by JD Chambers
I push his legs apart and make a tiny nip above the tendon in his knee. It doesn’t leave marks like his chest, but the surprised huff that punches out of Zach’s lungs makes it worth it. I take my time, alternating between legs, slowly working my way up to the gentle crease where leg meets hip. He squirms beneath my touch, trying to get his dick closer, and making the most pathetic noises.
“Don’t tease,” he whispers. “Please.”
His head rolls back and forth and he keeps slapping the side of his leg, like he needs the stinging focus, and it brings to mind his moans from earlier when I pulled his hair. Hmm. Something new to explore.
“Since you asked so nicely.” I scoot up, making sure to keep from rubbing his cock against my body as I hover over him. His eyes are squeezed shut, like he can’t bring himself to watch. I gently comb my fingers through his hair. Zach inhales quickly, and it turns into a moan when I tug.
But I don’t linger on those curls, instead pressing a thumb along his cheek and watching as a white stripe appears and disappears. His eyes flutter open, his eyelashes briefly a pale fan against his glowing cheeks. When he looks at me, I feel the force of his trust and the ache of his need, all at once.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper against his lips, then retreat to the opening of his legs.
No more teasing. I swallow him whole in one quick plunge and his upper body shoots up off the bed. With as strong a suction as I can muster, I draw my mouth off his dick, then swallow him back down immediately, but this time I lightly scrape my teeth along his shaft as I pull off.
“Fuck,” Zach yells and jolts upward again.
I blow on his sensitized cock and it smacks his belly.
This time, I take him back into my mouth, massaging with my tongue and pulling with a suction like I’m trying to suck his seed out of him. I actually think that’s what I am trying to do, I want to taste him so badly. His legs tense, tightening close around my body, and I can tell he’s close.
I place a dry finger to his hole and press, but don’t push. It’s enough, and his legs pull inward reflexively as he comes, his heels digging into my lower back as he cries out his release.
I can tell by the look on his face that he’s still floating in the aftermath, so I get no resistance when I push his legs to his chest and hold them there with one arm across the backs of his knees. His hole has a thin, pale halo of hair, and I rub the head of my cock against it as I stroke myself with my other hand. I stop for a second to grab one of his cheeks and squeeze, and when I let go, I can’t hold back the groan that escapes from seeing my white handprint on his flushed ass. That’s all it takes, and I’m painting his crack and his hole and getting my spunk stuck in his soft fuzz.
I have to catch my breath, but I don’t want to move or to stop staring at my handiwork. I wish I had my phone nearby so I could take a picture. It drips down onto his sheets, and that’s what finally kicks me into gear.
“I’m sorry, I messed up your sheets.”
I had put my wet towel from earlier in his laundry bin, so I take it back out and carefully wipe my mess off him and the bed with one corner, and use the rest to rub down his limbs and his stomach that are sticky with sweat.
He doesn’t move, just grins.
I crawl onto the bed beside him and comb my fingertips along his scalp with a gentle scrape.
“Feels good,” he slurs.
I give his head a few more strokes before dusting my fingers down his nose and chin as light as a snowfall, until I reach his chest and begin a figure eight pattern, getting closer and closer to his nipples with each pass.
“Ngh,” he says and bats my hands away. “I'm all sensitive right now.”
“That's the best time for it.” I smirk, but still my hand anyway until I've got him snuggled into me and am just barely stroking along his sternum. “This is nice,” I say with my face nuzzled into his hair. I think he might have hummed in response, or maybe that was a snore. Between the hike and the sex, I think I’ve worn Zach out today.
Just when I think he’s fallen asleep, he turns his head toward me and I can feel the breath of his words against my neck.
“You can stay.”
“That sounds nice,” I say, “but I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. I take my neighbor grocery shopping on Sunday mornings. Senior discount.”
I know it sounds like a brush-off, but it’s actually true. The few times I noticed Mrs. Hill coming back from the grocery store alone after those trips, she looked like she was about to fall over from exhaustion. Since then, I’ve always taken her myself.
