Toy Box: Paddles

by B. A. Tortuga, Kiernan Kelly, Jane Davitt

  Marjorie turned toward me with a raised eyebrow.

  "Me, too. We'll be fine.” I didn't believe it, not for an instant, but had no wish to experience what passed as a jail on the ship.

  "Good. I'm glad we were able to resolve this issue for the time being.” Marjorie found a smile for each of us. She turned and walked to the door, then looked back at us as if half-expecting us to be at each other's throats again. She almost looked surprised when we stood side-by-side, meek as a pair of newborn kittens.

  We actually waited a full minute or so after she'd closed the door behind her before we started arguing again.

  "The sofa extends into a bed. I'll make sure to inform the steward to turn it down for you tonight,” Adam huffed, turning his back on me and walking away.

  "The hell you say! You'll be sleeping on the foldaway. I'm taking the bed,” I retorted, following him.

  He twisted around so quickly, we nearly knocked noses. Standing so close, I couldn't help but notice that his eyes were the color of melted dark chocolate, smooth and rich, and his hair, an inky, silky black. His lips were full, and his teeth blindingly white. Tiny whiskers bristled on his cheeks, casting his jaw with a bluish tint. He didn't speak, just stared at me until I needed to fight the urge to look away. His lips hitched in a sudden, lopsided smile, which irritated me further—as if he knew something I didn't. “I've got an idea. Suppose we settle this like gentlemen?"

  "What do you mean?” I asked, instantly suspicious.

  "A contest, if you will. A competition, mano a mano, winner takes all."

  "And the loser?"

  He shrugged a strongly muscled shoulder. “I would prefer if the loser vacated the suite, but we've already given Marjorie our word. Therefore, the loser gets the sofa bed."

  My mind raced. I was a fierce competitor. I knew it, and rarely lost. “Not enough. What else can we throw in to sweeten the pot? I know! If I win, you get the pullout, and sign with my marketing company for the next Rose Hotel ad campaign."

  His lips curled in a smile. “Very clever, Morgan. Agreed. What if I win?"

  "You won't."

  He actually chuckled. “You're quite possibly the most stubborn man I've ever met ... aside from me. Suppose I do by some wild chance, win. What do I get?"

  "What do you want?"

  I could almost hear the gears whirring inside his head. His eyes searched my face, lowering to wander over the rest of my body. My cheeks grew hot under his scrutiny, although his expression gave no indication of his thoughts. I couldn't tell if he was sizing me up, or if his mind was wandering in the same direction my own had taken earlier. There were rumors in the press that the illustrious Mr. Rose, although often seen in the company of beautiful women, preferred men. The longer he took to answer, the more convinced I became No, I told myself. Even if he does swing my way, he's old money—he'd never be interested in a nouveau riche kid from the Jersey shore.

  What are you thinking? I immediately chastised myself. This man is the competition, remember? The enemy. What do you care if he finds you attractive? You want to crush his balls, not lick them. My cock chose that moment to disagree, twitching awake under my fly.

  "If I win, you take the sofa bed, and act as my manservant until we reach port."

  My jaw dropped open, my cock deflating instantly. “What? Are you crazy?"

  "No, just bored. What's the matter, Morgan? A moment ago, you were convinced you would win. If you're such a keen competitor, it won't matter in the slightest what I'd get if I won."

  "You won't win,” I repeated through gritted teeth. “But out of curiosity ... a manservant? Is that like a butler?"

  "In a way, it is. You would do whatever I required of you during our two days at sea until we reach St. Maarten's."

  I didn't trust him, but there was something intriguing flickering in his eyes. Besides, I really didn't have much of a choice, unless I wanted to fight him bare-knuckled for the bed. “Alright, it's a deal. What's the contest?"

  "Hmm ... golf? They have a putting green aboard. Or, we could skeet shoot."

  My eyes rolled in their sockets. “No, thanks. I'm not exactly a blue blood. The only green I've ever visited was at Phister's Mini Golf in Seaside Park, New Jersey, and I've never shot a skeet in my life."

  His generous lips turned up in a smile, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. I realized that if Adam Rose weren't such a pompous ass, he would be utterly delicious. “What do you suggest?"

