by Daryl Banner
He turns his head, peering at me over his shoulder. An eyebrow lifted, he says, “Lesson starts over here, teach.”
Lesson? Has he forgotten who’s teaching whom?
“Over here,” he says, like I’m a puppy.
And, just like a puppy, I ignore my own indignance and come to the couch. He sits. I sit. He props his feet up on the couch, shoes and all, placing them right by my hips.
I frown. “Your feet are on my clean couch.”
“They’re not clean enough for you?” He throws an arm over the back of the couch. Those bright high tops make his feet appear huge. “You hurt my shoes’ feelings. Maybe you should rectify this situation of ours.”
Whenever he uses certain words, trying to make himself sound smart and self-important, I feel a tinge of thrill. He’s adorable, yet so hard and self-assured, even for looking like half a hot shit. He acts like a man twice his size.
“Oh? Your shoes feel bad now? How am I gonna rectify this?” I ask, amused.
He lifts his right foot. “Kiss it.”
I stare at his shoe, then back at him. “You fucking crazy?”
“Kiss it. C’mon.” He giggles, lifting his foot closer to my face.
I knock it away. He’s obviously dicking with me. “What’re you doing?”
“Commitment, isn’t that what you said? In class? Gotta commit to our characters? I got commitment. Where’s yours?”
I squint at him. Is he seriously using my lessons against me? “So what you’re trying to say is, I’m playing a role right now, and you’re playing a role, and you want me to commit to … apologizing to your shoe.”
“I can be a good actor.” He grins.
Are we just messing around? Is this funny for him, or really some kind of exercise in roles and commitment? Is he amused, getting off on bossing around his professor who just gave him an ‘F’ for his first assignment?
Or is this payback? “I’m not kissing your shoe, Mr. Brady.”
“If you don’t kiss it,” he says gently, “then my shoe is gonna be sad. And I can’t have sad shoes.” He pouts his bottom lip.
The thought grips me suddenly, of being beneath his feet. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever let near me since my first year in college; why the hell should I deny myself?
He could force my face onto his shoe, but I know the psychology behind this: he wants me to make the decision to submit to him. Just that realization sends a wave of twisted pleasure and humiliation through me, stirring all my guts. He wants to own me. Just like your dreams.
Blah, blah, reasons, blah. I kiss his shoe.
I watch as a grin spreads across his face, his blinding white teeth showing. He loves this. His cheeks redden and he won’t stop grinning. “Oh muh gad,” he murmurs. “Kiss it again.”
“No fucking way.”
“Kiss it again. C’mon. It’s still sad, I can tell.”
These red-and-white high tops that have defiantly rested on the back of the seat near my head all semester, these shoes that have, all this time, been a symbol of his dominance … he’s making me kiss them. I pucker up and kiss the tip, this time lingering a bit longer with my lips pressed to the rubber. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the strange dream state I’m in, but I feel my inhibitions slipping and I don’t mind.
I hear Justin let out a tiny sigh—maybe a laugh—and then he moves his right foot in my face. “The other one, too. He feels left out.”
After giving him one half-amused look of my own, I kiss his other shoe. I realize that this is giving me a very, very, very hard erection. It aches, cramped up inside my briefs and pants.
“You’re really into this,” he says, my lips still locked on his right shoe like a lover. I pull off, about to say something to him when he snaps his finger and points. “Hey, hey, no! Don’t stop! You’re hurting its feelings again!” I put my lips back to his shoe. “Good, yeeeeah. There ya go.” The grin returns to his face.
Is this what he wanted all along? Is he some kind of twisted dominant mind-fucker? Did he plan this whole thing for months, or is he improvising? Maybe he should enroll in my Improvisational Advanced Acting class. Who cares that he has none of the prerequisites.
Then I hear a snapping. My lips not leaving his shoe, I look up and pay witness to an award-winning performance called The Hot Shit Slowly Unbuttons And Takes Off His Shirt. When he works the snug shirt off his sleeves, his feet twitch a bit, shaken by his efforts, and his right shoe slaps me in the cheek, almost like it has a mind of its own, and I continue to kiss it while straining to watch.
