But Alastair didn’t stop talking. He kept on, as though he didn’t have his bodyguard kneeling under his desk and feeling him up. As soon as the conversation switched back over to the businessmen, Mike took advantage of Alastair’s unflappableness to lean forward and lick him. He felt the amazingly smooth skin at the head of Alastair’s cock, and his tongue caught the next droplets, warm and salty on his tongue. His reward was another tiny, almost imperceptible, hitch in Alastair’s breathing, and the hitch shot straight down to coil as a little thread of lust in his belly.
“You seem to think you’re in a position to negotiate, gentlemen,” Alastair said, ice-smooth, even as Mike licked around his silky-hot head, catching every drip of his excitement. “You are not. You are at my mercy—I think your balance sheets will tell you exactly that—and this ridiculous bravado does you no favors.”
The other men spoke again, and Mike couldn’t even pretend to be interested. He opened his mouth to take Alastair’s tip in, swirling his tongue over it, sucking gently. Alastair must have been impatient, because suddenly he thrust—not deeply, but enough to push a few more inches into Mike’s mouth. Mike just barely got his teeth out of the way in time. His lips rubbed over the smooth, hot skin, and he took the cue to begin to bob his head. To his surprise, Alastair started speaking. Mike couldn’t make out what he was saying over the rushing of blood in his own ears, but he could tell that Alastair’s tone was completely even despite the fact that Mike was sucking him off.
How can he do that? Mike wondered, incredulous. And yet, for some reason, that control make him even harder, almost as much as did the clean, musky taste of Alastair’s skin on his tongue.
He closed his eyes, stopped even trying to pay attention to who was talking—let alone who was saying what—and sucked. Alastair’s shallow thrusts grew gradually deeper, driving over Mike’s tongue and into his mouth. Each thrust, brushing over the back of his tongue, made his own cock swell painfully in his pants. The masculine scent of Alastair’s skin, faintly perfumed with expensive cologne—the taste, salty and musky—the feel of the silky skin of his head and the rougher ridge of his pushed-back foreskin on Mike’s palate—all combined to fill Mike with a burning arousal of his own, an arousal that made his erection railspike-hard in his pants.
But he didn’t dare touch himself, didn’t dare even rub his hand over the seam of his pants for a little relief. Not without permission. God knew what Alastair would do if he jerked himself off without asking. Instead his busied his hands stroking his fingertips over Alastair’s balls, impossibly soft, crinkled and lightly furred. He stroked them as they tightened and drew up in counterpoint to the slow, subtle, hard thrusts into his mouth.
He barely—barely—caught Alastair say, in a positively bored tone of voice, “If that’s all you have to say, gentlemen, I think we’re done here. My lawyers will contact you. See yourselves out.”
Grumbling and muttering came from the other side of the desk (Mike could barely hear it over his own pulse, hammering in his ears), and then, blessedly, he heard the sound of the door whisking open and then shut again.
Suddenly Alastair’s strong, ice-cool fingers closed in his hair and Alastair began to thrust in earnest. Mike opened his mouth as wide as he could and relaxed his throat, breathing steadily through his nose as he simply took it. He was glad he’d had the warm-up, because he was able to accept the hard, deep strokes without gagging. A handful of thrusts later, a rough grunt was the only warning before Alastair began to spurt into his mouth and down his throat.
He swallowed without coughing too much, and was proud of himself for that.
Alastair’s hands guided him off, stroking his hair gently, absently. “Well done, Michael,” he said, after a moment. “You can come out now, you know.”
Mike crawled out from under the desk, wiping a little droplet of come from the corner of his mouth as he did. The warring emotions of shame at letting himself be so thoroughly fucked, and pride at having done it so well, meant that he didn’t know what expression to show his boss: so he kept his gaze calm, professional.
Alastair met it with an amused quirk of his mouth. “You did do well,” he said. “That would have been a much more dull and frustrating meeting without you to keep me diverted.”
“I’m glad to help you,” Mike said, “sir.”
