The Hanged Man Part I

THE HANGED MAN PART I

WORDS BY TY MITCHELL

Lee had never believed in magic, only in love. Despite all the horoscopes he’d read and all the superstitions he’d inherited, he didn’t really buy it—not until the moment the underside of his cock clung like a magnet to the cold, smooth rock held above his navel by a handsome young psychic named Ray. A crystal, not a rock, he corrected himself silently, now a believer. Onyx? Some kind of quartz? He couldn’t hang onto the specifics, too distracted by the lazy movement of the psychic’s full, delicate lips. Whatever it was, his cock throbbed against it, sweating pre-cum, unable to let go. The crystal pulled each drop against gravity and towards itself to lubricate its tiny, measured circles against the flesh connecting foreskin to head.  At last, the stone glided down his shaft and around his balls to press into the lower rim of his hole. And as the rock massaged the entrance of his ass, he felt not one, but two sets of fingertips brush around his hips and towards his rib cage. Something wild moved through him.

It had taken some time for Lee to advance to this third room of Raimundo Alvarez’s Psychic Services, but it all happened in one session. Walking by week after week, he’d only seen elderly women draped in fabric and beads, and always suspected a larger private room behind the two sofas displayed in the window. Depending on his mood, he imagined either a team of bored, identical clairvoyants organized like a nail salon or a pitch-black dungeon meant to spook stingy clients who object to their own futures.

One cloudy day, through the “V” in “PSYCHIC SERVICES,” he locked eyes with a man he’d never seen before and found himself in the doorway requesting a reading, hoping that his dungeon theory was true. Clad in a sleeveless black shirt and blacker eyeliner, Ray smirked at him and obliged to a palm reading right in that first room, in humiliating view of the East Village sidewalk. Any pedestrian could witness his hand being held, opened, and analyzed under the dark, exacting eyes of the broad-chested boy across from him. They could see his eyes dart from bicep to palm to eyelash to palm to thigh to palm, and, of course, to lip to palm. They could see a grown man who would be late to work because the inner mechanism that propelled him into a suit and office had abruptly jammed. And if they looked closely, they could see Lee forget entirely who he was, hollowing himself out and nodding affirmatively to Ray’s every speculation about his past, present, and future.

In fact, this made Ray’s job frustratingly difficult. He needed contention, to be told when he was getting colder in order to deduce his way towards a hot, truthful center. He tensed up with each silent nod from Lee, considered expelling him from the session altogether. But instead, he released the hand and slouched back into his chair. Lee parted his lips as if to ask for more, but didn’t, just sat very still and guilty. Ray observed the softness of his features, the meticulous, even proportions of his frame. In the whites of his eyes, he saw the thinnest, lightest plate of porcelain, pleading to him from between his fingertips, shatter me. Ray stood and guided him into the second room.

“Whatever it was, his cock throbbed against it, sweating pre-cum, unable to let go.”

There was no dungeon or psychic sweatshop, but a candle-lit living room. The walls were lined with paintings of abstract black and brown figures against bright, vivid colors. Some of the paintings felt ecstatic, and some anguished, and some flickered between as he moved through the room. Beneath them were plinths of books stacked twenty or thirty high, a long leather couch, and a shimmering, black lacquer coffee table. Ray sat on the couch with his legs wide, and pat the cushion next to him. Lee obeyed, planting his gaze on Ray’s white socks. He imagined Ray stuffing them in his mouth, and took a deep breath.

Ray picked up a rolled cigarette from the table and brought it to his lips. They’re only herbs, he clarified. Damiana, mugwart, a blend. To prove his point, he lit the joint and blew a small, floral cloud into Lee’s face, and for an instant, Lee convinced himself he’d been drugged, would imminently blackout and never see daylight again.

Family, career, or relationships? Ray asked him. Lee heard a rustling sound and looked up to see a deck of cards dancing between his hands. He turned his head and examined the coffee table, its array of magical objects—dried plants in jars and a skull made of translucent blue glass—and landed on a small rust-red stone that made him think of a volcano. He’d forgotten the question.

All of the above then, Ray said, following his eyes. He subdued an irritated sigh. Just think really hard for a moment about a topic or question you want to explore, okay?

Okay. Lee did his best to think about his own life and problems and fears, but could only wonder about the shape of Ray’s cock. After a few seconds, he nodded and cut the deck as instructed. But as Ray reached forward to draw the first card, Lee felt a rush of panic and wrapped his hand around the other’s wrist. He expected to be electrocuted, sent hurdling back against the wall. Instead, Ray just took another drag.

Do you wanna know who you are or not?

I’m sorry, Lee replied, but did not release Ray’s wrist. I just… I don’t want to be anything. For a little while, anyway. I want to be nothing.

Do you wanna know who you are or not?

I’m sorry, Lee replied, but did not release Ray’s wrist. I just… I don’t want to be anything. For a little while, anyway. I want to be nothing.

Fine. Ray tore his arm away and stood up, glaring down at him. He unfastened his jeans and cupped Lee’s chin tight in his hand, an inch from his crotch. You’re nothing then.

Lee pressed his face into the thin layer of cotton, mapped the contours of Ray’s cock with his cheekbones, his nose, his brow. His eyes closed tight, he breathed in, rinsing out mugwart with musk. Ray grunted and gripped the frontmost section of Lee’s hair. He tapped the herbal cigarette, releasing a drop of ash on his forehead. He smeared it with his thumb and repeated: Nothing?

But Ray could not help himself. Plump and curious, his cock peeked through the slit in his underwear, before he pulled it through and let it rest heavy across Lee’s face. Holding the joint between his lips, he reached to his side and drew a card from the deck. He watched it for a moment, as if listening, and nodded, as if to agree.

Despite getting precisely what he wanted, Lee felt a sob rise up the back of his head, felt a pinch of violation. He swallowed it, gathered his spit into a hunger. Ray gathered his, too, ran the back of the card down his tongue, lifted his shirt, and stuck it to the firm, flat space between his pubic hair and navel. He slid into Lee’s mouth, leaned back, and groaned. Lee greedily licked and sucked, felt it thicken even more on the back of his tongue. Bobbing toward the strange, solemn figure on the card, his eyes began to water, but did not shut.

When the herbs burned out, they advanced to the third and final room, a bedroom. There, they each disrobed, and clasping a rust-red crystal in his fist, Ray directed Lee to lay flat on the bed. Before he believed in magic, Lee believed in love, but also in casual sex. He believed in either sex to which he could give his entire heart, or sex to which he could give only a passing sensation, and nothing in between. Splayed upon a dark purple bedsheet, Lee’s back arched and legs widened in invitation, to the stone, to Ray’s cock, to whatever magical energy swirling around the room might want him.

But Ray kissed him instead. Eagerly, affectionately. Lee realized a few things then: that Ray had never attempted these rites before, that Lee had not initially wanted to be kissed so softly, and that Ray was not the kind of witch or psychic or lover who dealt in nothingness. He gripped his hands around Ray’s shoulder blades, and without parting his lips, nodded that he was ready.

Something wild moved through him, taking bits of him with it, and as Ray slowly pushed his cock deep into him, as his insides stretched open, gripped and released around each inch of flesh, he heard himself cast a spell. 

“He believed in either sex to which he could give his entire heart, or sex to which he could give only a passing sensation, and nothing in between.”

Showing 2 comments
  • Jake
    Reply

    😍 This is the content I need in my life!!! Please write more this is incredible

  • Gene
    Reply

    This was pretty awesome. Can’t wait for more.

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