by Amy Lane
Jefferson pulled back and fisted his cock some more, stroking hard and fast and relentless. For a moment Mason could hear nothing above his own heartbeat and rasping breaths, and then the cold air hit his wet cockhead as Jefferson pulled back and said, “Spread your legs. I want to play with your hole.”
Oh fuck comfortable. Mason spread his legs and leaned against the sink, his body open and exposed to the cold, and his cock deliciously chilling with every pant of Jefferson’s hot breath. Then his cockhead was swallowed into the heat again and two fingers, slick with spit but not polite, shoved up into his asshole.
He saw stars and dumped come down Jefferson’s throat.
His hips were still thrusting when he heard the sound of flesh against flesh. He looked down and saw Jefferson’s hand blurring on his own exposed cock, and then the vibration of Jefferson’s moan around his crown sent him into one more spasm of climax.
And Jefferson’s come hit his ankles, shins, and shoes.
“Oh God,” he whispered, massaging Jefferson’s scalp through his hair. Sometime between kiss-me-now and fuck-my-mouth, Mason had pulled the rubber band out of Jefferson’s hair, and the wedge was back, falling in front of his brown eyes as he smiled up at Mason almost shyly.
Mason touched his face tenderly, not sure what to say, and that’s when they heard the car pull into the parking lot.
Jefferson grimaced and stood up, pulling Mason’s sweats with him and covering him up in one swoop. He was about to bend down for his own shorts when Mason squatted. “Let me,” he said, bemused. “I mean… the least I could do.”
He gave Jefferson’s cock a little kiss and stood, pulling the soccer shorts and Under Armour up with him. He cupped Jefferson’s cheek and, mindful of what sounded to be an entire soccer team unloading from the car they’d heard pull in, he gave a sweet, gracious kiss.
“Not that I shouldn’t have told you earlier, but I’m HIV negative,” he said when it was over.
Jefferson rolled his eyes like it was no big deal. “I use rubbers when I fuck,” he said bluntly. “Me too.”
“But how would you know that—”
He shrugged. Oh my God, did nobody teach this kid what serious was? “The likelihood of me getting HIV from a blow job is less than 1 percent,” he recited. Then he rolled his eyes. “And man, your cock was just….” He shook his head. “Mm… what is that thing? Seven inches? Eight? It’s enormous.”
Mason was torn between feeling a little bit used and objectified and thinking he might have found his soul mate. “Mostly what it’s been is underappreciated,” he said with feeling. Then, because Jefferson was shivering, he reached out and pulled him against his chest almost gruffly. “Let’s get out of here,” he growled. “I’ll take you to pancakes or something.”
For a moment—a sweet moment—Jefferson collapsed into Mason’s arms and shuddered, and Mason thought, Oh wow. This is it. Love at first blow job. I thought that was just a fairy tale, like Cinderfella.
Then Jefferson pulled back—reluctantly, it seemed, but with purpose. “Sounds awesome,” he said with a sigh. “But I don’t get much unsupervised time a week.” He smiled crookedly. “So, soccer and a bathroom break.” He winked and then turned and led the way out of the bathroom.
Mason followed him, uncomfortably aware that he had spunk on his sweats and his shoes and his skin, and that his cock had been put away wet.
And that he was just as confused about Terry Jefferson as he had been before they went into the bathroom.
Jefferson made no effort to talk, intimately or otherwise, heading first for the field, where a group of teenagers were passing his ball. He didn’t ask for it back, but instead chased down the kid who had it, stole the ball back after a spirited, furious battle, and then kicked it to Mason with amazing control.
“Catch it!” he called, and Mason did, because apparently that was his only soccer skill. The kids put up a fuss, but Jefferson turned toward them with a shrug while he was running backward away from the field. “It’s my ball!”
He was soundly booed for that, and he turned toward Mason, still jogging as he offered a salute behind his back.
Mason looked down to the field and saw that another kid was dribbling a ball up from the tree line and figured that they weren’t going to die without Jefferson’s ball. Relieved, he started walking toward the battered little Toyota.