When the shirt’s off, he says, “Keep going.”
I keep going. Then he puts his hands behind his head, his pits exposed, his staggering display of abs crunched and visible, and those pink nipples I’d so rather have my lips latched onto. I’ll stay down here as long as he wants me to, but I want to be up there admiring the rest of him so badly, so fucking badly.
But, nope. He wears that shit-eating grin, his hands behind his head, and all that sexy model boy muscle is so far out of reach that it’s like my cramped cock is trying to grow harder and harder and harder, as if it could reach it if it got erect enough. No, cock, it doesn’t work that way, you’re just making me more and more insane with horniness and desperation.
I pull my lips off his shoe with a sudden thought. “I’m expecting a pizza, by the way. Should be here any minute now.”
He wrinkles his face. “What kind?”
“Pepperoni.”
“Not stuffed-crust?” He sounds let down, as if I’d ordered the pizza for him. I give a shake of my head. “That’s lame. Hey, what’re your lips doing?”
“Talking,” I answer.
“They need to be kissing. Hey, actually I think my shoes are fine now. All forgiven.” He kicks them off with the quickest maneuvering I’ve ever seen. The thick boyish aroma of sweat wafts over my face as I stare at his giant socked feet. I feel the warmth of them, too. White socks, athletic, with red stripes and a brand name running up the side. I’m intoxicated instantly. I’ve never been into feet before, not like this. What the fuck is this cocky fuck doing to me?
“I know you’re hypnotized and all that,” he says with a fake “over it” roll of his eyes, “as my feet are admittedly pretty amazing, but you got a job to do. Make them happy.”
For a second, I move to kiss them. The next moment, my face is buried in his feet, inhaling with such intensity it’s like I wish to consume them. Without even knowing if it’s okay, I grab his feet with my hands as if to massage them and I inhale again, gripping them tight and pressing my face into them.
“You fucking love this,” I hear him say.
“Shouldn’t have had three beers,” I admit, muffled by his big socked feet. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“What was that?” he says. “Sorry, can’t hear you with my big amazing fucking feet in your face.”
I pull away. “I said—”
“Get your face back in there!” I push my face back into his feet, shutting up. “Damn. This is gonna be an easy semester. What was it you said to me? I’m not gonna get through your class based on my good looks and charm? Isn’t that what you said?” He laughs. Just the sound of his laughter, each individual boyish burst of amusement from his chest, shoots a bolt of pleasure down my body. I wonder if I could cum just from the sound of his condescending, down-talking voice.
How can someone make me feel so small and yet so big at the same time? I’m like a scruffy little pet of his … an object, a toy … and yet I’m the most important thing to him right now. He makes me feel so … necessary.
“Hey, teach,” he says, his hands still behind his head, kicked back. “You like how it smells down there?”
I sit up, pulling my lips and nose out of the exhilarating domain of his feet and staring at Justin Brady. “This isn’t how I thought your lessons would go,” I admit.
“It’s you who needs the lesson, methinks.” He giggles, amused. “Come up here. I got somet
hing else for you.”
With half a stagger and a bit of confusion as to where, exactly, he’s wanting me to come up to, I move down the couch a bit, then find myself on my knees in front of the couch, pleasantly closer to his exposed upper body. My eyes slide down it like a buffet. Where the fuck do I start?
“You wanna touch it, right?”
“Touch what?”
“My body.”
I’m stuck in my head. We’re already gone past the point of no return. I can’t undo what I’ve already done. He’s got me. He’s got me.
“Well, now you’ve hurt my feelings,” says Justin, innocent and pouting his lip. “You don’t wanna touch it?”
“I do,” I blurt out.
“Too late. You’ve hurt my feelings. Now you need to apologize.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do I have a name?”
“I’m sorry, Justin.”
“That’s not what you call me.”
I have to think for a second before saying it. “I’m sorry … Mr. Brady.”
“Great. But words won’t make it better.” I wrinkle my face, not following. “I want you to apologize with your tongue.”
I’m still confused. Then, as comprehension dawns on me, my whole body quakes with excitement. Is he seriously asking me to put my tongue on his body? There is no way this whole thing is just about degrading me; he has to be enjoying it too. No fucking way.
