Office Romance Box Set

by J. M. Snyder

“I thought you said you were straight.” His eyes cloud over, suddenly wary.

  “Straight but not blind,” I assure him. “You must look in the mirror. You know you’re hot. Don’t tell me you’ve never…”

  He laughs again, and his eyes crinkle into half-moons I’m sure women and men alike swoon over. “I’ve never paid for it,” he says. “But it’s hard to meet people, you know? And things always get so damn complicated. I thought hey, this is a one-time thing. You need the money, I just want to fool around. What’s the big deal?”

  “Exactly.”

  He heads out of the kitchen but takes a left instead of a right, which would put us in the living room. I follow him down a dimly-lit hall, past closed doors that lead to who knows where, to the single open door at the far end. He stands aside, arm outstretched to let me go first.

  A perfect gentleman. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I’m liking this.

  This is obviously a guest bedroom, and from the looks of things, it hasn’t been used in some time. There’s a loveseat and dresser against one wall, and a full-size bed takes up the bulk of the room. The bed is elaborately made, almost like in a hotel. Downy comforter over the sheets, extra pillows propped up against the headboard—there really is a headboard, and one of those long, funny pillows that looks like a Tootsie Roll. A nightstand beside the bed has a small lamp on it, and a digital alarm clock that blinks 12:00 as it counts the seconds.

  “So,” he says, clapping his hands. “Where should we begin?”

  * * * *

  I know he has money—a house like this? He’s loaded. But rules are rules, and I have to see the cash up front. I can tell he doesn’t have it on him because his sweatpants highlight the bulge at his crotch and his round, bubble butt, and there isn’t a wallet in sight. So when I ask for the dough, he ducks back out into the hall and disappears for a few moments, leaving me alone in the guest room. This all feels strange to me for some reason I can’t quite put my finger on. Whenever I’m at a client’s house for an appointment, it’s all business. Wham, bam, thank you, Sam.

  But this? This feels like I’m not here for the money but for him, and it shouldn’t. I don’t know what to do about that.

  Less than a minute passes before he’s back. He has a leather wallet in his hands, and when he opens it casually, I see a wad of fifties the same way other guys carry fives or tens. He peels one off and hands it over. I never take the money first, so I set it on the dresser in plain sight. He starts to leaf through the other bills. “Do I tip you, or something?”

  “Fifty’s fine.” Facing him, I unbuckle my belt and unbutton my jeans. Before I unzip, though, I ask, “You just want me to strip? Or do you maybe want to undress me? Some guys like to do that.”

  He grins and sets the wallet on the dresser with the fifty dollar bill. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

  So I lean back a little, hips jutting forward, and he comes closer. Snagging my zipper, he eases it down with just enough pressure against me that I feel his fingers against my dick the whole time. He’s looking at me, but I’m watching his hands—I don’t want to look in his face, I don’t want this to become intimate. It’s a quick blowjob, nothing else. We aren’t friends, I remind myself. He’s paying me to be here.

  His hands rub around my waist and, gently, he pushes down my jeans. They fall to my knees. I push my shirt up out of the way so he can see the front of my briefs—I’m already half-hard, not because I’m into him but because I’m about to get sucked off, and no matter who’s doing it, I always come. I like the warm feel of a hot mouth around my cock, tender hands massaging my balls, a wet tongue licking down my length. As I watch, my dick twitches in anticipation, and RC’s fingers hook into the waistband of my briefs to tug them down.

  The moment my dick slips free, it stands up to greet him and he sinks to his knees like an acolyte kneeling before a temple god. “Gorgeous,” he sighs. His breath tickles the sensitive skin on my lower belly, making it flutter.

  He kisses my bulbous knob first—not a quick buss or a hurried peck, either, but a deep, sensual frenching that actually makes the bottoms of my feet tingle. That’s never happened before. My ass clenches as his lips rub over my slit. He definitely knows what he’s doing.

