by Jamie Lake
“You work for Tony?” Peter asked.
“Remember? I’m a mystery,” Nate said. “But no. I’ll tell you that much. I work for the man downstairs.”
“I see,” said Peter. What the hell did that mean? They sat in the dim, peacock green light for a while in silence. That probably meant he was a casino employee of some kind: or was it a reference to something else?
“Here,” Nate said, and passed Peter a tumbler. It was covered in ice-cold condensation and filled with a liquid both creamy and red.
“What is it?” Peter asked, his eyebrow raised.
“Thai iced tea. With vodka. I call it a Thai Ladyboy.”
Peter laughed uncomfortably. He took a sip though. It was sweet, spicy, and absolutely delicious.
“You like it?” Nate asked. He scooted closer and sat down next to Peter, close enough that Peter could feel his hairy thigh bristling against his own.
“Yeah, I like it a lot actually,” Peter said. “I get these whenever I go out for Thai food. Except,” he giggled, “without the vodka, of course.”
Peter glanced over. Nate was grinning and staring into his ear. Peter suddenly felt like he looked very similar to Tony: and he felt blood rush from his anus all the way up his spine. He was so confused. All this erotic attention from men in such a short time, and the more he got, the more he wanted it. But of course, his memories of Chip kept popping up like Jiminy Cricket. He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t be here.
“You’re a shy boy,” Nate said. “Haven’t you done this before?”
“Not really,” Peter gulped. He suddenly realized his penis was as hard as a nail, almost painfully so. He reached to touch himself in the water. “I mean, I’ve done it a couple times.”
“When’d you start working for Tony?”
“Just this week, actually,” Peter said.
“Mmmm,” Nate groaned. He put one thick, meaty hand over Peter’s thigh and squeezed. He almost stood straight up, but instead jolted with shock and arousal.
Nate chuckled. “You really are a live wire. Drink up. It’ll soothe your nerves.”
Suddenly, they were out of the water, dried off, and Peter was wearing his pants again. Nate was stretched out on the massage table in a big black room full of white lights. Not like candles, but like little eyes of white light. Where did they come from?
“Remember, I’m kinda new at this,” Peter fibbed a little. Was he drunk? He felt so strange! Maybe he was just nervous.
It’s not as though it was first time he’d ever had a massage client: he’d certainly taken advantage of those rare nights of privacy while Anton was away.
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Nate mumbled into the massage table, face down, his shirt off. In the better light, Peter noted how handsome he was: maybe in his mid-fifties, and he resembled a young Jeff Bridges, with graying hair. Unlike Bridges, Nate kept his locks cut short. His powerful shoulders and confident stance made him look like the CEO type. Except Peter knew what he really was: not a CEO by far. Nate was a 'made' man: the mob, the mafia; whatever they called them nowadays, Peter didn’t know, but the power that seeped out of Nate’s pores was intoxicating.
Beefy, well-built. It’d obviously been awhile since he’d gotten laid, because his dick was so hard even when they came out of the steaming heat of the hot tub. Peter could smell the pheromones emitting from him, and they were as strong as a man’s cologne. It made his mouth water, and he knew that it would only take one touch in the right place, and he was sure to come undone beneath his hands.
Peter bit his lip and allowed his eyes to roam over the taut body lying before him, waiting patiently for him to begin.
He took a deep breath and steadied himself, concentrating on the soft ambient music filtering out of who knows what speakers. As much as he wanted to just jump right on Nate – and oh God! did he want to – he immediately remembered the smiling, clean-lined face ... Chip. Sweet, sweet Chip.
But Nate was the type of man who was used to being serviced, who always got what he wanted, Peter could tell, and he was getting impatient.
“What’s the holdup?” he asked.
God! Peter could swear that was Tony’s voice. In fact, it almost seemed like Tony’s trim, imposing frame resting on the table for a moment. But no, it was just his imagination.
Without another moment to lose, Peter grabbed some oil from a clay beaker on the shelf. The candles flickered, casting dancing amber shadows across the dark walls, and the oil pouring into Peter’s hand slid down his strong muscular forearms. Two, three drops fell from his elbow and splashed onto Nate’s skin.