“I don’t see any apologizing,” says king of the couch, kicked back and ready to be served.
I open my mouth and touch my tongue to his ribs like a dog. Slowly, my tongue moves, tracing each rib. With a quick glance at Justin’s face, I note that he’s watching me with this sort of severity that suggests he won’t be easily satisfied. He doesn’t rock his eyes back. He doesn’t moan. He just lies there with a smug curve to his lips, fire in his hazel eyes and fire upon his boyish cheeks. My tongue bathes his ribs one by one until, steadily, slowly, carefully, I reach his pec. That beautiful pink nipple I’ve dreamed about lies just before my wetted eyes.
Am I allowed to taste it? Am I really, truly allowed to do this?
Then, as if drawn by a magnet, my lips encircle his nipple and I suck. I suck and I twirl my tongue around it like a dance. It becomes hard in my mouth. I dare a glance at Justin and find he’s still watching with that unaffected, smooth-as-stone face. He’s a king and he’s above showing me appreciation for my tongue, for my worship, for my attention.
Mighty fine with me; I’m reaping gold.
Gaining confidence, I lift myself to his other nipple, bracing myself with a hand on the back of the couch. Over Justin, I latch onto the other perfect, pink specimen. I feel deep and exhilarating satisfaction when it goes hard under my tongue. I give it a kiss, another kiss, and I’m suddenly making love to his nipple. He’s not moaning, so I have to imagine it. I have to imagine that this is driving him crazy.
There’s not a hair on his chest. He’s smooth and supple and unflawed. I trace down his pec with my tongue like an icicle, bringing myself across his abs, kissing each one as I move lower, lower. Will he allow me … down there?
I stop when my chin hits the button of his jeans. I look up to meet his cold, all-knowing eyes. Is this what he really wants? Does he … want me to continue?
“Apology’s not over,” he says.
I take that for my permission. I grab the button of his jeans with two clumsy hands; you’d think I’d never undone someone else’s pants before. When the button finally gives way, I pull his zipper down and listen to the delicious, gentle ripping sound of freedom. His underwear, white microfiber briefs, seems to withhold a very generous gift. I look up at him again, uncertain. I feel like I need him to say it outright and to not have me keep running on assumptions and half-words and euphemisms.
He lifts his eyebrows expectantly, waiting.
I grip the rim of his underwear and, ever gently, I pull. I pull slowly, I pull with the care of a lover’s touch. The underwear gives to everything I hoped and feared it would. He is not small. He is so, so, so not small. I know that every porn in the world would promise something huge under the waist of the object of your affection, but when it happens in real life, it’s a bit staggering.
Quite suddenly I’ve pulled the underwear too far, and his hard cock flips out so fast, it literally slaps me in the face. I jump, startled by it, and then Justin’s laughing his ass off.
The moment shatters like a window from a brick. “Really, Justin?? You find it funny??”
“My,” he says, laughing, “dick,” laughs, “just bitch slapped you.” He laughs and laughs. It’s the funniest fucking thing in the world.
Let’s see how much he’s laughing in a second. I grip the base of his cock, long and thick, then wrap my lips around the tip. I have no confidence that I can manage more than half of his engorged manhood in my mouth, but I sure as fuck give it the effort it deserves. My opened mouth takes his cock, drawing it into my mouth, down my tongue, and into my throat. I pull up, managing only a few inches of it, then go back down. Up and down my mouth runs, sucking and bathing his throbbing meat with my tongue. For a while, I almost forget it’s attached to a person. I give Justin a glance.
He’s stopped laughing. With his lips parted and eyes wide, he watches me suck him off.
I come off his cock, give an insolent look of my own. “Forgiven, yet? Or does your precious body need more apologizing? I don’t think—”
He shuts me up by doing half a crunch, gripping my hair and shoving my head back onto his cock without another word. I fight a gag reflex as he grips the back of my head, pulling me up and down his swelled dick as it invades and retreats from and invades and retreats from my throat, over and over.
