was able to concentrate even a little on getting that boot off.

He caught me looking. "I wear a cup on this gig," he said, tapping his crotch with a knuckle and making a knock-knock sound. "Little kids have this uncanny aim. They climb onto my lap, like, feet first."

I shuddered involuntarily. He went back to wiggling and I went back to pulling, and now naturally I couldn't look anywhere but at his crotch, and I couldn't think of anything except what lay behind that cup, squashed against his body, all warm and…

The boot came off all of a sudden and I would have fallen onto the skanky restroom floor if Santa hadn't caught me around the middle. I caught a whiff of his feet added to the armpit smell, and my boner got even more buoyant.

"Sorry about that, little guy," he said, and set me back on my feet like he was planting a flag. He rested back against the sink and presented the other foot. "Face away from me this time. You'll have better leverage."

So I turned my back on him and held his foot between my legs. I was eighteen: what kinds of thoughts do you think that position roused in me? I had something that wasn't part of my body between my legs and I was aiming my butt right at that armored groin. I could barely draw a full breath by the time I got the second boot off.

"Thanks, kiddo," Santa said, and he crossed the room to pull on perfectly ordinary jeans and stomp into a battered pair of Doc Martens. I stood there staring like an idiot, watching him layer a plain flannel shirt over his wife-beater. He stuffed the Santa suit into a big Macy's bag, the kind with twisted cardboard handles, and shrugged into a leather motorcycle jacket. On his way out the door he ruffled my hair and slapped a cello-wrapped candy cane into my hand. "Merry Christmas, kid."

He was still wearing his Santa hat.

© Lee Benoit


A swirl of blood, bright against the pitted white porcelain of the sink, greeted Paulo when he skidded into the little bathroom wearing nothing but a startled expression.

"I've cut myself shaving." Preston hated to admit it. Loss of fine motor control was bad enough, but failing to manage an everyday task, one he'd completed for himself every day for thirty years, was humiliating. "Damned arthritis," he muttered as Paulo rummaged in the medicine cabinet for a styptic pencil.

The constant ache in Preston's hands was one of the reasons he'd stopped performing and giving workshops as a Dom in his friend Tasim's club, though if he were honest he didn't miss the spectacle all that much. How could he, with an adorable and morning-hard submissive earnestly wetting and applying styptic to the cut on his jaw?

Still, Preston couldn't help but mourn the reduction in his ability to take care of himself. "Nothing's helped," he said.

Paulo's bottomless brown eyes flew to his. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed, sir." Preston thought he heard Paulo add "The self-pity side," but he couldn't be sure.

Paulo wasn't wrong. "I know Vovo's salve helps with the pain, and the OT gave you those mobility exercises."

They shared a wince at the memory of the session with a relentlessly chipper young occupational therapist. "Oh, you're gay," she'd enthused. "That's so sweet!"

"But I can't even shave my own beard." Okay, this was ridiculous. Preston sounded whiny even to himself. What must Paulo think? "And there's so much I can't do for you," he added, trying to save the moment by focusing on his lover.

Paulo set the pencil to one side and perched his high, tight butt on the edge of the sink. "If my master will permit me to say so, this boy appreciates how imaginatively his master compensates." Paulo reached for the can of shaving gel and gently reapplied foam where Preston's first application had gone thin and bubbly.

Paulo only used formal master-boy language when he was uncertain of their dynamic or unsure of what to do next. Preston pulled back a few inches and regarded his young love. Man up, he thought to himself.

He let his voice relax into the tone he used in scenes, not quite subvocal, but deep and slow, intimate. "This razor is the one my father bought me in a chemist's in Beirut when I was sixteen and he was stationed there." He handed the old steel safety razor to Paulo, the unremarkable tool elevated by his words. "I want you to serve me with it."

"Yes, master." Paulo's eyelids were at half-mast and his prick, already hard, gave a little leap. "If master would turn toward the window?"

There wasn't a lot of light in the bathroom, just one square window set opposite the old tub surround. Not the sexiest setting, Preston thought.

In that uncanny way of his, Paulo seemed to read his mind. "The humblest place is special with you." Paulo ran the razor under the tap and started, very deliberately, to shave Preston. He focused so closely on Preston's cheeks and jaw and neck that Preston could almost believe those eyes were downcast in submission. Maybe they were. "Of course, if master wanted, this boy could update the bathroom, especially if master will want shaving daily."

Preston waited until Paulo moved the razor far to the left, by Preston's ear, to answer. "It is murky in here." The bathroom had been added when the house was first plumbed sometime after the second world war, and unlike the rest of the house, there was no charm in its age.

"Mmm." Paulo hummed as he worked slowly over Preston's face, stopping often to rinse the razor but never taking his free hand off Preston.

The tender gesture sent blood to his cock with a message: wake up! Preston waited, enjoying the slow pulse of his own arousal. Any minute, he knew, Paulo's meandering hum would turn into a song.

"Boy keeps shaving, boy keeps shaving..."

Preston grabbed Paulo's wrist and held the razor away from his face while he laughed. "Don't tell me that's..."

"David Bowie, sir. You always say I need to broaden my horizons."

It wasn't true, of course. Paulo had the most far-ranging repertoire of anyone Preston knew. "I told you we had a musical generation gap," he argued. "Seems I was wrong."

