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Entrance To Elsinor

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Ashley St Ives stood silhouetted against the darkening teal sky, her hourglass curves enhanced by her tiny yellow bikini. She was saying hateful things in her easy honey voice but all Harris could think was good, go away, I can’t keep up with you. She’d been a distraction, ill-advised and reckless, but she wasn’t working any more. It was better that she found someone else to screw her in the back of a Rolls Royce. Wait a minute, what did she just say?

What do you mean?” He asked indignantly.

Ashley smiled, “Kinder to tell you now, lover. Maybe it’s not too late for you to find some nice, tender boy!” She saluted him and walked off to canoodle with another random party-goer.

Harris watched her go, dumbfounded. She thought he was a fag? Had he really been so lacklustre in bed or was she just trying to hurt him. It was hard to tell with her. The insult rattled around in his head as he climbed the stairs back from the beach to Z-Man’s ostentatious house.

He lingered by the windows for a moment, watching the grooving figures inside. He longed to be like Casey, who was content to live a little outside everyone else, but the truth was he wanted so desperately to fit in. He always had before, back in their hometown, but in Los Angeles it was different. Kelly was in and he was out. Lance Rocke, blonde Sun-God, had replaced him by her side and in her bed.

They were dancing together, her sweet face tilted up to his as she lost herself to the music. He wanted her back, didn’t he? He longed for her and missed her. Didn’t he? It wasn’t fair. Why did they get the fame and fortune and love and admiration while he suffered insults and confusion. He’d been their manager since they were kids, and Kelly’s boyfriend long before that.

Rage consumed him and, before he knew it, he was striding across the plush carpet to attack Lance with all his strength. The blonde sure looked like nothing more than a pretty boy, but he was stronger than he appeared and Harris ended up on the floor more often than he would ever want to admit. Some large black man - maybe he was a famous fighter? - pounded the ground next to Harris’ head and urged him to get up. He was energised by their fight.

Kelly was crying.

Harris felt blood start to pour from his nose and heard Pet scream at Lance as they were both separated. The room was blurring and voices were melding together and fading. The last thing he felt were long fingers slipping against the skin of his neck to cradle his head. He blinked as the feline visage of Z-Man himself shimmered before his eyes. Then he passed out.


“Wake up little spurned Romeo, I think I hear a lark and not a nightingale on the branch outside…”

Harris groaned and rolled over to bury his face in the heavily scented pillows. His head was throbbing like he’d imbibed much more than a standard vodka mix, and only one at that. He hadn’t even smoked anything…that was how stone cold sober he’d been hours before. So sober that he remembered Ashley’s mockery with increasing shame.

“Shall I try and impart some cheer? I swear that Juliet and her knight had an argument brewing ere they departed, and not together, I might add.”

Harris struggled to make sense of the man’s lilting, playful tone and Shakespearian dialogue. He knew if he opened his eyes he would see Z-Man and that worried him. It was his opinion that the record producer was a certifiable, actual freak, and not just in the way of the usual crowd.

Still, he couldn’t keep his eyes shut tight forever. Sighing, Harris rolled back over and yawned. Z-Man was there, perched by his side on the bed, still dressed in his fashionable velvet ensemble from the party. His cravat, however, was undone and hanging loose, leaving him slightly less perfect than usual.

“Do you mind not sitting so close?” Harris asked, too depressed to be anything but blunt.

Z-Man smiled slowly, his leafy-green eyes raking over Harris’ body where it was half in and half out of his silk sheets. “In the master bedroom,” he began, “the master must do as he likes. Little boys should remember that.” He leaned across him, giving him a great whiff of his spicy and sweet cologne, and picked up a glass of red juice resting on the side table.

“For your head, Romeo.”

“My name is Harris,” said Harris, sipping it apprehensively. It tasted vile and he had to stop himself from vomiting it up all over the elegant man’s lap. It was strange, he could swear Z-Man regarded him as nothing more than a pesky fly, and yet he was being almost kind.

“Thou art most touchy this morning,” Z-Man set the empty cup back down and smoothed Harris’ wavy black hair back from his forehead. His fingers were cool and soft and for a moment Harris was reminded of the way Kelly used to comfort him when he was sick. There was something so feminine in it.

He stared into the other man’s long-lashed eyes and searched for something. Understanding, maybe. Z-Man was the type that struck him as being alone even when surrounded by people. He was so different from everyone else, so strange. Sometimes he didn’t even seem human.

“Ashley called me a fag,” he blurted out, “and I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He wanted some downers. He wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

Z-Man smiled again. “Ah,” he said softly, “the Goddess strikes again. I wouldn’t take her wicked jibes too much to heart, Romeo, she likes to screw and then tear apart the heads of her lovers, like a glorious praying mantis.”

“Oh…” Harris fell silent.

“And then, what does it matter anyway? Flesh is flesh, as they say. What care you if a warm body has a cock or a cunt as long as it's sweet…” Z-Man trailed off, a faraway look softening his face.

Harris thought about what he had said, uncomfortably aware of the warmth seeping from the other man. “I know you like Lance Rocke,” he said before he could stop himself.

“And I know you like having your toes licked,” Z-Man smirked, not denying the allegation.

Harris blushed, “That’s not true. I just said that because, well, it doesn’t matter.” How had Z-Man even heard that anyway? He seemed to know everything, like some omnipotent deity ruling over them all. “I should go.”

“Should you?” Z-Man ducked his head almost shyly, “Just when you have been granted entrance to Elsinore?”

Harris shook his head which was, mercifully, lighter and clearer than it had been. “I don’t understand you, man.” He’d never read Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet or whatever the other man was referencing. He knew music and guitar chords and how to book a gig for his three girls. That was all he knew. He was a big fat square.