Alastair regarded him for a moment, blue eyes unreadable as mirrors. “I think you deserve a reward,” he said, after a moment. “Strip.”
Mike hesitated, just a moment, thinking of the door, the businessmen and the secretary just on the other side—
“Strip,” Alastair repeated, his voice acquiring an edge of frosted steel, and this time Mike didn’t dare disobey.
It didn’t take long for him to entirely divest himself of clothes, leaving them folded neatly (because nothing else seemed quite appropriate) beside his feet. He was hard—no point hiding it, and anyway, Alastair seemed pleased by that fact. At least, Alastair’s gaze had settled on his erection.
“I’ve been thinking of ways to reward you,” Alastair said. Mike knew, instinctively, that any idea Alastair had for rewarding him would be at least as much a reward for Alastair; Alastair didn’t have an instinct for selflessness. But he was smart enough not to say so.
“And I’ve thought of something you might enjoy.” Alastair’s eyes had gone heavy-lidded, thoughtful. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a coil of rope.
The rope was pure-white, glossy-smooth. Mike swallowed. “Sir,” he said.
“Hush,” Alastair said. “Hold still.” He rose out of his chair, tucking himself back into his pants with an almost casual air, and circled Mike. Mike could feel goosebumps stand out all over his body. He felt exposed—even more so than when he’d been giving Alastair a blowjob in front of a room full of investors.
“Very nice,” Alastair said, sliding a hand over his buttocks and giving them a smooth squeeze. “And all mine. Hold still.” With an easy, practiced motion, he looped the rope up over Mike’s left shoulder, and down between his legs.
Mike stiffened at the sensation: cool, smooth rope, rubbing against the skin of his chest and back, and against the more sensitive flesh between his legs. Alastair looped it between his legs, up over his other shoulder, and then down between his legs again.
The rope provided friction almost exactly where he wanted it. It brushed against either side of his hard cock, cradled his balls, pressed up between his buttocks and over his asshole. Alastair kept working, knotting it behind his back and then looping it around his chest, under and then over his pecs so that the rope rubbed with maddening subtlety right over his nipples, bringing them to hard attention. He knotted here and there, just tight enough so that every inhale and exhale shifted the ropes. With every breath, Mike’s body rubbed the knots over his nipples, his ass and perineum, his balls and cock.
But Mike hadn’t touched any of those places directly. And he hadn’t given Mike leave to touch them either. So all Mike could do, as he made himself harder with each passing moment, drove himself wild with each breath… was wait. He fisted his hands, digging his knuckles into his palms, struggling for some equilibrium, waiting for the moment when Alastair would finally give him release with his hands or mouth—or at least give Mike permission to relieve himself.
His impromptu rope-harness complete, Alastair sat back and regarded Mike. “Good,” he said. “Now put your clothes back on. We have a meeting in five minutes.”
“Excuse me?” Mike rasped. He couldn’t even summon up enough voice for a full protest.
“You heard me.” Alastair’s voice was smooth as polished chrome. “Put your clothes back on before you embarrass us both. I’ll let them in even if you’re naked, you know that.”
Mike knew that; Alastair was pitiless, especially when he was in a mood. And his glittering eyes said that he was, most definitely, in a mood. Mike scrambled to gather up his clothes, pulling on underwear and suit pants, shirt, tie, jacket, socks, shoes… and each moment dragg
ed the ropes against his sensitive body parts. Each time he bent or twisted to tug on his jacket or pull his socks up, the ropes dug into his most delicate flesh, making him harder, hotter, more responsive.
More desperate.
Thank god, the cut of his pants were generous. Thank god, his suit jacket hung low enough to hide the raging bulge of his erection. He’d just barely made himself presentable enough when the door opened, admitting Alastair’s next guests.
He stationed himself in his usual position behind Alastair’s desk, shut his eyes, and prepared himself for the longest meeting of his life… a meeting in which even a slightly deep breath rasped a silky touch over his burning erection, driving him more mad with each passing second.
