by Cecilia Tan
He lays his socks next to mine and then sits cross-legged, looking up at me. “Wow. Did your squad win?”
I’m not expecting that question. My jaw clenches. “No. Some jokers from a troop of older scouts just took their one match and—” I slam the door of the woodstove closed a bit harder than I mean to.
He gets to his feet in front of me, and now that we’re both barefoot, it hits me that he’s taller than me by a couple of inches. “And what?”
Might as well tell him. “And burned through the string. Didn’t even try to build a fire.” I had been ten at the time. Almost twenty years later and I’m still pissed off about it. “And the Rangers acted like it was all in fun.” The Rangers did pretty much all the talking while the SEAL hung back, just watching. “They made a big joke out of the whole competition instead of disciplining the jokers.”
His eyes are serious. “You don’t like jokers.”
“No.”
“I don’t either.” He swallows, hesitating a moment before lowering himself to his knees. He does it without looking down, keeping his gaze locked with mine as he puts one knee on the floor and then the other. He settles back on his heels.
“Fire-building lesson over,” I say. “Cock-sucking lesson starts now.”
“Do I need a lesson, sir?”
There he goes with that “sir” business again, and my cock jumps in my shorts. This playacting thing really revs my engine. I’m playing with fire and I know it. “You might be my captive for a long time, you know. It’ll be easier on you if you learn how I like it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hands behind your back. Or do I have to tie you?”
“No, sir,” he says, then backtracks. “I mean, unless you think it’s necessary.”
“As long as you don’t cheat,” I say, “or joke around.”
“No, sir.”
Good, I almost say, Good boy, like he’s a dog, but stop myself. “Now you’re going to learn to undo my belt buckle with your teeth.”
He doesn’t need much prompting. The leather’s not difficult to work and the buckle is smooth, no sharp edges to worry about. He gets it loose without too much trouble, but with plenty of rubbing his chin against my erection.
“Now, grab the corner of my fly above the button and pull to one side, then the other,” I say, watching his saliva darken the denim as he gets the button loose. “Good. Use your nose to work the fly open, and get the zipper in your teeth.” As he lowers it, my blood pumps and my voice vibrates with need for him. “Tha-a-a-a-at’s it.”
He doesn’t need to be prompted to lick and suck my package right through my underwear, nor to pull the waistband down with his teeth and free my cock.
“Slow down, scout,” I say. “This is supposed to be a lesson.”
He nods mutely, licking his lips as he holds back from devouring me.
“Keep your hands back,” I remind him. “Let me see the tip of your tongue. Now, with the tip, little licks, all around the crown.”
He has to press his head against my stomach to get all the way around, blocking my view, but with every nerve ending I can feel what he’s doing perfectly well. Pre-come is practically pouring out of me it’s so arousing.
“Next, wet your lips, good and wet, and then suck right on the tip until you pull the head into your mouth—” I break off as he does it, before my words turn into obscenities. The sight of my cock disappearing into those reddened lips is as exciting as the sensation.
He intuits the next step, which is to pull back while still sucking gently, so that my cock emerges from his mouth but he never loses contact with it, and then suck it right back in. I swallow and try to get my words to start again. “That’s it. Work the head. Just like that. Nice and slow.”
Heavenly. I don’t even have to move, just stand there with my bare feet planted against the wood floor, the fire roaring in the stove beside us, letting him do all the work. It takes concentration on his part to keep the suction right, not to go too hard or let go, and not to drag his teeth. He closes his eyes and gives himself to his task. That kind of care and determination would make him a success at whatever he wanted to apply himself to, I think, if only his father would let him do something with his life.
Now I want to test him again. “Okay, stop. Keep the head of my cock in your mouth. Don’t move, don’t flutter your tongue. Just keep it there.”
I can see confusion flicker through his eyes as he tries to figure out if he’s heard me right.
“That’s it. Just hold it in your mouth. Yeah, I see you want to know why. Because I said so, that’s why.”