“You’re so good. Set an alarm?” he mumbles, and the warm wet on my throat gives me goosebumps.
“Okay,” I whisper. I don’t think there’s much Zach couldn’t get me to do already, so I set my alarm and tuck in beside him, wondering how I got in over my head so quickly.
15
Zach
Wednesday morning starts with a high – a text from Craig sent late last night of his neighbor’s new dog. That Craig manages to take a selfie with a Shih Tzu and still look sexy is both infuriating and arousing. That high plummets faster than Tom Daley, yes I can make a sports reference thanks, when my email notifies me of a new message from my mother.
I skim past the first five paragraphs detailing how people at church want her to tell me that they love me and say hi. Another paragraph is devoted to Amy Mulligan, a girl I grew up with. Both sets of parents were practically planning our wedding since our births. Despite my coming out, Mom still holds out hope, as evidenced by her long description of how pretty Amy has become, and how single she still is.
Buried near the end is the point of her emailing me in the first place. She wants to throw a party in a month for Parker and Shelby and fetus. Not a shower – that would be tacky to host one this early, obviously – but just a celebration of the announcement. And of course she's depending on me to bring food, and send out those email invitation things that people do now, and help set up decorations, and fetch the cake. But she's the host. God, I need a drink already, and I haven’t even had my coffee yet.
Ben's in the kitchen finishing up his breakfast as I stomp in for coffee. Instead of sitting at the breakfast bar, he's holding a piece of toast over the sink. He doesn't get a plate dirty that way – we’ve already had this conversation. If he could get away with drinking the coffee directly from the pot, I think he'd do it.
“What crawled up your ass? And not in the good way.”
“My mother.”
“Ah. That would do it.” He dusts off his hands and starts his morning key search.
“She wants me to essentially co-host a baby shower for Parker and Shelby.”
“Oh my god, please say you'll do it so I can help,” he says while clapping his hands and bouncing up and down. “I know where to buy the cutest little penis lollipops if it's a boy. And onesies that say ‘Drag Princess’ and ‘Future Co-’”
“Ooooookay, I get the idea. Please don't finish that thought.” I act shocked, but honestly, I wish I was brave enough to do it. The thought of prissy Shelby surrounded by dicks cracks me up.
“See,” Ben says with a smirk, “you like the idea. Admit it.” He holds up his keys triumphantly after digging them out from between the couch cushions. “Success! I'll see you tonight. Unless of course you want to come visit your boyfriend over lunch …”
“Shut up, he's not my boyfriend.”
“But you wish he was,” Ben says in a sing-song voice on his way out the door.
I call after him, “Keep it up and I'll call Jay and invite him over for dinner.” I get a middle-finger salute in return.
It’s not even lunchtime when I get my first text concerning the party, and it isn’t from who I was expecting.
Parker: Hey Zach, it's Parker.
Is stating the obvious an engineer thing, I wonder with a very dramatic internal sigh. Parker doesn't reach out to me often, it's usually via my mother, so this doesn't bode well.
Zach: Hey.
What's up?
I respond, thinking I'll continue working between texts, but a little bubble shows he's texting back already.
Parker: I wanted to ask you a favor about the party you and Aunt Bonnie are hosting.
It's barely been four hours since I received my mom's email, and apparently the fact that I haven't yet responded hasn't stopped her from assuming or pressing forward.
Zach: What is it?
Parker: Your mom wants to host it at her church, which is really sweet. But Shelby had a friend who had a party at the Brown Palace here in Denver, and she's really had her heart set on it for the location. Do you think you could talk to your mom about it?
It's a good thing we are texting and he can't see or hear me grinding my teeth right now. Seriously? We are hosting a fucking “announcement” party – which, who even does that? People who are so fucking self-absorbed they need the world to congratulate them on shitting out a giant turd, that's who. Sorry, that's petty. I'm sure the baby will only be a medium-sized turd, given both Shelby and Parker's heights. But now she has to dictate the location, which I'm guessing is going to be way out of my or my parents' price range. Bitch.