***
At a conservative estimate, the meeting lasted five million hours.
Actually, it was no more than, maybe, two hours. But Mike felt that he deserved to count each second the strong, smooth ropes were rubbing against his cock, when he couldn’t use his hands to relieve the pressure on said cock, as double time. And each second they rubbed over his asshole—reminding him of when Alastair had pressed his fingers there, and what it had felt like to have Alastair fuck him there—counted for at least a thousand years each. So five million hours seemed about right.
Still, he managed, just barely, to keep his composure throughout. He set his jaw and clenched his fists and managed a really good glower that seemed to scare the visiting bankers, and that was probably okay because Alastair had made clear that half his job was being scary enough to intimidate his enemies.
He hoped it was okay, because he wasn’t going to be able to do anything besides glower. It was either glower or come in his pants, and he was pretty sure Alastair would disapprove of the latter.
After the meeting was over, he thought Alastair was going to have mercy, because he said, “All right, Michael, we’re done for the day.” But instead of ordering him out of his clothes—or at least putting a hand down his pants and stroking him to the release he so desperately needed—Alastair jerked his chin, indicating that Mike should follow him.
Follow him out of the office. Through the foyer and past his smirking secretary. Into the elevator.
Down the elevator, and, oh god, Alastair slid his fingertips across Mike’s jawline. That simple touch, smooth cool fingertips against the skin of his throat, was almost enough to undo him.
Then, out of the super-fast elevator and into the limousine, where they both sat in the back seat. “You performed very well today,” Alastair said, purring low as a panther. His blue eyes glittered. “I like having your finger so close to the trigger… as it were. It gives you an edge.”
I’m about to come all over myself, Mike thought. He said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Are you hungry, Michael?”
I need to get off way, way more than I need to eat. “Not particularly, sir.”
“Hm,” Alastair said. “Well, I am.” He settled back in the seat, destroying Mike’s hopes of crazy screwing in the back seat of a limousine and finally getting off.
He bit the inside of his mouth to hold in his exhale of profound frustration.
***
When they arrived at Alastair’s penthouse, Mike realized that the president must have had this planned from the beginning. In the foyer were two chairs next to a low table, on which was spread a collection of exotic finger foods—slivers of rare cheeses, a fan of thin toasts, a selection of caviar and oysters, a collection of patés that Mike couldn’t even tell apart, and a wide array of sliced fresh fruits that had been, no doubt, picked that morning and flown in for the evening. One of the chairs had a richly-upholstered ottoman in front of it. The other was perfectly upright, like a throne. A fire blazed in the fireplace.
“Strip,” Alastair said. “And kneel on the ottoman.”
Mike did so, without hesitation and without question. He knew better than to question. He undressed himself down to the silky knots of rope that twined his body, rubbing between his legs and mapping his pecs. They were tied tight behind him, and he couldn’t have gotten them untied if he’d wanted to. Once stripped down to the ropes, he knelt on the ottoman. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he put them on his thighs.
He could feel the heat from the fire wash over his bare skin. His cock was rock-hard already; he hoped Alastair didn’t object, because he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do about it.
Alastair stepped around him. In the big mirror over the fireplace, Mike could see him, slim and pale and perfectly commanding, standing behind him. He was immaculate in every detail, his white-gold hair perfectly in place, his tailored suit unwrinkled. Next to him, naked, Mike looked downright coarse, his sun-darkened skin set off by the gleaming white ropes that bound and framed him, his muscles standing out thanks to the position he was in.
Alastair took one of his wrists, and held out his hand for the other. Before he could even question the impulse, Mike put his other wrist in Alastair’s hand. Alastair pulled both hands firmly behind Mike’s back; not hard, not cruelly, but firmly. As if taking something that already belonged to him. Mike swallowed hard and saw his adam’s apple bob in the mirror.