Peter smiled to himself as the mature man’s buttocks clenched unwittingly under his towel at the unexpected sensation.
“You ready?” he asked, in his deep rich voice, rubbing his hands together to evenly distribute the oil.
“Better take off my towel,” Nate said, sitting up and unbuttoning them. He was thick and was fully erect already. In the candlelight, it looked like a behemoth of a member, with a long thick vein going down the bottom and two weighty balls hanging below.
“All right,” Nate said, lying face down on the bed. “Do me.”
Shivers went up Peter’s spine at the command. That was not what he expected as a masseuse. He swallowed hard.
He laid his strong hand on Nate’s upper back: the pressure was firm, but not painful, as he slid his hands up and down Nate’s upper back and shoulders, gliding his thumbs like magic, working out the kinks and knots that had gathered there from days spent doing whatever sordid work he did for a living.
“Mmm, that’s right,” Nate said, his voice barely more than a growl of pleasure as he enjoyed the pressure running up and down his spine.
It was the type of growl that drove boys crazy and got them hard, thick, and fast, and Peter was no exception.
His heart was racing and his cock was stirring. It hadn’t been so long since Peter had gotten laid, and his mind couldn’t shift from the thought of sitting on Nate’s lap, riding his cock like a bronco, kissing him, holding onto the back of his neck, running his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, gripping hard as he began to lose control.
His eyes floated down to Nate’s bubble butt. A fine layer of soft black hair covered his thick rump, and Peter had to admit, he had a nice ass. Must have played football when he was younger, but he hadn’t lost his muscular tone.
Peter’s hands slid down from the center of Nate’s back to just above his rump, his thumbs sliding just over either side of his cheeks, then meeting in the middle, servicing him just the way he was supposed to do.
“Is this okay?” Peter asked, watching him closely for the barely perceptible signs that he should continue or stop.
“Oh yeah, you do have good hands,” Nate responded.
Peter smiled to himself in satisfaction and slid the boxers down to Nate’s thighs, the cool air running over his bare ass as he massaged the inside of his cheeks, his fingers gripping just under his pelvis then sliding back up to the center of his crack.
This was bad, Peter thought. He shouldn’t be arousing this man like this: not with Chip still at home, thinking innocently that Peter was all his.
“Oh, yeah,” Nate rumbled, “Mmm … that’s what daddy likes.” The words drifted into the air almost unconsciously.
Fuck, this is hot, though! Peter thought. He was getting desperately turned on, and he could tell Nate was too. He wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer.
His mind was racing. How he just wanted to pull Nate’s boxers down and suck that thick cock of his that he knew was hiding inside. He could smell their mutual arousal: the strong, distinctive aroma of pre-cum mingling with the peppermint of the oil.
Nate shifted and turned around to stare up at Peter with those blue-grey eyes and thick eyebrows which were raised in sly expectation. It was the type of stare that let Peter know Nate was in control and he expected to get what he wanted, one way or another.
Peter’s eyes looked awa
y, not wanting to lose himself in that hypnotic gaze, until Nate lifted his chin so his eyes were locked on his.
“Now,” he said smoothly, sternly. Peter quivered. “I know you’re good with your hands, so how about those lips?”
God, Peter wanted to blow him, to feel that thick cock melt in his mouth. He’d never gone that far with a client and promised he wouldn’t, no matter how hot they were, but God damn!
This was strictly an erotic massage: that was it. But it’d been so long since he’d gotten laid, and God! He needed it badly, today more than ever.
He began to kneel down toward Peter’s crotch, the hot aroma of his erection turning him on.
But Nate stopped him. “Not those lips,” he said in that low voice that turned Peter’s legs to jelly. “Let’s see about your other ones ... between your cheeks.”
Peter was getting wet and sweaty with the thought of it, but his eyes migrated over to the clock ticking away steadily underneath the smooth, piping music.
He knew, sensibly, that he’d better cut the session short before things went too far. But Nate couldn’t be stopped. He grasped Peter’s shoulders and moved him up onto the table.