  Then his tongue licks out and traces the shroomy tip in a counter-clockwise motion, from the slit around to the left, over the top, then back up underneath, ending where it began. With a final little kiss on the underside, he trails his tongue down my length as if it were a lollipop. His mustache and beard tickles where his hair brushes against me, and my dick stiffens against his cheek. At the base, he sucks one of my balls into his mouth and rolls it around a bit before he lets it slip free. My other nut gets the same treatment. Then his lips are kneading back to the tip of my dick, which has already begun to weep a thin, clear liquid.

  God, he’s good.

  My knees feel weak and I stagger, hitting the back of my knees against the side of the bed. I drop to the mattress and prop myself up on my elbows, spreading my legs as far as I can. My jeans keep them from going too wide, though, so RC pushes the pants down farther, to my ankles, before he slips his sweats down, as well. His cock is rock hard and curves up towards his navel, as if reveling in its sudden freedom. With one hand, he strokes himself as he kneels between my legs again. A second later, he encircles my dick with his other hand, opens wide, and swallows it down to the root.

  I feel his throat constrict around me as his tongue and cheeks and mouth work to bring me to release. His fingers massage my hardness, teasing and kneading and squeezing me, sending shivers down my spine. I’ve never had anyone pay such loving attention to every single detail, every inch of my dick, every nerve, every fiber, every little piece of me. In all the appointments I’ve had, most men were closet queers looking for a real-life cock to suck, but they didn’t really know what they were doing. Or they were trying to please themselves more than they wanted to please me—they spent more time fiddling with their own joysticks while slobbering over mine. One guy literally took forty-five minutes to make me come, and just before I busted a nut, I was almost ready to call it quits. Enough already, you know? Just quit yanking on it.

  But RC knows how to please a man. His lips and tongue do things I didn’t think were possible, and when one stray finger tickles down below my balls, I almost don’t realize how close he is to my no-go zone until his nail scrapes over the puckered skin of my anus.

  Suddenly I sit up, scooting back on the bed out of reach. “Whoa, man.” I’m a little unnerved by how shaky my voice sounds. “Blowjob only. That’s all you paid for.”

  His hand’s still around my shaft, his middle finger still tantalizingly close to my a-hole. “How much do you charge for this?” he asks, brushing between my cheeks again.

  “More than you can pay,” I tell him. Though, really? I mean, look at this place. I clench my buttocks to deter any further exploration. “It’s off-limits, dude. My e-mail said—”

  “All right, all right. I get it.” In one fluid motion, he stands and I see he still has his cock in his other hand, pointing it at me like a loaded gun. “Mind if I rub us together to get off?”

  I hesitate. That isn’t part of the deal. But I can’t see anything wrong with it—it isn’t sex, after all—so I shrug and lay back on the bed. “Sure, fine. Just no ass stuff. I’m not gay.”

  He sort of grunts at that but doesn’t say anything. It sounds all right when I’m home alone typing it into a message, but here it comes off a little hollow. Both of us half-naked, both of us hard as steel, him leaning against the bed between my legs with one hand on his dick, the other on mine. But I’m not gay. I’m not.

  Still, I can’t deny the pleasure that spikes through me when he holds his cock alongside mine. He clasps his hands together, encircling us both at the same time, and starts to thrust towards me. His dick slides against my spit-slathered shaft with ease, his fingers working us at the same time, from root to tip and back down again. I close my eyes and find my hip
s arching up off the bed of their own accord. For the first time ever while at an appointment, I feel lust rising within me. Each thrust, each fuck, each squeeze, I have to bite back a litany of words pressing in my throat. Yes, and God, and please. I’m no longer getting paid to come. I want to, and not just because I want to get this over with.

  Surprisingly, I don’t want it to end.

  But it does, in a hot rush that leaves RC’s hands slick with our mingled juices. I spurt first, a high-arcing shot that beads in his trim beard. Then he grunts as he comes in thick, ropy bursts that splatter my belly with his jism. “God,” he sighs. “You’re good.”

  Before I can sit up, he leans down and kisses my cock again, almost lovingly. He licks the tip of it clean, then catches the overflow running down my length. Without looking up at me, he asks, “When can I see you again?”

  I’m wondering the same thing.

  * * * *

  We set another appointment a week away, so I’m surprised when I get a text from him Friday afternoon. U busy?