  "How about swimming? They have several pools aboard.” I'd been a champion swimmer in both high school and college, and had to work to hide a smile at my deviousness.

  "No, thank you,” he said, rubbing his left shoulder. “I suffered a shoulder injury in a wreck last year while racing in Monte Carlo. Swimming aggravates it."

  "Don't you hate it when that happens?” I asked sarcastically. Suddenly, I had an idea. “I know!” I said, diving for the onboard activity schedule lying on the desk near the room service menu. I opened it, sliding a finger down the list of amenities until I found what I was looking for. “Here, they have a couple of tables on the Panorama deck."

  "What kind of tables?” he asked, leaning over my shoulder to look at the brochure. I could smell his cologne, something earthy and expensive, and feel his warm breath against my cheek. “Table tennis?"

  "Ping-pong,” I said, scornfully. “What's wrong, Adam? Afraid of a friendly little game of ping-pong, or is it too common for your rich blood?"

  He pulled back, snatching the brochure from the desk. “It'll do. Let's go. I want to get this nonsense over with, so that I can enjoy the rest of my cruise. In my suite,” he added.

  "Ditto,” I said, annoyed that I couldn't come up with a snappier comeback. I blamed my loss of wit on his cologne—it was distracting me by way of my dick. I followed him out of the suite, making sure to tuck my keycard into my back pocket for later.

  I'd need it after I'd beaten his pretentious—if sexy as hell—ass, and returned the victor.

  * * * *

  The ping-pong tables were located near one of the family pools. The slides that spiraled into the crystal clear water were empty; everyone onboard was preparing to take part in the mandatory emergency drill—everyone, that is, except Rose and me.

  While the rest of the passengers would don their U-shaped, bright orange life preservers and gather at their designated evacuation areas, we were busy scrounging under the table and nearby bar for paddles and a ball.

  I found them in a small box near the bar's wet sink, holding them up over my head. I felt absurdly triumphant, as if I'd already scored one over on Adam by simply finding the equipment before he did.

  He caught the paddle I tossed him and walked to his side of the table. “I assume you're familiar with the rules of table tennis?"

  I snorted disdainfully. “Ping pong. Let me see ... I hit one over the net toward you, and you hit it back. You miss, and I get the point. I miss, and you get the point."

  "We should play according to ITTF rules. That's the International Table Tennis Federation, in case you were wondering."

  "There's a federation for freaking ping pong?"

  "Of course, there is ... it's a sport. Table tennis is an Olympic event. Eleven points wins the game. I believe these rackets are regulation, although I—"

  "Why don't we cut the bullshit and just play?” I snapped, but reconsidered my impatience almost immediately. I didn't like the smug smile that tugged at Rose's lips, and suddenly wondered whether I'd been set up. He seemed to know a hell of a lot about the formal rules of ping-pong, and it worried me.

  "Of course.” He pulled a quarter from a pocket in his shorts, and laid it flat on the back of right his hand. “Call it for the first serve."

  "Heads."

  I watched him expertly flip the coin into the air, and catch it, trapping it between the palm of his left hand and the back of his right.

  Tails.

  I should have known right then that fate was against me.

 
The ball whizzed toward me, bouncing once before streaking past my paddle and off the table. A fluke, I thought, fetching the ball and tossing it back to Adam. “Your point."

  "First blood,” he said, with that wicked smile of his curving his lips.

  The ball, no more than a white streak, sailed by me again, and yet again. My paddle failed to connect with it five times in a row. Six. Seven.

  The game was shaping up to be a massacre.

  "Did I mention I was on the champion table tennis team in college four years running?” he said, whipping the ball in my direction again. I managed to hit it—barely—but my aim was wild, and it flew off at an angle, not clearing the net. He served again, and again I missed. “That makes ten, Morgan. One more and I win. Do you want to concede the game?"

  "Hell, no!” I growled.

  He served, I missed again, and it was over. I'd lost.

  Not just lost. I'd been annihilated in the space of ten minutes.

  I hated losing. Having had very little practice in it, the fact that I was not a gracious loser became quite apparent when I slammed my paddle onto the table and turned my back on him in a snit.

