by J. M. Snyder
I laugh when his tongue swirls into my navel. “Kevin, don’t,” I say, breathless, but my whole body screams for more.
He kisses above the waistband of my shorts, his voice throaty and deep when he speaks, rumbling through me. “I think you’re the beautiful one. The moment I saw you, Nick, I knew you were meant to be mine.”
His. I like the sound of that.
I grip his ears in my fists as he tugs open my shorts with his teeth, taking the zipper pull into his mouth. A hiss of pleasure escapes me as the zipper eases down over the bulge at my crotch, the metal pressing into my erection sweetly. When he unsnaps my boxers, I almost sob because I want him so bad.
Then his hands are on my back, supporting my hips as he takes me into his mouth, his lips working along my thick shaft, his tongue licking down to the base and across my balls, his mouth sucking at me, working me into a frenzy, making me buck into him. This feels so good, it feels amazing, and I never want him to stop.
I’ve thought about nothing but him these past few days. I’ve imagined this scene over and over again, the two of us in this position, his mouth and hands and body on mine. He’s dark against me, black on white, yin and yang—his mouth closes down over my cock, night eclipsing the day, and I drive into him, hungry for his touch, his love. His dark flesh smoothes along my pale skin, his cheeks like shadows between my quivering thighs, and as we come together, the rest of the world fades to gray.
All that exists for me is him, and his sharp scent enveloping me, his strong hands beneath my body, his warm wet mouth around my dick, his body on top of mine. I moan his name and rub my hands over his hair, enjoying the play of my light over his darkness as I shove into him harder. I’m teetering here, standing on the edge of orgasm and I want him to push me over.
I’m falling, I know it. I want him to catch me because I’m falling, falling into him, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
When I come, the trees explode into color and the clouds scurry away, the world rushes back in a glorious fury and I scream his name in a breathless rush. He kisses me quiet, his lips damp with my juices and his arms tightening around me, holding me close.
I just met him but I want this moment to become so much more than just now. I want it to stretch like the sky above us; I want it to eclipse my life the way his body eclipses mine, the dusk of his skin blotting out my own pale flesh. I want what happened between us to become more than just a brief tryst at lunch. “Don’t let go,” I whisper.
“I don’t plan to,” he says.
When he kisses me again, I believe him.
* * * *
A few days later, he brings me flowers at work and asks me to be his boy. His.
Of course I say yes.
We spend every moment together—whenever I stay the night at his place, he drives me to work the next morning, and in the car he kisses me over and over again until I’ve got to run to clock in on time. Some mornings Mr. Weeks comes out and taps on the window to get me going.
In the evenings, Kevin swings by my mom’s house on his way home, and he holds me in the foyer, kissing me breathless because he hasn’t seen me in hours and he’s hungry for me. My mom likes him—she says at least I found a guy who has a decent job. He works for a lawyer, she says proudly, as if he’s her own son.
I can’t get him out of my mind. At work, I stare through the shelves as I stock them, remembering him in me and grinning to myself like an idiot. I glance at my watch and can’t wait to see him again. I’ve fallen that hard.
He takes his lunch break at one now, every day, just so we can spend some time together. I pretend I don’t hear him as he sneaks up behind me, and then his arms wrap around my waist and he kisses the back of my neck.
“Damn,” he growls.
His deep voice sweeps through me like a fire, igniting my senses and turning me on all over again. If there’s no one around, he’ll cup my erection through the apron covering my shorts. With a gentle squeeze, he jokes, “How much does a piece of this cost?”
“Today we’re giving away free samples,” I say with a quick kiss. “One per customer.”
He laughs. “What if I don’t want anyone else to have any? Just me? Can I buy the whole thing?”
“Sure,” I say, playing along.
He lets me go long enough for me to untie my apron, but once I ball it into my hands, he’s hugging me again. He can’t keep his hands off me and I love it. Turning in his embrace, I give him a wink. “Drive around and I’ll take it out to the car for you. Paper or plastic?”
He kisses me again, his hands gripping my ass and pulling me tight against him. I feel the thick erection that strains the front of his slacks. “I’ve got a bag already waiting in the car,” he murmurs. “A whole box of lubricated favors to get the party started. I stopped by the drug store on my way over.”