He gives the bare hint of a nod, but his eyebrows are still knit.
“You’re my captive,” I say, and the sheer wrongness of telling a lie that’s the truth sends a thrill right through my gut into my cock. “I can do whatever I want to you. You’re helpless and at my mercy.”
Again that infinitesimal nod with his eyes.
“If I want to fuck you until you shit yourself and then make you clean it off my cock with your tongue, I will,” I say, but I can’t get it to sound the least bit convincing. Maybe it’s the way my thumb is tracing the soft curve of his cheek while I talk that ruins my tough-guy effect. “But if you’re good, I won’t.”
I can almost feel him vibrating with the need to say something. But he can’t do it with my cock in the way. Is he trying to argue? Or say he’ll be good? I suspect the latter, what with the way his eyes are wide and beseeching.
I don’t give him the chance to answer, though. “So just keep your mouth right where it is. If I want to keep my cock in your mouth like a knife in a sheath, I will. For that matter if I want to sleep with it up your ass, I will.”
My cock pulses with desire at my words, and he moans a little around it.
“You keep my cock happy, you keep me happy.” I brush his hair back from his forehead with my fingers and stop talking. By now saliva will be starting to collect in his mouth. Another minute or two and he’s going to have to either spit it out or swallow.
This is another one of those tests to see what he’ll do. Retch, dribble, swallow, or something I can’t predict? I see the alarm in his eyes start to build as he realizes it, too.
Some people aren’t bothered by a mouthful of their own spit, but somehow once it goes past a certain amount, most people are grossed out. It starts to leak from one corner of his mouth, and his eyes get shiny as if the excess moisture is backing up into his eyeballs.
“What’s wrong, boy?” I ask. “You swallowed my jizz this morning without any trouble.”
A tiny whimper escapes his nose.
“Maybe I should add a little piss to it. Give it some flavor.”
He swallows then with a grimace. “Good.” Without warning I grip the back of his head, jam my cock down his throat, and hold it there. He isn’t ready for it—which is the point—and he struggles instinctively, but I’m stronger and there’s nothing he can really do but take it. His struggle is within himself more than a fight with me, as he comes to realize he’s still breathing, not actually choking.
It’s impressive to watch him make himself calm. Like something out of a Jet Li movie. The first time a top did that to me, I was far from calm: I fought until we both had black eyes, and then there was hell to pay.
“Good job, scout,” I say. I pat him affectionately on the cheek. Then I slap him a little harder. “Enough now. We’ve got work to do while it’s still light.”
I’m only partly exaggerating. The sun sets at 1550 here now, which means we have tops nine hours of sunlight a day. He disengages from me and takes a huge breath. “What kind of work, sir?”
What the heck. “As soon as your shoes are dry, you’re going to gather up kindling and starter wood. Next fire we build, you’re going to do it.”
Time stamp: 1440 Tuesday, Ledge Island
While we wait for his shoes to dry, I let Chase take a nap. After all, it was a busy night with not a lot of sleep. I change into my tact
ical hiking boots and split wood outside until my arms start to feel tired. I’m not in as good shape as I used to be. Then again, most guys are never in as good shape again as they were when they qualified to be a SEAL. The entrance test alone includes swimming five hundred yards in about ten minutes, about eighty sit-ups in two minutes, eighty push-ups in two minutes, and to top it all off, a one-and-a-half-mile run. The minimums are lower, but that’s what you’ve got to do to be competitive.
I was very competitive.
When I go back into the cabin, he’s awake. He’s over by the woodstove, feeling the insides of his shoes. I see he’s figured out about putting the iron kettle on top of the stove, and I can smell that he’s discovered the instant coffee. An empty mug sits on the shelf next to the pallet.
“Okay, scout.” I hand him my gloves, a piece of paper, and a small pouch. “Here’s a compass. And the coordinates for where you’ll find a birch stand.”