“I’ll take that!” Jefferson reached for the ball.
Mason turned away from him, guarding the thing with intent. “Wait a minute—you’ll get it back when I know when we can see each other again!”
Jefferson’s guffaw echoed down into the park. “Mason, don’t we have golf next week?”
“Yes, but—”
Jefferson popped the ball through Mason’s arms. Mason flailed for it, but the end result was predictable—Jefferson grabbed the ball and threw it inside the Toyota.
“I’ll see you then,” he said.
For a moment Mason was going to put his foot down, and then it hit him. Jefferson’s mouth was open and laughing—but his eyes.
His eyes were begging. Pinched at the corners, limpid, almost wet—he was begging Mason not to make a big deal out of this.
“Can we see each other longer?” he asked with a sigh.
Jefferson popped him on the ass like any other athlete would pop a teammate.
“Course—but we may not want to hit the whole game on the course, if you know what I mean.” He winked and slid into the car, cranking the motor with the confident turn of the key.
The car rattled off, leaving Mason staring at its trail of exhaust, fighting the absurd impulse to hold out his hand and whisper, “Call me,” to the air pollution Jefferson left in his wake.
WHEN HE got back home, he passed Dane, keenly involved in an online game of Destiny with Carpenter over the PS4. All Mason knew about the game was that sometimes he could hear Nathan Fillion’s voice, and that was pretty sexy, but other than that, there was an awful lot of bloodshed for a Saturday afternoon.
For a moment he expected Dane to put his game on hold and make some sort of clairvoyant pronouncement along the lines of “You smell like come!” but he didn’t. He saved that for when Mason got out of the shower, put on clean sweats, grabbed a book, and cuddled up in his corner of the couch.
“Good game?” Dane asked, his eyes on the screen ahead of him.
“Not bad—more like a clinic. He taught me the basics.” On the soccer field. Apparently he was like blow job pro in the bathroom—Mason had learned just from the pressure of his tongue and palate alone.
“Good. Gonna see him again?”
Mason was so tempted, right then, to spill out, “Yes, and I’m probably going to get blown again, but that doesn’t stop me from being confused as fuck!”
Instead he shrugged. “Well, we’re going golfing next week still.”
“Promising!” Dane turned and graced him with a smile before going back to his game.
Mason made plans to pack a sweatshirt for Jefferson, and wet wipes, rubbers, and lubricant for whatever else might come… er, pop… er… show up.
He wasn’t going to turn down more sex, no matter how confused he might be about it.
LILLIAN BRADFORD, Mason’s secretary, was a crisp, efficient woman in her fifties. She left her hair color at iron gray but always made sure it was perfectly coiffed in pinned curls, and she wore pressed, navy-blue suits to work every day. Mason had actually paid attention to the cut and length of the jackets and skirts to see if she wore different suits in the same color or just the same suit. Turned out she owned four different suits in the same color, but that didn’t stop the impression that the woman was unsusceptible to the vicissitudes that shook the earthly masses.
She’d been the one to tell him that Schipperke (as he still thought of Skip) was “a tall gentleman, fair hair, and a strength to the jaw. Would I say he’s handsome? Very. And fit. And….” She had looked up and to the right then, as though accessing a hidden file in her brain,
her no-bullshit blue eyes steady as steel. She returned those eyes to Mason’s face and continued speaking as though she hadn’t paused. “Vulnerable,” she said. “Mr. Keith is vulnerable, and a bit naïve.”
Mason had already gathered that by how easy it had been to fluster poor Skipper. “He’s young,” he’d said wistfully.
“More than that, sir.” Lillian had compressed her lips tightly. “That boy, sir, is in desperate need of some mothering, and all he seems to know is men. I would suggest you keep that in mind if you’re seeking a… a connection with him.”