I laugh as he nuzzles my neck. “Couldn’t you have bought them here?”
“You sell them?” he asks. Before I can answer, he teases, “Let me guess, aisle seven?”
He likes to remind me of that first meeting. Tahesha is his sister, and though she never quite apologized for that retarded remark, I’ve gotten used to her.
It’s lunch time. As Kevin guides me down the aisle, an arm draped around my shoulders and his hand ensnared in both of mine, he says, “You know, if I’d known you were hiding out in a place like this, I would’ve started shopping here a lot sooner.”
THE END
Makin’ Copies
I’m at the water cooler, listening to Kevin’s story of how he fought off a horde of housewives for the last TMX Elmo in Toys ‘R Us, when I hear my name bellowed from the boss’s office. “Johnson!”
The few co-workers near me scatter. I wonder if I can slink away to my desk and pretend I didn’t hear when Mr. Sanford yells out again. “Johnson! In my office, now!”
“It was nice knowing you,” Kevin says as I toss my cup into the trashcan. I know all too well what this must be about—the office Christmas party last Friday night. God! Kevin claps a hand on my back like a nail hammered into my coffin. “The Rich-Meister, caught makin’ copies.”
“Shut up,” I mutter. With my head down, I move through the cubicles in our small office like a man going to the gallows. Ahead Mr. Sanford’s door is open and I can see him sitting behind his desk, his movie-star good looks warring with the intense blaze of hatred in his eyes. He’s found out then, I know he has—someone mentioned it in passing, or maybe they narked on me deliberately, who knows? Who cares? Somehow he knows about the copier and that’s it, I’m fired. Day before Christmas Eve, too. Fuck.
I glance at his secretary as I pass, but the smirk she gives me isn’t sympathetic. “You’re dead,” she mouths. Though she holds the phone to her ear, I know she’s talking to me.
Stepping into his office, I figure the best course of action is to play dumb. Pretend it wasn’t me, or say I don’t remember it, I was too drunk. That’s mostly true…stopping in front of my boss’s cherry-wood desk, I swallow past the lump of fear in my throat and squeak, “Yes?”
Shit. I even sound guilty. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Mr. Sanford, yes.” Then, realizing that’s not a question, I add, “You wanted to see me?”
“Johnson,” he says, his booming voice filling the room around me and rolling out into the hall, where I’m sure my co-workers hang on his every word. There’s a manila folder on his desk, dead center, all by itself. The way he clasps his hands over it tells me that whatever I’m in here for is documented in it. I stare at those tanned hands with their well-manicured fingernails and wonder if this is going to be long and painful or quick and easy. Just fire me already, I want to say, but I’m too scared of my boss to speak to him in that way, or any other way. I can’t even look him in the face, this close. Suddenly I’m seven years old and waiting in the principal’s office for the shit to hit the fan.
“Johnson,” he says again, his voice slightly lower this time. My gaze flickers up from his hands to glance o
ver his face—he has rugged looks, craggy features that remind me of Harrison Ford or Sean Connery, one of those leading movie men now slightly past their prime. He’s old enough to be my father, Mr. Sanford is, and a hard life of tough business decisions has grayed his hair at the temples. His skin has gotten so much sun over the course of his life that he sports a perennial tan—his face, hands and neck darkened and crisscrossed with smooth, fine lines.
When I first met the man, I thought him attractive, with a sparkling grin, quick laugh and strong handshake that I can still feel. But my childish crush died the minute I signed the employment paperwork. He’s a hard man to work for, with high standards that half of the employees in his firm fail to meet. I’ve been here six months and still feel my position is a balancing act—the turnover is so high in some departments, they don’t bother to get business cards printed until you’ve been here at least a year. There are only a handful of days left of 2006 and December’s the first month no one’s been let go since I’ve been here.
Yet.
Resisting the urge to wipe my sweaty palms off on my slacks, I ask, “Yes…?”