  His low chuckle only served to make me angrier. “Tsk, tsk. You're behaving like a spoiled child."

  "I suppose I have to walk ten paces behind you, now."

  "No, of course not."

  "Good."

  "Five paces will suffice,” he said, laughing as he strolled past me. He still held his paddle in his hand, like a trophy to mark his triumphant victory over me. I mumbled a string of expletives as I followed, continually flipping him off behind his back every step of the way. It was childish, but it did make me feel a little better.

  In my suite—I refused to consider it his, even though he'd won—Adam sighed and kicked off his flip-flops, stretching his full length on the bed. He fanned himself with the paddle. “I believe I'd like a drink, Morgan, something to put me in the island mood. A Rumrunner will do nicely."

  My lips pulled back over my teeth, a growl rumbling in my chest as I reached for the phone to call room service. “One Rumrunner, suite 12225,” I barked, then added, “and a bottle of Jack Daniels!” I slammed the phone back into the cradle and turned to Rose, daring him to say anything about the order. I might have to cater to him for the next two days, but nothing in our agreement said I had to be sober while doing it.

  "Temper, temper. It was a fair competition. Learn to lose graciously, Morgan."

  "Fair, my ass! You had a distinct advantage, Rose. You forgot to mention you were a champion ping-pong player!"

  "Table tennis, and I suppose you wouldn't have had the upper hand if we'd gone swimming instead?"

  "No! Well ... maybe. I would have told you about it, though!"

  "Liar!” He said with a short laugh. “You hate to lose as much as I do, and would do anything to avoid it, up to and including subterfuge. You're a very poor loser, by the way."

  "Yeah, and you're a pompous, egotistical jackass of a winner!” I countered.

  He tucked his arms behind his head, and bent one leg at the knee. The leg of his shorts was wide, giving me a nice view of his muscular thigh. “Perhaps, but unlike you, I'm a very genial loser."

  "How would you know?” I asked, turning to stare at the sea through the sliding glass doors. “I'll bet you've never lost anything in your entire life! Besides, it doesn't matter to you whether you win or lose—you can buy whatever you want. You've never had to fight for anything, have you?"

  "Oh, please. I'm tired of this. Go draw me a bath."

  "What do I look like? You're servant?” I snipped.

  "For the next two days, that's exactly what you are, unless you wish to welsh on our bet."

  Goddamn it! I'd hoped he'd let me off the hook about that part of the wager. He'd won—he got the big king bed all to himself, while I'd be spending the next two days on the pullout. Did he really need to make my humiliation complete by forcing me to perform as a glorified houseboy, too?

  I shot him a look that could've soured milk as I stalked into the bathroom. It took me only a moment to reach across the Jacuzzi tub and turn the water on. I waited for it to fill, sighing and wishing it were my own bath I was running. Once the water covered the jets, I turned it off and flipped the switch on, watching the water bubble enticingly.

  Honestly, I was beginning to hate Adam Rose.

  I stepped back into the bedroom. “You're bath is ready your High...” My voice caught in my throat, my body unable to move, barely able to breathe. Adam was naked, completely and utterly without a stitch ... and he was glorious. His backside faced me, wide shoulders tapering to lean hips, perfectly shaped, twin globes of firm flesh, and strong legs. I cleared my throat, fighting to regain my senses. “...ness."

  I shouldn't have bothered, because the instant he turned toward me, I lost my composure again. His tanned chest was wide and hairless, his belly ridged with muscle, but his cock absolutely enthralled me. I'd never seen a cock so perfect, so beautifully formed. His sac was heavy and hung low, dusted with the same dark hair that framed his exquisite cock in a neat, inverted triangle.

  He was breathtaking, and I silently cursed him. No one should be that rich and that gorgeous. It simply wasn't fair to the rest of us.

  "Something wrong?” he asked. There was a small smile on his lips and distinct amusement in his voice as he stood looking back at me. He made no move to cover himself, as if he wanted me to get an eyeful.

  "No,” I managed to croak. “Your bath is ready."