“Sit on it,” he said with such authority and firmness that Peter surrendered.
“Say ‘yes, sir!’” Nate said.
“Yes, sir!” Peter whimpered, and greased his eager, trembling hole with one hand as he guided Nate’s rigid cock toward his hole. It slid in and Peter moaned with pleasure as he sat down and felt that girth enter him completely. Peter looked down at the man’s flat, four-pack abs, and then looked up. To see Tony’s face.
“I knew you didn’t give a shit about that pig boyfriend of yours.”
Peter panicked. What the fuck was happening?
Tony grasped his hips and thrust deeper. “You love it, don’t you? You love my cock. You’re a whore. And Chip will never fall in love with a whore.”
CHAPTER 6
Peter startled awake, looking at the clock on the wall. It was 3.m. God, what a horrible nightmare! Jesus, Peter thought. More than horrible. He felt like everything about his whole life had just been violated. At least Chip was still behind him, chest rising and falling. Peter shivered, and felt tears well up in his eyes. Please, God. Let all my nightmares go away.
Beep..beep…beep! His phone. He looked around, his eyes re-adjusting to the light as he tried to get his bearings. It was almost pitch dark in the apartment. The only illumination was from the digital wall clock giving the room an eerie, blue-green glow.
The first time he heard the beep, he thought he was dreaming; then when his phone beeped again, he reached for it and looked at the screen before it woke up Chip.
His blurry vision slowly came into focus and he saw the words.
WORRIED ABOUT YOU, BABE. YOU ALL RIGHT?
It was from Tony.
Another one from a few minutes before.
WHAT’S GOING ON? YOU WITH THAT DOUCHE COP AGAIN?
Immediately, his heart sank. Tony. God. After that dream, he was horrified. But then, was Tony really worried about him or just trying to keep tabs on him? Peter wondered. Somehow he doubted that Tony cared a God damn: he just wanted to know, to control, and to monitor. Even if there was some small affection deep down inside, it came at the most inopportune time. The Tony in his nightmare was close enough to reality for Peter to feel terrified of him. Worse, it was as though Tony knew Chris was here with Chip. He shuddered.
Peter sighed. Why did the specter of this horrible man have to ruin his perfect night with Chip? He turned the volume down, closed the phone, and tried to go back to sleep. He knew that if he didn’t respond, and soon, Tony would keep on texting or worse yet, calling, but Peter almost didn’t care. He was worried, yes, that was for sure, but somehow as Chip tightened his grip around his waist and pulled him closer, he felt safe, he felt secure, he felt protected. Soon, Peter felt warm and sleepy, his eyelids heavy. He snuggled back into Chip's warm embrace and fell asleep once more, lulled by the sound of Chip's even breathing.
***
The next morning, he could hear the sound of rustling in the kitchen and the smell of eggs and bacon. His stomach growled, and he immediately felt a craving for coffee and a big plate of whatever was smelling so delicious. He kept his eyes closed and smiled, remembering it was Chip in the kitchen, until tiny hands tried to pry his eyelids open.
“Mr. Vanderbilt? Peter, it’s time to wake up,” Johnny said, with a bright smile on his face. Peter laughed involuntarily: it was more frightening than funny, but having a five-year-old digging his tiny fingers into your eye sockets was so absurd that he couldn’t help but giggle.
Peter groaned and tried to put on a smile, but he really wasn’t a morning person, “Just five more minutes," he grunted, tugging the blanket up and over his eyes.
“But we have to get ready for school!” Johnny announced. He was already wearing his backpack and shoes, tromping up and down as the television blared cartoons in the other room.
“Son, leave Peter alone. Will you please sit down at the table so we can eat breakfast?”
“Yes, sir,” Johnny said, stomping his way over to the dining table.
Peter pulled himself off the couch and reached for his phone. That was strange. He swore he put his cell on the coffee table in front of him. And yet … there it was, on the recliner. How did it end up on the lazy boy?