“Have a seat,” Mr. Sanford says, interrupting me. He motions to the overstuffed leather chair, the only place to sit that isn’t behind his desk. Like a puppet whose strings are cut, I plop down onto the edge of the chair. A look of irritation flickers across his face. Fingering the folder, he shakes his head sadly. “Johnson, Johnson, Johnson.”
“Yes.” With a nod, I confirm that’s me. The triple-name play, not a good sign. Now that he can’t see my hands, I smooth them down the front of my pants. I suspect he wants me to ask about the folder, so I don’t. If he’s going to prolong the agony for me, I don’t have to roll over and take it.
Without a word, he passes it to me. I know I’m just another lowly peon to him, some upstart kid in the advertising department, so unimportant he has to call me Johnson because he doesn’t remember my first name. So when he tells me, “Take a look in there for me,” I know it’s not some impending business decision he wants me to review, or a major campaign he wants my opinion on, because that’s not who I am to him. This is the end of my career at Sanford and Associates, LLC. With a mix of trepidation and fear, I take the folder and hold it in my lap.
I don’t want to look inside.
As if he wants to give me some privacy, he stands and comes around from behind his desk. Past me, to close the door. That small gesture alone tells me this might get nasty. The moment he’s out of view, I open the folder and grimace at the first of several black and white photocopies staring back at me.
Someone’s ass, flattened against the copier’s glass. My ass.
Shit.
Behind that, another image of my butt—somehow, copies of my nether regions had seemed so much funnier on Friday night, especially with a half a bottle of Mad Dog-laced eggnog swirling through my system. Quickly I leaf through the pages, and see the worst of it. God.
The next image is also black and white and crystal clear—a copy of my dick, my hands pressing it flat against the glass. After that, another shot of my dick, just a fraction of an inch off from the first picture so I can tell this is a different image. Thumbing through the pictures is almost like looking at one of those children’s flipbooks where a drawing on the bottom of each page changes slightly and almost seems to move when riffled. With each copy my cock lengthens, hardening—from the drink, or the exposure, or maybe I was playing with myself as I ran off the copies, I can’t remember. But the folder is full of shots of my ass and dick, and by the next to the last page, my hard erection lies across the length of the copier glass, my balls now in the picture, squished and ready for their close-up.
Kill me now. Please.
Despite the fact that I’m in deep shit here, looking at these pictures turns me on. Cheap porn, enough to go around. Want more? I can make copies…I wonder how bad it would be if I asked to keep the images. I mean, if he’s planning to fire me anyway, I could at least post these on my blog.
The last copy is the one that seals my fate, I just know it. Yeah, Xeroxing my ass wasn’t the brightest of plans, but I had to take it a step further, as this last image shows. Instead of just sitting on the copier, I vaguely recall spreading my ass cheeks wide and then flouncing down. So this final picture shows my fingers holding my buttocks open to give my small, tight asshole its moment in the spotlight. My balls dangle at the edge of the image as if trying to crash the party. God, it looks like that? The skin dark and puckered, one of my fingers pointing as if drawing attention to it.
Leaning down over the back of my chair, Mr. Sanford’s voice is dangerously low as he purrs, “Would you take a look at that?”
I can explain, I think, but the thing is, I can’t think of one word in my defense so I stay mum. Mr. Sanford is so close behind me that I can smell his aftershave, something tingly and sharp, something manly, and it’s not helping. My heart pounds in my chest, the skin across my temples constricts, my crotch is throbbing…how can I suddenly want someone who terrifies me so?
Pointing past me to the picture in my lap, Mr. Sanford taps the paper and beneath that, the budding erection that strains the front of my slacks. “Such a virginal picture,” he breathes—who knew he could talk so softly when it suited him? I half-turn towards him and close my eyes as I breathe in his scent. “Don’t you think so, Johnson? Look at how clenched those muscles are. A man could almost feel their tightness drawing him in.”
A strangled noise comes from my throat. “Look at this,” Mr. Sanford is saying, and I obey because I don’t know what else to do. The buffed tip of his forefinger traces the outline of my asshole in the picture as if he’s rimming me. “Such a delicious image,” he murmurs, his voice breathy in my ear. “An ass like this practically begs to be entered. Do you know whose it is?”
