Throw Hips: A Gay Hothusband Erotic Short (Bryce Can Play Book 4)

by Travis Beaudoin

  Throw Hips

  A Gay Hothusband Erotic Short

  Travis Beaudoin

  Copyright © 2020 Sonder Street Books

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Editor: Teresa Payne

  Cover designer: Marianne Nowicki

  ~for Jake, who serves a purpose,

  and, as always, Diego~

  Where We Left Things

  On Monday morning, Bryce woke up in an empty bed. His husband was gone on a week-long business trip, but he’d left a note.

  Make me proud.

  Bryce loves making Mat proud, and he knows just how to do it. The plan is to fuck as many men as possible while his husband’s away. Bryce is going to play until Mat is good and jealous, eager to reclaim his sexy, slutty husband.

  So far, the week’s going well, with Bryce encountering a new sexual adventure each day.

  We last saw him on Wednesday, as he hosted Carey, a shy, submissive redhead who holds his secrets close. The men got off to a bit of an awkward start, but sex is a powerful force, and once they’d re-established their roles, Carey opened up in Bryce’s capable hands. The session was short but satisfying, and after both guys got what they wanted, Carey cleared out, leaving Bryce to his thoughts.

  Now it’s Thursday.

  Throw Hips

  ~The Thursday after Mat leaves~

  I love shitty motels.

  I mean, I like nice hotels, too. I’m not opposed to room service and ridiculously high thread counts. I love a shower that gets hot right away and shoots hard enough to batter a long day off me.

  But there’s something about forty-dollar-a-night, no-tell shitholes. They remind me of college road trips. Or bank robbers on the run. They promise adventure and impermanence, maybe even a sense of danger, you can’t find in places with marble lobbies and concierge desks.

  Also—and this is what’s important here—I love getting fucked in cheap motels. Some guy railing me on a lumpy mattress with late-afternoon sunlight peeking through vinyl curtains? Nothing makes me feel sluttier.

  And that’s what brought me to the Mountain View Motor Lodge at 4:43 on a Thursday afternoon. I wanted to feel like a slut.

  I’d kept busy since my husband Mat had left town, and had racked up enough stories to ensure a meticulous punishment upon his return. But the week was half over, and, for all the trouble I’d gotten into, it had been a couple days since I’d taken a dick. I needed to get fucked.

  More than that, I needed to feel like trash. And where could I feel trashier than a place like this? And who could make me feel trashier than a guy like Skye? Most of my hook-ups are friends, or at least friendly acquaintances. Not Skye. I didn’t like him, but he was pretty and seedy and knew how to throw hips. And maybe because he was trash himself, from his messy brown hair to the soles of his scuffed checkerboard Vans, letting him use me always made me feel good and cheap.

  That was the energy I needed.

  But Skye was also a risk. When it came to our playdates, neither of us had anything to lose, so if he couldn’t hook up, he’d ignore my texts. He’d done it before.

  I had Grindr as a backup—it wasn’t impossible to find someone Skye-like—but I wanted him. His so-bad-it’s-good messiness set off all sorts of emotional booby traps in me, and it came in a beautifully tawdry package: the feel of his barely-oily skin; the smells of sweat and coffee and weed always clinging to him; the look in his burnt-honey eyes when I submitted. He was exactly the sort of guy I shouldn’t trust myself to be around, but the ride was addicting.

  So there I sat on the ratty maroon comforter on the creaky queen bed, phone in hand, listening to the chug-chug-chug of the ancient air conditioner in the window.

  I closed my eyes and swallowed, then found his name buried deep in my contacts.

  Hey. I sent the text.

  And then I waited.

  4:47.

  I’d stashed the minifridge with cold, dark bottles of craft IPA. An offering. Or bait. I considered opening one.

  4:49.

  I rose. Paced. Stretched. Messed with my hair, tousling it artfully in the streaky mirror over the dresser.

  4:50.

  Five more minutes, I told myself. Five more minutes, then I’ll open Grindr.

  4:52.

  Three minutes. Get it together, Skye. I turned my head and stared at the door—like he’d magically walk in, for fuck’s sake—and waited.

  ~~~

  It’s hard to be the new guy. It’s especially hard when you’re at least twenty years younger than everyone else.

  Fresh off of earning my Ph.D., I wasn’t quite young enough to pass for a student at Shenandoah State College, but I was much closer to them in age than I was to most of the faculty.

  I’d start to feel comfortable eventually. I’d make friends. I wouldn’t be the new guy forever. But there was a decent stretch of time when I was left to amuse myself. I spent quite a few nights drinking alone.

  The trick was to drive just past the city limits. I love shitty bars—dark rooms with linoleum floors that smell of beer, rafters with decades of cigarette smoke soaked into the wood. Like shitty motels, they remind me of being young and broke and full of options. There were bars like that within walking distance of my apartment, but they were also in walking distance of the college, and I knew better than to mix with my students. But a fifteen-minute drive over the moonlit hills, through the dark woods, and there was Dice’s Lounge, with its gravel parking lot and its tiny windows, the green neon sign a beacon in the blackness.

  They featured live music now and then. Not regularly. Just often enough I’d forget they did it at all, then walk in as some local band was cranking up.

  Some of the music was pretty good. Not what I’d listen to on my own, but down-home, country-fried fun. Then there was Imperial Squalor. They were...loud. Just loud.

  Their lead singer, though...

  Tall and rangy. Three-day stubble. Hungry eyes. Razor cheekbones. Long fingers. A mass of shiny chestnut hair spilling out from his stupid knit beanie. Way too young for me.

  He looked exactly like the kind of guy you’d expect to front a band called Imperial Squalor, playing in a dump like Dice’s.

  He also looked exactly like the kind of guy who’d shove you up against the wall, pull your hair, fuck you hard, then never call again.

  I was smitten.