Under any other circumstance, I would feel angry and I would fight him. I’ve never liked going down on any of my ex-boyfriends. It’s my least favorite thing to do. I get pubes in my teeth. I gag too easily. I taste and smell things that turn me off. Why the hell isn’t this turning me off? In fact, if anything, I’ve never been more turned on giving head in my life, even if it’s half-forced. The dominance that Justin Brady exudes, the strength in his arms and his fingers as he grips my head and tells it where to go without words … it gives my cock reason to throb and ache worse against the unforgiving material of my jeans and tight underwear.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” he says, pulling my head up and down and up and down the length of his cock. “Apologize to Mr. Brady and his big ol’ dick.”
I’d use my mouth to apologize, really, truly, but as there’s something in it, I opt to twist my diffident, meek eyes to meet his. When they do, he grins wildly, all his teeth showing. He is enjoying this so much.
And so the fuck am I.
Suddenly, he sits up, pushes me back, and his big hands grip my face like a soccer ball, holding me in place. I’m confused and turned on and horribly inattentive. “I have an idea,” he says, and I think those might be the scariest words I’ve heard all night. “I want you to do something. If you do it, you’ll be all apologized. If you don’t, I’m gonna be all sad again.”
“What is it I’m—” Before I even get out the words, he grabs my hand and puts it on his hard-as-steel cock. Then, gently, he starts to move my hand for me, stroking his cock. I look up, meeting his eyes. “You … want me to …?”
He lets go, allowing me to take over, then kicks back and grins. “You’re gonna keep your face right there, right in front of my dick, right in the line of fire. You’re gonna jerk me off and, if you do a good enough job, you’ll earn my ‘forgiveness’ that you want so much.” He bites his lip, satisfied with himself.
Yeah, I’ll earn his forgiveness alright; I’ll earn his forgiveness all over my face. But I don’t balk; I keep my hand moving, faster and faster. I watch him try to maintain a straight face, but I sucked him good and hard, and now I’m about to bring him over the edge. Despite the even face he’s failing to keep, his breath starts to quicken, and I watch as his fingers curl, gripp
ing the couch at the top and the bottom, tightening, tightening.
His cock pointed at my face like a gun, I’m milking him solid, knowing what havoc I’m inviting on my face. My heart pounds in my ears and, for never having laid a finger on my cock, I’m impossibly hard. I suspect the king of the couch gives zero fucks about that fact. Until he smiles, and maybe even after that, Justin won’t give one wet, muscled fuck. The reward is on its way for him, but it’s already here for me: I love being owned by the freshman.
“Almost forgiven,” he breathes.
Yes, there’s three beers in me, not even, but I’m really not drunk. I can’t use alcohol as the excuse for my acts tonight. There’s something else entirely that’s moving my eager hand right now—a force, a hunger, a desire deep within that’s fueling my need to worship every inch of Justin Brady’s body.
“Almost,” he growls. His eyes pierce me, powerful and furious. “Few more minutes.”
Few more seconds, he meant. His cock turns tense as bone in my hand, seizing up, and I close my eyes as a wave of warm cum sprawls across my cheek. Another wave, covering my nose. A curtain flings across my forehead. Another misses my face entirely, lands on my shoulder. Another hits my chin, dribbles down. Yet another spills across my lips, giving me cause to moan.
In seconds, the cum feels cold on my face, and I open my eyes, thankful to any god that might have dared paid witness to this scene that Justin’s “forgiveness” didn’t blind me. He twists his head, eyebrows lifted, breathing heavy, and his lazy eyes lock onto mine. He starts to giggle stupidly. I smile, and his giggle turns into a full-blown laugh. A glob of his cum falls off my chin, lands on his thigh.
When he finally recovers, he nudges the side of my head with his foot. “What’d we learn today, teach?”
“Still trying to figure that one out,” I admit. “Listen, I’m gonna … I’m gonna clean up.” I stand up carefully and move toward the hallway, steering myself for the bathroom. He calls out to me, saying not to clean up, that I look so pretty with his jizz all over my face, but I ignore him. A washcloth finds my hand, my hand finds the sink, and then I bring it to my face and wipe away all that I can.