Mason had kept it in mind. He’d kept it in mind that she apparently thought he was a merciless cradle robber and that he should probably lay off his IT phone tech fascination entirely. When he’d come into the office after he and Dane had run into Skipper and Carpenter on the golf course, he’d told her—somewhat dispiritedly—that Skipper was well and truly in love with Richie.
“That is too bad, sir. I would very much like to see you happily matched.”
“Have we been watching Pride and Prejudice again, Mrs. Bradford?”
“Sense and Sensibility, sir. It’s my husband’s favorite. Something about when the eldest Miss Dashwood bursts into tears just melts his crotchety old heart.”
“As it should,” he’d replied. She’d turned to leave, the military precision of her heel pivot showing twelve years in the Air Force before she’d married, opted out, and stayed home to raise two sons. “Mrs. Bradford?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you. For, you know, helping me meddle in my own love life.”
“Of course, sir. And sir?”
“Mrs. Bradford?”
“Do keep trying.”
That had been after Thanksgiving. Now, after New Year’s, when pretty much the entire office was coming in after pretending they were working from home, she stood in front of his desk, crisp and efficient as always, at the beginning of the day.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bradford. I trust your holidays went well?”
“Not so much, really, sir. My boys both brought their wives, neither one of which is interested in procreating and both of whom have decided… ideas about things.”
“Ideas?” He rarely heard her actively disapprove of anybody.
“Well, Michael’s wife is an environmental activist, and she was appalled to see that we’d gotten a Christmas tree from a lot. She seemed to feel that the tree had been tortured and murdered to be brought to our house, and that if we were truly good people, we would have bought a fake tree years ago.”
Mason’s eyes got big. He could not imagine… not even… oh God. Who would contradict Lillian Bradford in her own house?
“And the other wife? Chad’s wife?”
“Well, Chad’s wife is also an environmental activist, and she seemed to feel that a fake tree is pandering to the evil plastics industry, and that to buy one would be giving our capital to a heartless polluter that poisons children in developing nations and who feeds the unwilling spoonfuls of arsenic, lead, and cadmium in an effort to destroy all of the fertile soil on the planet.”
Now Mason’s mouth was hanging open. “Uhm….”
“I was, of course, in quite the quandary. I even”—her brows drew together, and she lowered her voice as though confessing a shameful secret—“grew a bit emotional.”
He could see that. She and her husband had been celebrating Christmas for the sweet sake of pagan rituals!
“I’m so sorry,” he said, almost afraid of what happened next.
“Oh, don’t be.” She nodded decisively. “My husband came home in the middle of the debate and said—and I quote him here, sir, as his language was quite salty. He spent his military time as a Marine, you know—but he said, ‘It’s a fucking Christmas tree, and you will be fucking grateful for the things we have, or your mother and I are cashing in your goddamned Christmas presents for tickets to a cruise we never had the money to take. Now you assholes get the fuck out of my living room for a couple of hours and let me and your mother look at the lights.’”
Mason wanted to cheer. “Your husband is something special, isn’t he?” His throat was all thick and everything. “That reminds me of how my mother used to stand by me through school.”
Mrs. Lillian Bradford’s face relaxed, became matronly and soft. “Your mother must be a very special woman.”
He nodded. “As are you, Mrs. Bradford. I do hope your family calmed down.”
She held out her hand and tilted it—a little yes, a little no. “The women and I reached détente, and the boys apparently went in to buy us a cruise. I’m going to call it a win.”
“Fair enough.”
“And yourself, sir?”
Mason grimaced. He was hoping to get out of this without having to make a full disclosure, but he was pretty sure Mrs. Bradford had just admitted to actual tears of frustration, and it was his turn to put out.
“Well, I met a nice young man at Schipperke’s Christmas party.”
Mrs. Bradford’s face practically lit up. He wondered if, since both her sons were occupied with strong women who clashed… erm… strongly with their mother, maybe Mrs. Bradford enjoyed hearing about his romantic attempts because men she could deal with.
“You did? And what was his name, sir?”