"Or perhaps this boy can be taught after all." Paulo finished up by running his warm fingers all over Preston's face, feeling for missed spots. He toweled Preston off, rinsed the razor, and emptied the sink before standing, wrist clasped behind him in his opposite hand, in what Preston called his 'waiting pose.'

"Shower, I think, boy," Preston said. He palmed Paulo's erection roughly and the boy's nipples perked. Preston's own erection nudged through the opening of his bathrobe and some spirit of mischief made him bump it playfully against Paulo's. "Seems there are still a few bristles to take care of."

© Lee Benoit 

Excerpt from FULL FRONTAL:

Preston finished working up a ruby glow on Paulo's prone back side and surveyed his work with satisfaction while wringing the ache out of his whip hand. The flogger he'd used was light in deference to his arthritic hand, but it packed a sneaky sting Preston appreciated for the sudden deep pink ridges it called up on Paulo's light brown skin. If Paulo's long, low moans were anything to go by, he appreciated this particular instrument as well. Preston knelt on the bed beside Paulo and hovered his hand just above his sub's hot skin. The smell of leather and well-worked boy pervaded the snug bedroom.

"Stunning," he murmured. "So fuckable."

In answer, Paulo drew his knees high beside his hips, presenting his reddened ass beautifully. Preston took a moment to appreciate the way his stripes on Paulo's back, ass, and thighs matched the color of Paulo's slick, open asshole. Grateful for the new anti-inflammatory he had taken before their session, he inserted a finger very gently, barely having to push at all. Paulo moaned and plainly struggled to keep still when Preston used a finger to tug at the little ring that winked in Paulo's taint.

"Slutty today, aren't you, boy?" Preston knew his smile warmed his voice when Paulo turned his head and smiled back without opening his eyes. Oh, yes, his boy was in a blissful place.

Going there with him, fucking Paulo while he floated like this, would be wonderful. But when Preston had planned this scene, he'd envisioned something more... symmetrical.

He withdrew his finger, gave Paulo's guiche ring a farewell flick, and said, "Over, boy. On your back."

Paulo did so, pliant and languid, smiling all the while. Once on his back with his legs bent and feet bracketing Preston's knees, Paulo opened his eyes.

Preston put all his affection into his smile as he reached for the soft flogger. Stripes across that lovely chest would be the perfect complement to a nice, long fuck, and Paulo's raw back against the comforter would keep his boy from coming down from his sweet flight. Preston indulged in a sloppy grope of Paulo's tight balls and raised the flogger.


© Lee Benoit

Sister City, 1978
1. Alex
Just another Saturday night, right? Alex could do this. He knotted his polo sweater a little higher over his lemon-yellow Izod and pushed open the door of the club. Not his usual place, but he was here on a mission. The place sounded just like he'd expected -- hard-driving rock and roll played at eardrum-rupture volume. If that were the only difference, he'd have been relieved. The usual round of disco hits and mixes got a little tired after a year or two of Saturday nights.
But no, Steamroller was dark, monochrome. No mirror ball, no neon. The drinks in men's hands were monochromatic on the beer-to-whisky spectrum, and the men themselves were monochrome, too. Alex had never seen this much black leather outside of Drummer magazine. Not that he read Drummer. He was more a GQ type. Leather was just so... rough. Not Alex's style at all. Nope. He was here on a mission for the local gay rag. Alex suspected his editor had assigned him this story as a joke, or maybe as revenge for Alex declining his advances. Alex should never have shot down his boss, but seriously, the guy was, like, thirty-five, and Alex's ten-year rule wouldn't take the strain.
So. Find old-guard leather guys and interview them about their place in the New Gay Culture. Shouldn't be too tough to do in a leather bar. Alex ordered a Cosmo -- it was the wrong color drink, to be sure, and he ought to at least try to fit in, not that a Cosmo was a usual accessory for his part-time reporting gig. He was dressed to work, not to trick, but even if he’d been dressed for a night out, that fitting in thing was just not going to happen.The bartender gave him a seriously grim look, but Alex stood his ground, right down to his loafers, and the man mixed the damn drink.
Alex scanned the room, wishing he had a contact at least. He considered going back to the bartender, but the guy was scary and no mistake. Beefy older guys in leather held court here and there, and younger guys paid tribute. The stereotype was in full flower, that was for sure, with chest harnesses and leather vests and -- oh sweet Jesus, were those chaps? Tempting as it was to roll his eyes and dismiss these guys, Alex had enough self-awareness to know that his own brand of gay guy was a joke to these men, too. Common ground -- that would make a good theme for his article. Alex redoubled his efforts to find an approachable port in this sea of leather and testosterone.
Oh, hello. Over by the dance floor -- if you could call that dancing -- sat a leather-capped, mustachioed, hairy, burly general of the leather legions. And with him was a denim-clad demigod -- a lieutenant, maybe. The sidekick was dark and brooding and -- oh, God, yes -- staring twin bottomless holes right into Alex's soul.
Okay, that was a gross exaggeration. But the guy was giving Alex a pretty thorough once-over. Contact! Alex found his best smile, aimed it right back at the guy, and let it lead him and his Cosmo across the crowded room.
© Lee Benoit