Zach: I'll talk to her.
Parker: Thanks Zach. It really means a lot to Shelby.
Well, since it means so much to Shelby …
Zach: Sure. Later.
Over the next few hours, I try to bury myself in my work. I don't want to call my mom yet. What I really want is to stop thinking about Shelby and how pissed off I am right now. If only Ben wasn't at work, he could be kicking my ass at Mario Kart right now and distracting me. Hmm, or Craig would definitely be an even better distraction. We’ve been sharing texts all week, although he’s always the instigator. I'm not that brave yet, but right now I'm desperate.
Zach: Hi! What are you up to today?
I don't get an immediate response, so I straighten my desk, check my work emails, make myself a sandwich, and begin to wonder if I should clean the bathroom while I wait. There's no way I can concentrate on work now, but at least I'm definitely distracted from my mom and Parker. I've turned up the notification sound on my phone so I can hear it from the hallway where I'm currently working on laundry. When it finally dings, a good forty minutes later, I race to my desk. Deep breaths, Zach. Calm yourself.
Craig: ;-) Hey handsome. Working. You?
I start to type out a response, then hold off. It took him a while to respond. Should I wait too, so I don't seem too eager? But then, what if he's on a break or lunch or something, and if I don't reply now, he won't be able to respond again for a while? Argh, I think I'm going crazy. Why is this shit so difficult? I wish I could bottle up some of the confidence I seem to have when I see Craig in person and let it carry over until I see him again.
I decide my internal arguing has taken up enough time and text him back.
Zach: Same. I need some stress relief. What are you doing tonight?
I'm beginning to freak over my response – stress relief? Really? Way to make it sound like a booty call – when a new text pops up.
Craig: Stress relief, huh? Sounds kinky. ;-) Sorry, but I can't. I'm working a gaming party at the store tonight.
Craig: What about tomorrow? Come over after work and I’ll make you dinner?
The adrenaline required just to talk to this guy – not even talk – text this guy is making my arms shake so much I can barely respond.
Zach: Sounds good.
I laugh at that. Sounds good. Actually it sounds so wonderful and I'm filled with such relief that he still wants to see me that I might float to the ceiling. Or start singing and dancing on the kitchen table. Or run laps around the apartment building like I just won a race. But, you know, it's good.
Craig, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have the same issues when expressing himself.
Craig: Great! Can't wait to see you.
I might hug my phone. Just a little.
“Hello, Zachariah. How much do you need?”
Of course this is how my mother greets me when I finally steel myself enough to make the phone call.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, considering that you don't call me unless you need something, I'm assuming you need money.”
“In case you haven't noticed, I've been working for over a year now and I haven't had to ask for money since I graduated.”
“Ah, so that's how long it's been since you've called, then.”
I grit my teeth and wonder for the thousandth time why I'm helping out with this stupid party for my stupid family who couldn't care less about me except when they get me to do their grunt work.
Ben slides a piece of paper to where I sit at the table. Underneath a dribble of his macaroni and cheese dinner – which he didn’t make enough of to share with me, I might add – he's written “penis pops” on it, with a probably too-lifelike depiction of said lollipops. I crumple it and try to beam him in the head with it, but his reflexes are too good. He retaliates by miming what I'm guessing is supposed to be sucking on the lollipops. Or maybe just a blow job. Who knows with Ben.
“Mom, I'm calling about Shelby's party.”
“Of course, I'm so excited. I already talked to Marie down at the church …”
“Actually, that's why I called,” I interrupt, before she can really get going. “I talked to Parker, and Shelby was hoping we would have the party at the Brown Palace.”
Ben snorts, just like he does every time I say the words Brown Palace, and heads down the hall, leaving me without any parental phone call support. I think that is a violation of our friendship agreement.