  If he can pay, I can play.

  I call to see what he has in mind. “I just want to see you again,” he says.

  Uh-oh. This can’t be good.

  “Nothing sexual,” he hurries to add. “Don’t you ever just go out with your buddies or, I don’t know, hang out and watch TV?”

  I grunt, noncommittal. “I’ve seen yours. It’s huge.” I mean the TV.

  Don’t I?

  He laughs. “How about we grab a bite to eat? We didn’t really get a chance to talk much the other day.”

  No, we were too busy getting off. I almost think having sex but that wasn’t what we were doing. Just to underscore it, I remind myself it was business only. I got paid for being with him. Out loud, I remind him, “I’m not gay.”

  “I’m not talking like a date,” he says. “I’m talking maybe meeting up at this place downtown I know, great restaurant, Jules? You’ve heard of it?”

  Enough to know I can’t afford it. “I’m a little low on cash.”

  “My treat,” he says.

  “Then it is a date.”

  He laughs again, that throaty, sexy sound that seems to grab me by the balls and dares me not to laugh along. “No, man, I’m paying for the pleasure of your company. I just want someone to talk to and I think you’d be a lot of fun to get to know.”

  I set my ground rules specifically so none of my clients would get to know me. But something about RC makes it hard to say no. I have nothing planned for the evening, and I’m surprised and a little unnerved to find that the idea of going out with him pleases me. He said no sex, I remind myself, so it’s just two guys palling around. Almost like we were friends, even if we aren’t.

  Since college, I haven’t really met many people. I went to school here in Richmond and stayed after graduation, but everyone I knew packed up and moved out. Went back home, mostly, or moved onto new places with new careers. Everyone but me.

  I don’t really fit in with the university scene any longer—I’m not on campus, I’m not a student. Men my age either have lifelong friends they still talk to or they meet new people at work. I don’t keep in touch with anyone I used to know, except for the occasional message on Facebook, and I don’t work. Or, rather, I’m not gainfully employed. I meet plenty of guys doing what I do, but none I want to hang out with later.

  Until RC.

  He stays quiet, letting me think. Finally, I draw in a deep breath and admit, “You realize I’ve never done this before. I don’t usually see the guys who hire me to…”

  “So I’m your first.” There’s a smile in his voice that makes me grin to hear it. “Don’t worry, I’ve never gone out with a straight guy before. I don’t even know if we’ll have anything in common to talk about.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find something,” I promise.

  * * * *

  I change my mind a dozen times. I shouldn’t meet RC outside of an appointment. But what will it hurt? But I can’t allow myself to become friends with a client—then he’ll want special treatment, or discounts, and things will get awkward between us. But an evening out would be fun. But it’s a date, and I’m not gay.

  I’m not.

  In the end, I convince myself to go. He’s paying my way, sure, but it isn’t a date. I’m a working stiff—literally, just thinking about seeing RC again gets me hard—and he’s paying for my company. In a way, I’m actually moving up the sex worker ladder, from prostitute to escort. If I’m not careful, I may find myself a kept man.

  Which actually doesn’t sound all that bad.

  Still, I tell RC I’ll meet him at Jules instead of driving to his house first. That way I’ll have my car and I’ll be able to bail whenever I want. I don’t have to rely on him for transportation, and I won’t have to go back to his house after dinner if I don’t want to.

  Even if I sort of want to.

  Jules is downtown, and though there isn’t a parking lot, I easily find a spot on the street a few blocks away. I’m wearing khakis and a button-down shirt, a step up from the T-shirt and jeans I wore to our first appointment. I clean up nicely, if I say so myself. My hair’s doing its own thing, and it’s still a little damp near the scalp from my shower. I smell good—a woodsy scent, not too heavy but strong enough to know it’s there—and I look good, too. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a darkened store window as I pass and nod to myself. Yeah, I look hot.

  Then I remind myself this isn’t a date. I’m not trying to look good for RC, but you never know who else might be looking.

  He’s outside Jules waiting for me, impeccably dressed in a blazer and black skinny jeans. He’s looking around and when he sees me, his eyes light up all over again. “Hey, Mike,” he says, sticking out a hand my way.