He looks at the paper. I haven’t explained how to read what’s written there. This is another test, of course. It’s not a test of whether he can decipher the military (and Boy Scout) map system. It’s a test of whether he’ll ask for help. How proud is he? How stubborn? How communicative? Is his ego bigger than his need to please?
It isn’t. And even though I just had my balls emptied, it sends a deep thrum of pure want through me when he says, simply, “Teach me to read this? Sir?”
Took me a lot longer to learn to ask for help. I flip the paper over to show him the map of the island and explain how the numeric codes correspond to location. The beach, the cabin, where the Zodiac is hidden, and a couple of other points are listed in coordinates. It’s not a long explanation, but it doesn’t have to be.
Garrett and Ruiz had an epic argument over this map—over whether to create it at all—and Ruiz won.
Off Chase goes. I take the opportunity while he’s out to check my contacts. Burner phone, accessing the darkweb.
The latest from Aiden. It’s another rant.
COCKSUCKER I KNOW WHO YOU ARE
YOU WON’T BE SAFE ANYWHERE EVER AGAIN
I WILL FIND YOU I’VE GOT POWERFUL FRIENDS IN
WASHINGTON
Hahaha. Powerful friends in Washington. I bet they’re useful when you want to fuck people over to make billions on healthcare. I bet they’re not so useful when you’re desperate to keep the secret that your adult son went out to have a gay hookup. By now Aiden’s security has probably cracked Chase’s accounts and discovered his last activity.
I’ve been counting on Aiden knowing who’s doing this to him. Putting him through this much strife and worry, after all, is part of my goal. Even if it all goes to shit, even if I fail, get caught, or die, I will at least have served him a fraction of the pain I suffered. Wondering if someone you love is going to live or die.
It tastes sweet. Reading the panic in Aiden’s words truly tastes sweet.
I send a reply and give an ultimatum. If the funds aren’t transferred in forty-eight hours, I will no longer guarantee Chase’s safety. I send a picture of a knife. It’s a knife Aiden might recognize. I used to use it from time to time when he required me to.
My shoulder aches a bit from all the wood splitting, and I rub it beside the bullet scar. I need to get back in shape. I feel a little nauseous, suddenly.
We haven’t eaten since breakfast. No good, soldier. I stow the phone away and break into the stores, contemplating what I’ll do if Aiden decides to be stubborn and try to wait us out. We’ve got enough prepackaged food—MREs and canned stew—to last us a few weeks. If he gets more stubborn than that, maybe I’ll have to teach my Boy Scout to hunt and fish.
Two cans of Dinty Moore—lids open, of course—are starting to warm up atop the stove when my scout comes in, flushed and exhilarated. “You’ve gotta see this! Something’s in the water!”
“What is it?” I say, a jolt of adrenaline making me grab my jacket and propelling me toward the door.
“I don’t know. Whales, I think.”
Whales. So, probably not an approaching SWAT force. I grab the binoculars anyway and follow him to the promontory not far from the cabin. The island is under clouds, but where the sun is setting to the southwest of us the sky is clear, sending weak winter beams across the open ocean.
“There!” He points toward where the mouth of the bay narrows. From here it almost looks like the glistening backs of the whales are strange waves themselves, topped with wind-blown spray, but in the binoculars I can see clearly the spray is the blow and the occasional fin or tail. They must be immense if I’m judging the distance right. I hand the binoculars to him, and he takes a moment to figure out how to get himself pointed at the right spot. “What kind are they?”
“Aren’t you the one who spent summers on Nantucket and whatever?” I rib him a little. “I don’t know anything about whales.”
He looks crushed for a second. Yeah, scout, it’s true, I am not a walking encyclopedia about everything and anything. Whale species are outside my expertise. Ask me all you want about weapons, though.
He looks at them again. “I think they’re either humpbacks or finbacks,” he says then. “One of the big types, anyway. Can’t tell with how far away they are.”
Even with my bare eyes, I can see it when one jumps out of the water. Then several large heads all emerge at once.
“They must be feeding,” he says.