“Why would we want to do that? Everyone from church will be able to come if the party is at the church. If we hold it somewhere else, then most people won't be able to make it.”
“I think that's part of the point, actually. Shelby wants a party with her friends. Apparently one of her friends had a party there, so that's what she wants too.”
My mother is unusually quiet for so long that I have to check to make sure the call hasn't dropped.
“I need to call my sister. That is not what I offered to Shelby. What I offered was a party at the church with friends and family. When someone is kind enough to host a party in your honor, you say thank you and then you shut your mouth.”
She huffs for a few more seconds, but Shelby has collected too much goodwill for my mother's wrath to last.
“Poor girl. This is so unlike her; I bet it's the hormones that are making her act that way. Did I tell you about how I started crying in the middle of a restaurant when I was pregnant with you? Your father had taken me to dinner to celebrate our anniversary. Unbeknownst to me, he had specially requested a full red velvet cake for dessert with ‘Happy Anniversary Bonnie’ written on it. Only they misspelled ‘Bonnie,’ and when I saw it, I burst into tears. At first he thought they were happy tears, but I refused to eat the cake and told him that he ruined our anniversary. I've never been so humiliated in my life. So see, Zachariah, pregnancy hormones can be nasty little suckers, but I'm sure Shelby will return to her sweet self in no time.”
Holy crapsicle, my brain can't figure out which part of that story to latch onto – relieving Shelby of all guilt so quickly, the horrifying mom crying story, or the idea that Shelby has ever been sweet. I'm pretty sure a response to any of those is just going to get me into more trouble, so I focus on the practical.
“What do you want me to tell Parker? Or are you going to rely on Aunt Betty to tell them?”
“Oh no, dear, we don't need to get Aunt Betty involved.” Okay, you just said that you were going to call her, but carry on. “Did you call the Brown Palace to see if they have a room available?”
Words can't even. Where's Ben miming blow jobs when you need him? If he hadn’t already headed to his room for bed, I swear I'd make him take over this phone call for me. Don't think we haven't done it before.
“No, because I didn’t think you’d be on board with relocating from the church. Won’t
the Brown Palace be expensive? Didn’t you just say Shelby should be thankful for what we’re, you’re, offering?”
“Yes, but now that we’ve talked it out, I realize she’s right. It's not every day you get to welcome a new member of the family, Zachariah. Call them and see what you can do. If you need to, you can put it on my credit card.”
“I'm pretty sure places like that charge by the guest.”
“Well, just ask Shelby how many people she wants to invite. It is her party, after all. Oh, your father needs help with his eye drops. Good night, Zachariah.”
It wouldn't be a phone call with my family if I didn't end it questioning my sanity, but Christ on a crazy cracker.
16
Craig
“What crawled up your ass and died?”
Ben pulls up a chair next to mine in the breakroom and tosses his lunch bag onto the table. He unpacks a couple of squished sandwiches and a bag stuffed full of Oreos.
“That's your lunch?” I ignore his rude comment, because seriously, after the gaming party last night, I’m fully within my rights to be a little pissy. “What are you, seven? Where's your juice box?”
Ben flips me the bird with one hand while cramming half of the first sandwich into his mouth. “Don't try to change the subject,” he says with a mouthful of pb&j, and I hold up a hand to try to block the view.
“Ugh, and you eat like a seven-year-old too,” I say.
Laura, one of our other co-workers and the unfortunate one who worked the party with me last night, arrives for her shift and puts her things in her locker. “That's an insult to seven-year-olds,” she says. “How are you doing, Craig? Has he said anything?”
Gaming parties are part of what has made Game Over so successful compared to other game stores. There’s a large room off to the side of the main store where tables and monitors line the walls, with several couches and beanbags tossed in the center of the room for good measure, and outlets everywhere. The room is always open and can be used for a small fee, but for parties, people can rent the whole room for themselves and their friends.