He scooped it up and stumbled to the kitchen. Chip was in there cooking up a storm. Everything looked as delicious as it smelled. It was already a lovely morning, with the sun streaming through the windows and little Johnny at the table. The dream lasted until morning and Peter smiled at Chip, revelling in how idyllic everything was.
“Morning,” he said, yawning.
“Hey,” Chip said, whipping the eggs and not giving him even a glance. Peter guessed he wasn’t much of a morning person either.
“How’d you sleep?” Peter asked, opening the refrigerator to look for some orange juice.
“Okay,” Chip grumbled, still not looking at him.
“You don’t have to go through all that trouble, I could have cooked something,” Peter said, grabbing a glass, “Johnny, do you want some orange juice too?”
“Yes, please,” Johnny responded.
Peter poured the little boy a big glass of orange juice and then set it down in front of him. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face. It was so perfect. He wondered if every day could be like this. He slipped his arms around Chip’s waist as he cooked and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Chip jerked away from his touch and looked over his shoulder at him, frowning.
Peter pulled away, feeling the sting of rejection. His morning grogginess dissolved in an instant and his stomach sank. He lowered his head, shoulders hunched. He should have known it was too good to be true: that the magic of their time together was bound to be soured by all the secret dramas in his life. He always managed to mess these things up.
“So, when were you going to tell me?” Chip asked suddenly.
“Tell you what?” Peter asked, his brow knotting in confusion. What was Chip talking about?
“That you were dating someone else,” Chip said, plopping eggs on a plate, still unable to meet Peter's gaze. His tone was angry and hurt.
“I ... what gave you that idea?” Peter asked him, sputtering. “I’m not ...”
“I saw your text message. I wasn’t spying on you, I swear. It’s just the phone was open and … I just wish you were honest with me. Does he know that you’re here with me, right now?”
“No, no, Chip. I'm not dating anyone. And what were you doing looking at my phone?” Peter frowned. He hated when people snooped. His last boyfriend did it all the time. He never trusted him and that hurt. But somehow, this hurt even worse. He had thought Chip was better than that; that he wouldn't stoop so low as to go through his private things. On the other hand, Peter couldn’t help but feel that he had it coming. How long did he think he could hide what was going on with Tony from Chip? Ho
w long did he think he could manage to keep all that drama going on secretly in the background? The skeletons were out of the closet now: even if Chip didn’t know the full extent of what was going on, his suspicions were confirmed. Instead of feeling the guilt and shame, however, Peter’s other emotions took over. His anger. His frustration that he had been caught, and that Chip had been looking at his phone. What else had he found out?
“I told you, I wasn’t looking at your phone. Maybe I just noticed the message.” Chip stumbled over this and Peter was then certain he was lying. He distinctly remembered clicking his phone off before putting it on the bedside table.
“Noticed?” Peter said, crossing his arms, talking low enough that he hoped Johnny wouldn’t hear. “You talk about trusting you, but you don’t trust me? Why were you looking at my phone?” Peter demanded. He wouldn’t accept that thin excuse from Chip. The eggs and bacon steamed away in front of him, untouched. They would probably stay that way for a long time. This argument was going to ruin everybody’s appetite. Peter wondered why Chip even bothered cooking if he was just going to ambush him with this bad news?
“I told you about my ex,” said Chip, sighing in exasperation. “He wasn’t honest, and I just don’t want to get into some other situation where ...”
“Where what?” Peter asked, feeling his temper rise. But more than being angry, he was just so very hurt.
“Where the person I’m dating isn’t telling me the truth,” Chip said. He looked defensive now, crossing his own arms over his chest.
“Chip ...” Peter started to explain.
“Look, I know we just met each other, but I really like you. I told you that, and I thought you felt the same way too but … here’s the thing: I don’t bring just anybody into my life. I’ve been hurt before, and my son means the world to me. I can’t have an unstable environment for him. That’s why I liked you, that’s why I was willing to bring you into my life, but now …”
A gulf of silence.
“Chip, please, let me explain.” Peter ran a hand through his hair, his voice rising in frustration. How was he going to explain all of this? He hadn't wanted to do it this way. Not while both of them were hurt and angry. How could he expect Chip to understand now?