“Yeah. If they were just migrating, they would’ve passed out of sight by now.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about whales?” he jokes.
“‘Anything’ is a relative term,” I say. My voice sounds remarkably unjaded. “I used to see them from ships all the time.”
He nods and raises the binoculars. “They might not be migrating, but maybe the fish are. If a large school is trying to get in or out of the bay, they get concentrated by the outcropping and bam, all-you-can-eat buffet. If you’re a whale, anyway.”
We lapse into silence and watch the whales. Well, Chase watches the whales and I find myself watching him. I’m entranced by the wind ruffling his hair. He’s oblivious to the deepening cold, entranced by the dance of nature in front of him. It’s true I’ve seen whales plenty of times before, from ships, from helicopters, from drop planes. But somehow standing here beside him, it’s like I’m seeing them for the first time, through Chase’s eyes.
The sun dips below the horizon all too soon. “Come on,” I say. “Dinner’s waiting, and I still haven’t fucked you by the fire like I promised.”
He grins. “Sounds good.”
Back at the cabin we hang up our outerwear and shuck our footwear. I stoke the fire, then go looking for the spoons. Takes me a couple of minutes to find them. I use my work gloves like pot holders and transfer the two cans of stew to the rough table, a spoon sticking out of each.
He’s adding something to the map, using his fingers to measure the grid and placing a point. On the flip side, he adds to the list of coordinates. Below “Latrine” and above “Well” he writes in “Watch Point.”
I pour us both bottled water. He digs into his stew hungrily, burns his tongue, then grins at me. “Well, that was worth the trip to an island at the edge of nowhere.”
I stir my stew. I’m balanced on the stool, the balls of my feet on the floor, one heel going like a small sewing machine. “And here I thought you came here for my cock.”
“No, sir,” he says with a gleam of mischief. “You brought me here to service your cock. There’s a difference.”
“Hm, true.” I take a careful bite, savoring beef and gravy. “Do you want to play it that way? Sometimes? The whole unwilling captive thing, I mean.”
“We could play it that way,” he says. “It’s hot as fuck, after all.”
I nod. Hot as fuck is an understatement. My jeans are getting tight just thinking about it. “We’d have to be careful, though. Not to really injure each other. There’s no walk-in ER around here.” To put it mildly.
He licks his lips,
and it’s not because the stew is salty. “I don’t really know how to fight anyway.”
“You can hurt someone even pretending to fight,” I say. “How’s this for a rule. If we’re going to do this whole against-your-will thing, you can fight, but no weapons, no objects. And you have to give up once I get my cock in you.”
“That’s reasonable.” He’s now staring at his stew like he’s too excited to eat it.
“Eat,” I say. “You’re going to need your strength if we’re going to play it like that.”
“Okay.”
We eat in silence a while, each in our own thoughts. I can’t stop watching him, though, the way his mouth moves, his cheeks slightly reddened from windburn and his hair a mess. He’s more beautiful like this—rough from the outdoors and wearing one of my flannel shirts—than he was when freshly groomed and dressed for a trick. I’m watching him so closely I see the moment a wistful expression crosses his eyes.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, to see if he’ll tell me.
He gives a little shrug, examining the table. “I feel like I’m asking a lot.”
“Eyes up,” I say, and he looks at me. “Ask for what you want. If we’re going to be—” I veer away from the word lovers at the last second and instead use the word “—intimate.” It doesn’t sound any better. “If we’re going to fuck, I want honesty.” The irony only burns a little in my throat.
He swallows, though, still afraid to ask something. “I don’t want to come across as pushy.”
Oh, so that’s what it is. “Don’t worry, scout. If I think you’re too pushy, I’ll just put you in your place.”
“Oh.” A kind of relief settles over him. I wonder who in his past quit loving him for asking for what he wanted. “It’s just . . . Okay. It’s mainly that the Boy Scout stuff today was cool, too, you know? I don’t want to . . . to lose that, either. But I probably have to choose between that or going all-in on this captive thing, right?”