  ~~~

  Buzz-buzz.

  My phone snapped me back to the Mountain View. Hardly daring to hope, I snatched it off the bed.

  hey. sup.

  Score. I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. Still, I counted to thirty before I responded.

  Busy?

  not really

  Wanna hang out?

  were u at?

  I rolled my eyes, then typed Mountain View. 144.

  A minute passed, then two. My heart dropped a little. My dick, which had begun to tingle with anticipation, calmed down. Maybe I’d be Grind’ng tonight after all.

  And then:

  got beer?

  Fucker. I always had beer. He knew that. Yes.

  Another pause, but this one
shorter.

  kk 30 min

  I considered responding, but decided even a repetition of his stupid kk might reveal my desperation. I set my phone back on the bed and got to work.

  ~~~

  I never became a fan of the band. I could get into the Avett Brothers or Mumford & Sons, and Imperial Squalor was clearly aiming for that, but it was all very low-rent and half-ass. Nevertheless, I always got a little tight in the pit of my stomach when I’d walk through the battered wooden door of Dice’s to find Imperial Squalor setting up. I’d get a beer and maybe a basket of oily fries and park in a dark corner, pretending to play on my phone while I watched the band work.

  Not the band. Skye.

  I didn’t know his name yet, and I was too scared to ask anyone, but I didn’t need to know it to love the lazy ease in his walk. Or how his forearms tensed when he lifted a speaker. Or the never-there emptiness in his eyes when he stood idle. He laughed like sandpaper and spoke like ashes, soft and smoky, usually too quiet for me to make out the words from far away.

  Like I said, Dice’s didn’t have music often, but—messy slut that I am—once I’d discovered this mediocre band, I started going more frequently, living for the tension I felt in this guy’s presence. I caught one of their gigs maybe once a month, sometimes twice.

  It was in the spring of my first year at SSC that we finally spoke. The band had finished their first set. I’d killed my drink. As the crowd started milling about, I walked up to the bar with my empty glass.

  The lead singer—long legs and slim hips and tight little rump in faded denim—arrived at the bar a moment before me and leaned against it. Shaylene, one of my favorite bartenders of all time, popped over to him with her trademark big-ass smile.

  So, I thought, Shaylene likes trade, too. Fair enough. She was young and pretty and a total sweetheart. She deserved a little fun. Anyway, statistically, Slinky-Hips was more likely to be into chicks than dudes. Whatever. I could look without touching. I settled a couple feet away from him and angled my body so he was in my eyeline. A long, loose hank of hair curled under his ear, barely kissing the lobe. It fascinated me.

  Slinky caught me looking, half-smirked, dismissed me, and turned back to Shaylene.

  I jerked away and found something else to stare at, hiding my scorching face. Scanning the bar, I noticed a stack of homemade CDs in cardboard covers near the register. Interesting.

  Shaylene reached under the bar, coming up with a can of PBR. She popped the tab and passed it to Slinky. He smiled as he took it, winked at her, then—sealing my fate—he lifted the can to his mouth and licked a long, slow line of condensation off the aluminum with his baby-pink tongue. When he finally craned his head back to drink from the can, his throat was long and tan and smooth. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  He was breathtaking. Without flaw. Hot and bratty and cocky. And I was pretty sure he knew I was looking. As if to punctuate the hopelessness of my cause, he turned to me again, looked me up and down, gave me another shitty smirk, and walked away.

  “Want another, Bryce?”

  “Huh?” Oof. Shaylene’s voice cut through my reverie. “Oh! Hey. No. Thanks. Just my check.” I handed her my credit card.

  She smiled, more kindly than Slinky had. “Early night?”

  “Work tomorrow.”

  “That’s how it goes.” She swiped my glass off the bar and turned toward the register.

  “Oh, hey. Shaylene? Those CDs. Are they from these Squalor fellas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you add one to my tab?’

  She paused. “You like them?”

  “Eh. Support local artists, you know?”

  “Oh, you’re sweet,” she said, like I’d just rescued a puppy from a house fire. She grabbed the top CD on the stack, punched a few more buttons, then swiped my card. After handing me the disc and my receipt, she squeezed my forearm, all friendly. “I’ll tell Skye you picked it up.”

  His name was Skye. Of course it was. Because Cloude and Oceane and Rainbowe were taken.

  “Please don’t.”

  “I’m sure he’d love to know.”

  “Yeah,” I said, leaning in. “But what if he asks me how I liked it?”

  “Ugh,” she said. “Right? I have to lie to him every time they play.”

  We shared a laugh, then she bounced away to handle a couple at the end of the bar. I stared down at the cardboard sleeve in my hand. All four band members were pictured in black and white, but there, front and center, stood Slinky-Hips—Skye, I said to myself—arms folded across his chest, smirking up at me.