“Jefferson. Uh, Terry Jefferson. We, uh, met to play soccer.”
The lines on her handsome face grew a little deeper. “Is that all, sir?”
Oh dear. He was not telling Mrs. Bradford that he’d gotten a blow job in an awful concrete bathroom at a public park.
“Well, there was… there was a hope?” Okay, he could say that. “A hope for more. But….” He let out a sigh, wondering how to phrase this. “Mrs. Bradford, you have two sons.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re married.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How old are they?”
“Michael is twenty-seven and Chad is twenty-five. Why do you ask?”
“Because he’s young—twenty-five—but his mother… she’s sort of all over him. Where’s he going, who’s he seeing, why isn’t he home to make her happy. I think… I think rec league soccer is his only out. I mean… is that normal?”
She frowned. “Where’s his father?”
Mason shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Well….” She pursed her lips. “Some people….” And now she scowled. “No. I shall be blunt. My daughters-in-law are very strong-willed and very vocal—and as difficult as that is sometimes, I am relieved. It means my sons are strong men and can handle a woman’s strength.”
Mason nodded sagely. “With you as their mother, I have no doubt.”
“Thank you, sir. But not all women use their strength. Some women assume that to be weak is to be ‘good.’” She quirked her eyebrows in lieu of quotation marks. “You understand what I mean? ‘Good’?”
Mason had to laugh. “Mrs. Bradford, I think you have the wrong person to ask that. I lived in the principal’s office. I had to change schools after the first time I made out with a boy. There was nothing about me that was ‘good’—except my mother, who insisted that my heart was better than anything that came out of my mouth.”
And that stern face softened again. “I think you know exactly what I’m saying, then, sir. Some people use weakness as a way to exert their will. It’s one of the reasons I joined the military—I was not that woman. Some women didn’t have a choice—some women were beaten for showing strength, some ridiculed. Those women often… they use manipulation to get what they want. Perhaps this young man’s mother does not want to be alone.”
Mason sort of gaped at her, because it really could be as simple as that. “But… when does he get his own life?”
“That could be a very serious problem,” she said soberly. “Are you sure you wish to continue this association?”
“Yes,” Mason said, nodding slowly. “Yes, I think I do.” He smiled briefly, and then they launched into the series of—ugh!—meetings
that made up the rest of their day, but he spent all of his spare attention questioning what made him say that.
He thought at first that he was remembering the blow job when he said it. But that wasn’t what he was remembering at all.
He was remembering that unspoken plea in Jefferson’s eyes to just… just say yes. Just let the blow job happen. Just commit to another date just like this one.
To just, please, don’t leave him alone.
Schwing!
SURE ENOUGH, Jefferson showed up to the golf course at the asscrack of dawn wearing cargo shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Mason had been waiting for him in the car, and he pulled out a thick hooded sweatshirt that said Stanford on the front and threw it at him as he approached.
“There’s a dress code?” Jefferson asked, sounding a little hurt. His car had barely made it into the parking lot—Mason wouldn’t have asked him someplace that made him dress up.
“No, but you make me cold looking at you. There’s gloves in the pocket, and a stocking cap too.”
Jefferson started putting on clothes while Mason reached into the car and pulled out two large lattes and a small pastry bag. “Here,” he said when Jefferson looked warmer. “Hold that while I get the clubs out of the trunk.”
“I don’t have my own clubs….” And it was like this was the first time he’d thought about it.
“Don’t worry—you’re only an inch or two shorter than Carpenter. It’s nice to have your own fitted clubs, and you can rent them if you don’t, but he’s got a really nice set. Standard loft, standard flex—they should be fine for a beginner.”
Jefferson looked at the clubs curiously as Mason set the bags down behind the car to slam the trunk. “They don’t look like golf clubs on TV.”
Mason laughed a little. “That’s because the new shit is technological as hell. It’s actually scary. I had to do research—I’m talking, like, weeks of research to order my last set. I felt stupid, right? Because I just wanted to play.”
