by Daryl Banner
Like undoing my pant button—Pop.
Unzipping them—Zip.
And letting out my already hard, throbbing cock.
“It’s out,” I whispered, staying low in my chair so as to keep my cock hidden behind the desk. If someone were to sweep right in unexpectedly, I could reasonably hide myself. I hope.
I could not say the same at all, of course, for my completely flushed, beet red, ecstasy-drunk face.
Lucas’s voice deepened. “Now, I want you to give my dick a long, slow stroke. From the base to the tip. A looong, slow stroke.”
My dick. That’s what he said. My dick.
He owned me for sure.
I wrapped a hand around my swollen cock—fuck, my fingers are cold—and ever so slowly gave it one long, excruciatingly sensitive stroke. It made me squirm, a whirlpool of excitement spinning in the pit of my stomach.
“Mmm,” he moaned, his deep, rich, sultry voice sounding like his real mouth was right by my ear, tickling it with each of his words and his moans. “Damn, boy. You’re really, really, really hard for me, aren’t you?”
“So fucking hard,” I whimpered.
“You wanna give it another stroke?”
“Badly.”
“Go ahead. Do it. I’ll let you.”
His little moments of sweetness—I’ll let you—teased my mind so expertly that I had to wonder whether it was intentional. He always played with me, batting me around like a cat’s toy.
I gave my cock another long, slow stroke. “Oh, fuck …”
“Driving you mad, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I was out of breath. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Stroke it again.”
The torture was endless. I wanted to jerk myself off so badly, yet felt deeply compelled to obey his every command. That was part of the fun for me—the denial, whether it was self-imposed or directly enforced by Lucas himself. I had to do only as I was told.
“And again,” he commanded.
I stroked again.
“And again.”
On and on, he coached me as I gave myself one excruciatingly slow stroke after another. Every part of my body desperately wanted my hand to move faster, but Lucas—even over a phone call in my ear—did not allow it.
“Tell me, on a scale of one to fuck-you-Lucas,” he asked, “how desperately horny are you?”
“Fuck you, Lucas,” I breathed, practically singing.
“On a scale of one to I-hate-you-so-much-right-now-Lucas, how badly do you want to come?”
“I hate you so much right now, Lucas.”
“Good. Right where I want you. Now let go.”
Despite every cell in my body screaming in protest, I let go of my raging hard dick, then stared at it as it bobbed in the air. The poor thing danced before my eyes with my every heartbeat.
“I want you to imagine something for me, James.”
I stared at my dick, out of breath, as Lucas spoke softly yet firmly into my ear. It made me drowsy with lust, the way his voice slithered right into my gut, hypnotizing me.
“Imagine,” he went on, “that my lips were right there in front of you. My lips you love so much. Can you see them?”
“Yes,” I whispered, desperate for those lips to really be there, to be in front of mine, to kiss me softly. I had only just left my house an hour and a half ago, and already I missed Lucas so badly.
“Imagine my lips being right there … right in front of your dick.”
“Oh, God …”
“And I open my mouth, slowly. I let out my tongue …”
“Lucas …” I couldn’t stand it. It was torture, his words.
“I run my tongue—slowly, slowly—up the length of your big, fat dick.”
“Oh, fuck, I’m dying, I’m dying.” My cock was throbbing so badly, it was like I’d never let go of it. I almost could feel my hand sliding up and down its length still. I desperately wanted to jerk off.
“Imagine it, James. You imagining it?”
“Fuck yes.”
“I put my lips right there at the end. I kiss it.”
“Kiss …”
“Then I open my mouth, James. Can you picture my mouth? I open it right up …”
“Yes, yes, yes …”
“Can you really picture it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And I wrap my lips tenderly around your big, round, swollen cockhead. It’s in my mouth, James. Your cockhead. In my warm, wet mouth. It’s all mine.”
“All yours …” I could literally feel his mouth around my cock.
“I go down—slowly, so fucking slowly—as I swallow inch … by inch … by inch … by inch.”
I was so hard and throbbing so badly, I was genuinely afraid that I could come just from his words and the sound of his voice.
I was seconds from coming, and I wasn’t even touching it.
How does Lucas have such power over me?
“I’m sucking you so slow, yet it’s just enough to get you off, isn’t it?” he asked—and I could hear the crooked grin in his words. “You could get off like that, couldn’t you? Barely any stimulation. Just my hot breath … my sexy lips … my wet tongue …”
It was like he was in my head. “Fuuuck …” I hissed.
It was too much. I was going insane.
I was already insane.
“Imagine it, James. Imagine finally shooting, after nine days. Imagine finally letting it all out right there. Imagine filling my mouth up. Imagine all of that release …”
“Oh my God.”
“Imagine how good it would feel. Don’t you deserve that?” His voice was toying, teasing, mischievous. “Don’t you deserve to feel that good, James?”
“Yes,” I moaned, squirming. One flex of my dick, and I feared I would explode all over my clothes. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He let out a long, deep breath into the phone. Then his tone of voice abruptly changed. “Good. Now zip it up.”
I let out a sudden breath of exasperation. I sat up in my chair with alarm. “What??” I blurted out, forgetting to whisper.