“I find, Harris, that I like having you here in the inner sanctum. I so rarely do. Others find their pleasures within these walls, but not me. I tend to my ferns.” He seemed sad all of a sudden, his eyes lowered and his lashes fanning out over his high cheekbones.

He was beautiful, Harris realised in fear. Ronnie Barzell, Z-Man, was very, very beautiful. Swarthy skinned and silky haired and lithe and clever-tongued and mysterious. He looked at his full, rose-petal lips and swallowed, something hot and deep shooting through his body. It made him ashamed and afraid and yet there…there was that spark of recklessness Ashley had despaired of finding.

He touched the smooth velvet of the man’s jacket. Z-Man followed his fingers with his eyes and then lifted them back up to meet Harris’. He raised a thick, dark eyebrow but said nothing, only breathed a little louder.

“I’m afraid I harbour a secret,” he said as Harris sat up, his own slender hand coming up to press against Harris’ bare chest. His thumb brushed a nipple and Harris felt his cock start to fill. This was crazy. He had to be tripping. Maybe Lance Rock had put him in a coma and this was all some fever dream.

He hated fake people and Z-Man had to be the fakest of them all.

That didn’t stop him from kissing him. A gentle, testing brush of lips at first, and then Z-Man let out a shaky little gasp and Harris slipped his tongue inside, pushing and plundering with a fierce macho-ness he had never known he possessed.

Z-Man was submissive, surrendering like the sweetest virgin bride. It was unexpected and yet very, very fitting. His long fingers fluttered around Harris’ face, stroking his hair and the line of his jaw as their mouths met again and again. Cocks or cunts, what did it matter? Ashley could go fuck herself. Harris had found some nice, tender boy and he wanted him like he’d never wanted her.

“Ronnie,” he tried out the name, kissing the man’s elegant neck and wishing that his perfectly tailored clothes would just disappear. Why were there so many fiddly fastenings? He was harder to get into than a top security vault.

“Ah,” Z-Man grabbed his wandering hands and held them clasped in his, “I didn’t expect such a fevered embrace. You’ve quite disarmed me.”

Twin spots of pink coloured his cheeks. His pupils were dilated and he couldn’t seem to stop stroking Harris’ fingers with his own.

Harris looked down into his lap and saw the hard bulge his tight trousers did nothing to hide. He got the feeling that Z-Man, no matter what he was saying, was fairly gagging for it. The way he had opened, like a flower, to his kiss, made him think that no one had dared, or maybe cared, to act as a lover towards him. Maybe Z-Man never let them get close enough.

Bravely, Harris threw back the sheets and revealed himself, a little surprised to find he had been divested of his swimming-trunks sometime between passing out and waking up. His cock stood hard and red, called to attention. Z-Man, who had been about to say something further, looked down at it. His fingers flexed and he dragged his lower lip between his even, white teeth.

“You said flesh is flesh,” Harris breathed, daring to hope, “please.”

He knew he didn’t have to beg. He could see how much the other man wanted it. Desire was written plain across his face. Harris almost laughed at the thought of what Kelly would think of her two managers caught up in each other and not in her. Maybe she wouldn’t care. She did have Lance to comfort her, after all.

Z-Man nodded, seeming to gather himself together. “But first, my secret. It’s not a game I play, Romeo. I must reveal myself to you and then, if you still wish, you must swear your fealty. Only then.”

He wrenched himself away and stood up, looking like a cat-prince against the backdrop of his medieval lair. Never removing his gaze from Harris’ he began to unhook his jacket and then unbutton his shirt. He threw his cravat carelessly to the floor where it lay across the soft fur of an animal rug. When he finally removed both tops, Harris felt his mouth drop open.

Z-Man had breasts. Small, yes, but perfectly formed.

“You’re a woman?” He asked.

Z-Man held up his finger for silence. Then, with hands that trembled ever so slightly - he had never revealed himself so fully before, not without the aid of many many pills and herbs - he unzipped his trousers and stepped out of them.

Harris stared at the revealed erection and felt his head start to swim. What did it mean? “I don’t understand,” he was confused but not unaroused. “You’re a man?”

Z-Man stepped forward and took Harris’ hand. He placed it lower, behind his cock, and rubbed the willing fingers against the slick lips of his cunt.

“Oh God,” Harris breathed, “what are you?”

Z-Man threw his head back, thrusting the questioning fingers inside himself. “I am Superwoman, boy wonder!”

He was so hot inside and so tight. Harris didn’t understand and didn’t care, not when he-she-whatever was making such desperate little noises. Giving up, he dragged Z-Man back onto the bed and kissed him again. Their cocks rubbed together as they shifted against the sheets. Harris pinned him and studied him, loving how responsive he was to every teasing touch. When those perfect lips swallowed him down he groaned long and hard.

Z-Man rode him, their skin flushed and sweaty.

“Would you rather I was Lance?” Harris had to ask. Kelly had hurt him so deeply, he was sure he’d never be good enough.

“Why should I want a jungle boy when I have a prince between my thighs? Swear your fealty now and I’ll never think of him again.”

Harris didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, but he swore anyway, emptying his seed into that strange, beautiful creature above him. He pounded him through his orgasm, feeling those tight inner walls clench almost unbearably as Z-Man himself came, painting Harris’ stomach with his cum.

They collapsed together, breathing hard.

“Now you’re mine,” Z-Man smiled, “I cannot let you leave.”

“Far out,” Harris remarked, kissing him.

He didn’t know what he’d prevented, just by making love. Far away across the city Casey, Roxanne and Lance slumbered peacefully in their separate beds, safe now that Superwoman had a boy, honest and true.