Once he had Mike’s hands pinned behind him, Alastair loosened the end of the knot behind Mike’s back and used the rope’s tail to tie Mike’s hands. They weren’t just bound, they were bound to the ropes surrounding him. He couldn’t use his hands, or even move them. Not only that, the posture made him arch and thrust his chest forward even as the ropes pulled his shoulders and arms backwards. The ropes around his ribcage tightened in response, dragging against his nipples and pulling them to attention.
Mike could see himself in the big mirror, kneeling on the ottoman, his body lined by pristine white ropes, his muscles roped and corded with tension, his arms and hands bound and helpless behind him, his nipples hard… and his cock harder, standing out from his body, slick and wet with dripping precum.
Alastair seemed to be admiring the same picture, and he nodded with the air of a connoisseur who was pleased with the artwork he was assessing. “Good,” he said, and then circled the low table and sat on the other side, at the tall, thronelike chair. As if nothing were amiss at all, he picked up a little caviar-covered hors d’oeuvre and slipped it into his mouth.
“Sir,” Mike said, his mouth dry.
“Oh,” Alastair said, his tone solicitous but his eyes narrowing in devious pleasure. “Are you hungry too, Michael? Well, we can’t have that. Let me see, what would suit you….” He picked up an oyster and held it to his own lips, tilting his head back and letting the oyster slide into his mouth. The gesture—Alastair’s soft mouth slightly open, the movement of his pale throat as he swallowed—made Mike’s cock jump and leak. “Quite good. Let me get you one.”
Mike opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, an oyster was pressed to his lips. All he could do was open his mouth and swallow. It wasn’t unpleasant—slick and briny, but not unpleasant—but it wasn’t what he wanted. “Sir, I—”
“Perhaps you’d like something else, then?” Alastair gave him a razor-edged smile, and dragged a strawberry through a thin glaze of honey. He brought it to his own mouth, took a bite, and held out the other half. “Eat,” he said.
Mike opened his mouth and took a bite, felt the sweet, fruity taste explode across his tongue. His stomach grumbled. It was a bizarre parallel to what had happened that day at the office, being coaxed to part his lips and take something that he hadn’t asked for… but that his mouth nonetheless watered for.
“There,” Alastair said. “I knew you were hungry.” And then, maddeningly, tantalizingly, he kept Alastair there, bound and rock-hard and completely untouched. Kept him there as he split the rich, decadent food between them, alternating taking bites for himself and feeding Mike by hand.
It was both humiliating and strangely erotic, being helpless and fed like this. He didn’t dare request anything—Alastair clearly liked being in control, and no doubt would not look k
indly on such an usurpation of his role—but he accepted, bite after bite, the honeyed fruit, the fancy cheeses on filigrees of toast, the bites of paté, the tiny caviar blinis, the slick and salty oysters.
By the time he was done, fire-washed and satiated with food, untouched except for the brief brush of fingers against his lips—and the omnipresent slide of ropes on his skin—he was harder, and more frustrated, than he could remember being in his whole life.
“Sir,” he said, when the last plate was cleared away by a housemaid (who, he noted, was careful not to stare at him, even naked and hard as he was). “Please.”
Alastair didn’t reply right away; he got up, went to the sideboard, and poured himself a glass of brandy. Then he said, “Yes?”
“Please,” Mike said, his voice tight with need. His cock was so hard that he thought he’d go mad, and every breath slid silky ropes over it, enough to make him even harder but never enough to give him relief. “Please, sir.”
Alastair sat again and regarded him, eyes blue as a winter day. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Michael.”
It was humiliating to say it, but Mike was desperate. He’d been hard for hours. “Please let me come,” Mike blurted.
“Well now,” Alastair said. He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his brandy, then gave Mike a hooded look. “That’s a bit selfish of you, isn’t it?”
Mike’s jaw dropped. “S-sir?”
“You’re mine,” Alastair said. He rose to his feet and stalked over to Mike, sliding his fingers along Mike’s jawline and lifting his face until Mike’s eyes met his crystalline gaze. “You know that, don’t you, Michael?”
The Billionaire's Bodyguard: Complete Collection Page 4