“Pack my dick up, James. I’m done playing with it, so I want you to zip it up.”
I literally could’ve come hands-free with just another word or two from Lucas—and his permission, of course. I had never been so close to the edge of orgasm, then so cruelly denied. “Lucas.”
“Five minutes are up. It’s time for your client.” He let out a dry chuckle. “See? I pay attention. I look out for my man.”
I was still catching my breath. My cock wasn’t deflating any time soon; that much, I knew. “I think I’m gonna cry.”
“I think I’ll cut some tree limbs today. Shirtless. Gettin’ all … sweaty. Working in the … hot sun all day long …”
“You’re gonna make a grown man cry.”
“Then I think I’ll rub one out in your bathtub later. You know, to reward myself after a hard day’s work. Mmm, that’ll feel so good … rubbing one out.”
“Oh my God.”
“The release I’m gonna feel. Oh, it’s gonna be sweet. I’m horny and need to get off. Do you know that feeling at all?”
“Lucas …”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t love me.” Lucas let out a laugh, then hung up.
I was left there holding my phone and staring at my cock, which still throbbed with urgency. I kept trying to picture his lips in front of it while his last words echoed in my ear. Don’t pretend like you don’t love me … like you don’t love me … like you don’t love me …
Chapter 19
LUCKY
“Don’t pretend like you don’t love me?” I blurted out loud in the empty house to myself.
I don’t know why I said it. I think I meant to say: “Don’t pretend like you don’t love it.”
But instead, I said: “love me.”
Fuck it. I couldn’t take the words back now. Besides, I could’ve meant them teasingly. I doubted he read much into them. He was probably too distracted starin
g at the permanent boner I just gave him and wondering how the hell to hide it before his next client came strolling through his door.
I should feel bad. I should feel pity for him at the very least. But I didn’t. I’d had a whole weekend of experience learning precisely what made James (or, more specifically, his cock) tick.
He thoroughly loved every bit of torment I put him through. The more I gave, the more he craved.
And I was starting to get some evil ideas of my own.
Power is addictive.
I changed into my own designated work clothes—namely, a pair of loose gym shorts and nothing else—then set to work on the yard, just as I said I would. Last week, I had left some bushes along the side of the house near the game room for myself to trim today.
I was gonna make James’s yard look decent as fuck.
After chopping up and bundling all the severed tree limbs and walking them to the end of James’s long-ass driveway, I discovered I was finished with the yard work a lot sooner than I expected, leaving most of the afternoon free to fuck around. I played a quick game of pool against myself, then watched TV while sipping on a glass of iced raspberry tea. Then I reminded myself that James had his own home gym, which was a room that could have been an office, but had two workout machines in it instead. I flicked on the lights, turned on the stereo to play whatever was in it (old-school Marilyn Manson, of all things), and did my first genuine workout in an actual gym-like setting that I’d had in a very long time.
I felt like a goddamned prince.
A very smelly, sore, sweaty-as-fuck prince.
To end my day as the self-appointed prince of James Manor, I ran a bath in his ridiculously oversized tub and let my weary body soak in the suds for well over an hour. In that tub of steaming hot water with my arms spread along the rim, I let my legs and feet float around as I stared off toward the window, watching the subtle changes in light as a tree outside that I had just trimmed earlier swayed in the gentle wind.
I lied earlier; now, I feel like a prince.
All I needed was to dress James in a bowtie and black thong, then make him serve me grapes while I sat there in that tub.
That thought made me smile ear to cocky ear.
Maybe that’s exactly what I’ll do. I bet James would love it.
I never imagined this could be my life. I had watched so many weary, drunk, sullen-eyed people sitting in front of slot machines with a cigarette hanging off their lip and a watered-down glass of whatever-with-half-melted-ice at their sides, and pull after pull, they never hit the jackpot.
And there I was, living large, under the roof of a handsome man who cared about me, like I scored my own jackpot.
Don’t pretend like you don’t love me.
My face went red, the words still circling my head like a flock of persistent gulls, squawking and taunting me.
Fuck off, gulls.
* * *
A few hours later, James came home from the bank to find me kicked back in front of the TV, cleaned up, dressed, and waiting for him. He stood there for a while and stared at me. I grinned over my shoulder. “What? Did you have a hard day at work?”
“Note my lack of laughter,” he sassed back—but I spotted the bright glint of joy in his eyes at seeing me.
I threw an arm over the back of the couch, twisting around to get a better look at him. I always loved seeing him dressed up in his shirt and tie, coming back from the bank. “Disappointed?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Disappointed that I’m all clean? That I’m not a sweaty mess for you to run your tongue over?”
James pressed his lips together and dodged that question as he made for his bedroom, his dress shoes slapping along the floors as he went.
A tiny lance of worry cut through me. “Hey, James?”
He stopped before going down the short hallway leading to our rooms, then turned. His eyes were light, but guarded. “Yeah?”
When I rose from the couch, James’s eyes trailed down my body. I knew a lustful look when I saw it. It made me smile despite my worries, that he couldn’t help but check me out.
He glanced up at me, pulling his eyes from my body. “Yeah?” he repeated a touch softer.