Mine, I think, but my hands tremble where they grip the folder and I’m sure my voice will sound just as shaky, so I don’t answer. Mr. Sanford’s finger trails down the photo, below my crack to my balls, then taps a tiny spot on the underside of my left testicle. “Nice beauty mark.”
Hoping to salvage something of my pride, I stutter, “Maybe it’s a…a…a spot on the uh, copier, or something. You think?”
I turn to find Mr. Sanford’s face mere inches from mine. I can count every fold in the corner of his eye, every pore on his nose, every bristle of hair that’s begun to grow since he shaved this morning. I want to swallow and don’t dare. I want to breathe and can’t. If I licked my lips, my tongue would probably touch his mouth. And I thought he was intimidating before? Jesus. “Um,” I start, but it comes out sounding like a whimper so I don’t follow it with anything else.
Those pale eyes assess me, so cool, so collected, so calculating. What’s going on behind them? What does he think? In a whisper, I tell him, “I can explain.”
One tufted eyebrow shoots up. “What’s there to explain?”
This isn’t me, I want to lie, and I even open my mouth with those words on the tip of my tongue, when he interrupts me. “Aren’t these pictures yours?”
Numbly, I nod. He taps the paper again like he’s knocking at the fly of my slacks. Come in, I think wildly. I know he has to feel my erection. A few scant folds of fabric and paper are all that separate his hand from my crotch.
“So,” he says, his voice intimate. “Is this a spot on the copier? You tell me.”
“No,” I sigh. “It’s a freckle, I think—I’ve never seen it but I’ve felt it often enough, a small raised bump on the back of my…um…” Damn.
Quickly Mr. Sanford flips through the other pictures to the one of my hard cock and mashed balls. “And this is you, too?” he asks. His thumb trails along the photocopy until he finds the same beauty mark. With a sharp look my way, he wants to know, “You didn’t increase the magnification any, did you?” At my slight frown, he explains, “On the copier. This is your natural length?”
I nod again. “Mr. Sanford, really—”
He leans clo
ser, the hand in my lap knocking the folder aside. The pictures flutter to the floor as his fingers close over the bulge in my slacks. “Mr. Sanford,” I gasp, but whatever I mean to say after that is silenced when his mouth presses against mine in a rough kiss.
His lips are hard, his tongue demanding its way into my mouth. Of their own accord, my hands rise to touch his face—his skin is so much smoother than it appears, his hair fine and still slightly damp from his morning shower. I slide down a little into the chair, opening my legs to the hand that paws at my lap. When he finally pulls away from me, I’m left shaking and weak. “Mr. Sanford,” I try again.
“Call me Mike.” He stands and runs a hand through his hair, settling it back into place.
“Mike,” I breathe. The word tapers off into a laugh I try to muffle by covering my mouth with the back of my hand. “I was sure you were going to fire me.”
He comes around the chair to lean against his desk. The zipper of his Italian slacks is open, the tip of his dick peering out at me. “I could still fire you,” he tells me, an unreadable expression on his face. With a nod at the papers scattered at our feet, he adds, “I’ve got plenty of evidence, Johnson. It’s your call. I wouldn’t coerce you, but…”
He trails off, leading me along. “But what?” I ask. And how do we get back to where we were a moment ago? I want to know. Your hand on my cock, your mouth on mine.
“Show me that beauty mark of yours,” he says, his voice low. My blood races, flooding my dick. “I’m not saying sleep with me to keep your job,” Mr. Sanford—Mike—points out, “but I don’t see any harm in both of us getting something out of this, do you? Unless you’re not interested…”
I love how he says it, like he could go either way, but if I’m up for it…and Lord knows, I’m up. Scrambling out of the chair, I unzip my slacks and shuck them down unceremoniously. I turn towards the chair as I tug my briefs down, exposing my now-famous ass. I raise one knee and am about to climb into the chair when I feel warm hands on my inner thighs, then Mr. Sanford spreads me wide. “God,” I moan as his fingers strum between my buttocks, finding the puckered hole at my center. He helps me into the chair and I kneel in the seat, ass in the air, the leather armrest pressed to the side of my face. When his hot tongue licks over my fevered skin, I have to bite into the armrest to keep from crying out.