  ~~~

  Fifteen minutes had passed since he’d kk’ed me, and there was nothing left to do. My reminiscing had kept me occupied as I’d cleaned out the room and prepped for his arrival.

  I didn’t trust Skye. Not even a little. So I took precautions.

  I always parked my car in the lot of the diner next to the Lodge, as far from the motel as I could get, and before he arrived I’d always trot over and lock my wallet in the trunk. It wasn’t so much that I thought Skye would steal from me or go looking for information, but I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t if he thought he could get away with it.

  Skye wasn’t only risky in that he might not come when I called. I’d always sensed he had the potential to blow up my life. Not with Mat, obviously—my husband thought my little obsession was cute. But if he showed up at my job? Or caused a ruckus in front of my neighbors? Well, small towns. You get it. And the feeling he might fuck me up if I let my guard down kept me edgy like the first day of school.

  I loved it. I loved the challenge of letting him have me, use me, and living to tell the tale.

  ~~~

  “You come here a lot.”

  I’d left the bar in a rush, head down, half ashamed of the five-dollar CD in my hand. But there was that ashen voice, soft and feathery, almost warm, a little acrid. It stopped me dead.

  I turned. He leaned against the façade of the bar, one foot planted on the dirty stucco, half in shadow. The smell of weed hit me a second after I saw him.

  “Huh?” I asked, super intelligently.

  He might have smirked. Something in his face shifted, anyway. “You…” He paused, taking a long, crackling drag on the joint between his fingers. “…come here a lot.”

  “Oh.” I had to stop my arm from traveling backward, hiding his CD behind my body. “Yeah. I guess it’s sort of my spot.”

  “You don’t belong here, though.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He laughed, low and itchy. “I mean...” Another hit. “…look at you.”

  He had a point. My lavender button down, my soft grey pants, my polished shoes. I did sort of stand out at Dice’s.

  I shrugged. “I spend a lot of time in places I belong. This is a nice change.”

  He nodded, fell silent, turned his head to look out into the night. He took another drag and the smell of burning weed washed over me again. I figured he was done with me and began making my way to my car.

  “You like our stuff?”

  I turned back, gravel crunching under my shoes. “It’s. Ah.” I swallowed. “Yeah.”

  “You bought our CD.”

  “I did.” I heard the reflexive smile in my voice as I extended my hand, showing him the thing he’d already seen.

  “You were checking me out.”

  Sweat began collecting in my armpits. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  “You check me out a lot,” he continued. “Every time we play. Always watching me.”

  I had nothing.

  “It’s all right. I ain’t gonna hit you. Just noticed is all.”

  I untensed, just a fraction. “Oh. Okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  That laugh again, raking my skin. “Nothing wrong with being admired.”

  I chuckled, buying time, but all I could come up with was, “Okay. Good.”

  He finished his joint, ground the cherry into the stucco, then let it
fall carelessly to the earth. A guy who doesn’t save his roaches is a guy who lives in confidence that the world will always be open to him. I’ve never managed that level of assurance, but I find those who can both infuriating and magnetic.

  “Well.” I swallowed. I breathed. “Have a good night, Skye.” I turned again, crunching away from him as fast as my dignity would let me. I called him by his name. Is that weird? It’s weird.

  “Hey.”

  I stopped. I turned.

  “I got about ten minutes before my next set.”

  “I’m heading home—”

  “How fast can you suck a dick?”

  I paused. I shrugged.

  He looked at me for a long time and sort of smiled, then slowly pushed back with his foot, launching himself off the wall. When he reached the corner of the building, he turned, vanishing into darkness.

  This is a bad idea, Bryce. This really isn’t smart. You should go home.

  Then, Fuck it.

  I followed.

  It hadn’t taken long. He was quick to get hard and quick to come. He ran his fingers through my hair, curling them in my curls, holding me close. Other than that, though, he didn’t move much, letting the blowjob come to him, accepting it as his due. He kept quiet, letting his breathing accelerate, whispering yeah a few times and muttering fuck when I finished him. He tasted strong and bitter, like all the potheads I’d sucked off in college.

  The experience itself wasn’t that great, but the idea of it kept me agitated the whole drive home. The quickness of it all. My willingness to comply, to kneel in gravel for a stranger. For that stranger. His assurance that he deserved me. The seediness of it all, behind a redneck bar on a random spring night, not twenty feet from a dumpster.

  I gloried in my degradation, and when I got home, I jerked off to the photo on the CD cover, still tasting him in my mouth. When I came, I said his name.

  ~~~

  We did that for a while. Not every time he played, but sometimes.

  I never approached him, and some nights he ignored me, passing his hooded eyes over me like I was empty air. I felt like shit when that happened—not because I liked him or anything, but because he was doing it to prove a point. He knew he could ignore me and I’d still be there for his next gig, willing to let him use my mouth.