I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to say. “I … decided to put on one of my new outfits.” I slapped a hand to the thigh of the new pair of black jeans I was wearing, then smoothed out the bottom of my red-and-black-and-white striped polo. “What do you think? You picked these out for me.”
“You … look very nice,” he finally told me, his eyes scanning down my body again. “Really, really nice.” Then his eyes went to the top of my head. “Nice touch.”
I forgot I put on my black cap. I brought a hand to it, cocked it sideways, then shrugged. “You can take the boy outta the beach town, but … can’t take the motherfuckin’ hat off his head.”
James laughed at that, some tension in his face released. “Nice and clean. You look really, really nice.”
“Your bathtub is ‘really, really nice’, too,” I said back to him, half-mocking the way he ogled me with his words.
He met my eyes and shook his head. “That was mean as fuck, what you did to me this morning.”
“Shut up. You loved it,” I teased him, shoving my hands into my pockets.
He took a deep breath, then let it all out as his eyes wandered over my body again. “It’s a good thing you dressed up, because as it turns out, we’re going out for drinks tonight.”
The news came as a surprise—a very pleasant surprise. “Fine with me,” I blurted right away.
The truth was, I was itching to get out of the house. I would have jumped at the suggestion to go fucking anywhere. Hell, he could have asked if I wanted to watch birds shit on cars at a local parking lot and I would’ve said yes.
“It’s my friend Duncan,” he explained as he pulled off his tie and disappeared in his room, then kept talking. “The one I told you about last night. He demanded that he meets you, so I agreed that we’d join him for Happy Hour at this place we like to go to called Ringers.” He popped his head out of his room while unbuttoning his shirt. “Hope that’s alright with you.”
“Totally.” I watched him unbutton.
But then James disappeared back into his room. I heard the click of a belt buckle releasing, then the swish of clothing. “He is being a total dick about it, too. He wants to know what the big deal is. Why I canceled going with them. Well, I mean, he knows why. But he wants to see why, if that makes sense.”
“Makes sense.” I came to his bedroom doorway, then watched as he slipped his legs into a pair of jeans with his back turned to me. I licked my lips as I watched his butt work its way into those pants. The way he moved was doing something to me. “How loose are the bartenders at this Ringers place?”
James turned quickly at the sound of my voice. For a second, he looked like he wanted to protest that he was getting dressed, but then maybe reminded himself that I’d seen him naked half the weekend and showered with him—twice.
“Loose?” he finally asked.
“Yeah. Are they gonna check my ID?”
“Oh … uh, yes. Yes, they will. We’ll just make up a story,” he went on, speaking a bit too fast. “We’ll come up with something. You’ll order a soda, then say something about how your dad’s an alcoholic. Or you just don’t drink. He’ll be fine with either excuse. He won’t judge you too hard. I mean, he’s a schoolteacher, so—”
“Why not just tell him the truth? That I’m not old enough?”
“I …” James let out a short sigh, then went for his closet to pick out a shirt. “I just … I haven’t quite figured out how to, uh …” His voice trailed off.
I nodded, following him. “You don’t want him to know.”
“It’s not that. It’s … It’s just …” He let out another sigh that revealed more of his frustration. He pulled a red polo off of a hanger with conviction. “Duncan is a schoolteacher.”
&n
bsp; “You mentioned that.”
“And his students … well, most of them are near your age. He might hear that I’m … involved with a …” James gestured toward me, then shut his eyes in frustration, crossed his arms, and bowed his head. “Can you not make me explain it, please?”
“You think he’ll think it’s weird. Like you’re cradle-robbing or something. It embarrasses you, being involved with me.”
James looked up at me at once. “You do not embarrass me.”
“But my age does.”
He made his way to the bed and carelessly tossed the red polo onto the bedspread. “Can we please just get on the same page here?” he begged me as he took off his shirt and pitched it aside. “It’s bad enough that Duncan’s on my ass about this. I just don’t want him causing more trouble. Guilt-tripping me. Whatever.” I watched his smooth, broad back dance as he worked his way into the red polo. “I mean, we go way back, the two of us.”
I decided to play it cool. I came right up to him and smoothed out the collar, which was sticking up in the back. “Just tell me what you want me to say, James. I’ll say it. I can be twenty-two. Or twenty-five. Whatever you want.” I gave his shirt a tug, pulling him close to me. “But I won’t say my dad was an alcoholic. That bastard’s addiction isn’t alcohol; it’s money.”
A flicker of guilt crossed James’s face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive about … him. The words just flew out of my mouth.”
Don’t pretend like you don’t love me. I flinched at the memory of my own words this morning. “No big deal,” I mumbled too quickly.
His face was so close to mine when he turned to get a look at me. “Let’s get our story straight on the car ride over. It’ll be fine.”
I smirked approvingly. “It’ll be fine,” I agreed.
Famous last words, right?
* * *
An hour and a half later after grabbing a quick bite to eat, we stepped out of his car and began approaching the front of Ringers, one of the only two bars in Little Water. The place was busy as hell for a Monday evening, which I guess wasn’t that surprising; in a town like this, there were only so many options one had for entertainment or blowing off the steam of another workday.