  He nodded and sauntered past me in the bathroom, that tiny smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

  I felt rooted to the spot, frozen solid, as if it would take the ship rolling over ala The Poseidon Adventure to move me. An uncomfortable hard-on pressed against my zipper, made worse by the sound of him slipping into the tub. I didn't want to think about him in there. Seeing Adam Rose naked was bad enough; seeing him naked and wet would be pure torture.

  A knock at the door announced the arrival of room service with our drinks, thankfully distracting me. I signed for them, and immediately poured myself a good stiff belt, followed in short order by a second and a third. I needed the liquid reinforcement if I was going to serve Mr. Fabulously Rich and Lusciously Naked his drink without blowing my wad in my jeans.

  I hadn't eaten all day, and the whiskey went directly to my head. It was buzzing pleasantly by the time I picked up his drink and walked into the bathroom. “One Runrummer,” I slurred, handing him his glass. “Munrunner. Numrunner.” I leaned back against the sink, watching him sip it.

  "Are you going to stand there and stare at me?"

  "Sure. I'm your manservant, right? Gotta be here in case you ... you know ... need me to serve something, man.” An almost hysterical giggle bubbled up. I couldn't help myself. Through the rushing water of the tub, I kept catching glimpses of his skin.

  "Ah, I see. Well, manservant, I have another order for you. Take off your clothes."

  My pleasant buzz took an immediate nosedive. “W-What?"

  "Your clothes. Take ‘em off. Come on, Morgan. Do you think I'm blind? I've seen how you've been looking at me, and it's obvious you like what you see. Well, turnabout is fair play. Take ‘em off. That's an order."

  I stared at him for a few minutes, unable to form a coherent response. My mind, even though fuzzed by the liquor, told me to tell him he was imagining things. My cock had other ideas. It jumped, hardening past uncomfortable and into painful. Instead of telling him off, I moaned and made a mad dash out of the bathroom directly for the bottle of Jack.

  I didn't bother with the glass, drinking straight from the bottle, guzzling it, ignoring the burn as the fiery liquid scorched my esophagus. My head felt like it was filled with thousands of whirring bumblebees; my limbs felt heavy and clumsy. In short, I was well on the way to getting shit-faced, and suffered a sudden loss of common sense. I peeled off my shirt and pants, and walked into the bathroom in nothing but my silky boxers.

 
; "Come in, the water's fine,” Adam said. His voice was low-pitched, his smile utterly seductive.

  I waggled a finger at him, hiccupping. “Oh, no. That wasn't part of the deal."

  He seemed to consider it, sipping his drink thoughtfully. “You're right. I didn't specify what my manservant's duties would be.” His seductive smile stretched into a canny one. “I know ... we'll have another competition, all or nothing."

  I was having trouble seeing as well as speaking. There seemed to be two of him in the tub, and neither one was in focus. “Okay. Just so we're clear ... if I win, I can have the bed, right?"

  "If you win, you can have anything you want, Morgan. Anything at all,” he added, winking at me.

  I nodded my agreement, although the motion made me dizzy, and I had to grab the sink to keep from toppling over. “What game are we playing this time?"

  He laughed, and stood up, water streaming in rivulets, following the contours of his sculpted muscle. His semi-erect cock glistened with moisture. I wanted to drop to my knees and take a taste, but even in my liquored state, my competitive spirit forced me to stay upright—for the most part. I weaved a lot as I followed him into the bedroom, though.

  He took my bottle of Jack and chugged it. He even drinks sexy, I thought, watching the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.

  "You need to get rid of the boxers,” he said, gesturing toward my underwear with the bottle of Jack. “You have to be naked, too, or you'll have an unfair advantage."

  I was too drunk by this point to find fault in his logic. Of course, we'd both have to be naked. It was like the Olympics, when everyone had to wear the same swimsuit or leotard. It evened the playing field.

  Adam crawled onto the bed and reached for the ping-pong paddle lying on the nightstand. He lay on his side, twirling it between his palms, which only made me dizzier. One side was bright red rubber, the other black. “Okay. We'll start with five whacks each. Every round, the number doubles, until one of us cries uncle."

  "What are we hitting with it? We don't have a ball, and besides, you already know I suck at ping-pong."

  "Table tennis, and we don't need no stinking balls.” He laughed, and mimicked smacking his ass with the paddle. “We've got buns, instead."