  I shake it without thinking. It’s such a disarming gesture, so commonplace, so real, that before I stop myself, I admit, “Actually, it’s Greg.”

  “Ryan.” His hand is warm and firm in mine, and he shows no signs of releasing me any time soon. “Greg suits you better. I like it.”

  Before I can get uncomfortable, he lets go of my hand but claps my shoulder and keeps an arm around me as we head inside. “What’s the C stand for?” I ask as the hostess leads us to a table.

  He laughs, a breathy sound so close to my ear, it makes my dick swell to hear it. To feel it, burning into me. “Carlson. My mom’s maiden name. Just what I need, two last names.”

  The table is small and intimate. As the hostess leaves, Ryan pulls out a chair and offers it to me. I sit and let him push me in a little. So much for this not being a date, I think, picking up the menu. “What’s good here?”

  “Oh, just about everything.” He sits down across from me and smiles. The menu on his plate stays closed. When I look up, I find him staring at me. His voice is so low, I have to lean across the table to hear him over the din of the other patrons. “I come here all the time. If you don’t really have something in mind, I can order for us. If you want.”

  Closing my menu, I shrug. “Sure. What the hell?”

  His smile widens. “Is there anything you don’t like?”

  I don’t know if he’s flirting or not, but I don’t want things to get too comfortable between us. I want him to understand we really aren’t friends, no matter what it might look like to someone else. Things are strictly business between us. So I wink and remind him, “No ass play, remember? Most everything else is fair game.”

  To my surprise, his smile doesn’t falter. “Well, I said nothing sexual, but if that’s where the evening leads, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  So, wait…is this really a date after all?

  * * * *

  Ryan orders two steaks, medium-rare, with fresh steamed vegetables and something called potato straws on the side. We split bruschetta as an appetizer and a bottle of wine. The moment our waiter leaves, Ryan leans across the table with a gleam in his eye. “So, tell me. Why does a straight guy get into the gay for pay business, anyway?”

>   “Money,” I admit with a shrug. Really, is there any more to it than that?

  But he wants specifics, so I tell him. “When I was in school, me and a buddy used to…you know, fool around a bit. Just to get off. It wasn’t gay or anything.”

  “Hmm.” Ryan nods as he sips his wine. I don’t know if he’s trying to be encouraging, or if he doesn’t believe me.

  “I’m not into guys,” I assure him. “We just screwed around, there was nothing else to it. I mean, I had a girlfriend at the time. I date girls. I’m not—”

  “Gay, I know.” Ryan sort of swirls his wine glass in one hand, as if telling me to continue. Before I can, he asks, “Wait, so your girlfriend’s okay with you doing what you do?”

  Just then, the waiter returns with our appetizer, and I concentrate on spreading antipasto onto the toast to avoid meeting Ryan’s stare across the table. “I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment.”

  “Married?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  He doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. When I have the piece of toast liberally coated with the tomatoes, I take a bite and look up to find him staring at me again. His eyes are so pale, they make even the most cursory glance seem intense. I feel as if he’s somehow looking through me into my very soul. See? Nothing gay in here, I want to say, but the bread in my mouth keeps me quiet.

  Finally, he sort of smiles. “I used to date girls, too. Back in high school. Even went to prom. I thought I just hadn’t found the one, if you catch my drift. I mean, the girls were nice and all, but it was never anything special. Nothing earth-shaking. Nothing great.”

  I could interrupt here and tell him the same thing about me. None of the girls I dated in high school were worth remembering; if they had been, I wouldn’t be unable to name them now. I could picture them clearly enough, but mostly it was the fashionable, teen-sexy clothing and high hair I saw in my mind’s eye. Their faces were blurred, almost not there. Gone. But I’m pretty sure we’d had fun at the time.

  “When did you start liking guys?” I asked.

  Ryan laughed. “I’ve always liked them. I just didn’t let myself admit it until college. That’s why it’s still a little hard for me to meet anyone worth a second look. It isn’t exactly a gay mecca out there. That’s when I started looking online.”