I considered not going to Dice’s, making a power-play of my own. But I never did. I memorized their schedule, and every night they played, I went, living on hope.
Just when I was ready to quit, to give up the thrill of sucking him off in the dark, he’d lock eyes with me, barely nod, and walk out of the bar. I’d always follow.
~~~
Some traditions build slowly, I guess.
I’d blown him half a dozen times before he asked me “what my deal was.” I told him my first name, which he could have gotten from any of the bartenders anyway, but said I worked at a bank, the most boring thing I could think of on the spot. I told him I was single, which was true—I wouldn’t meet Mateo for a few months.
We hooked up twice more before he asked for my number.
A while after that—I’d met Mat by then, and liked him, but he was still living in D.C. and we weren’t sure how serious things were going to get—I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize.
sup
Four hours later, I was checking in to the Mountain View for the first time, knees weak, hands trembling, rock hard.
~~~
A knock came at the door, crisp. Discreet. It jostled me out of my daydream and pulled me off the bed.
Things had evolved over the years, but by now our roles were defined. I knew my place. I opened the door and stepped back, allowing him to enter.
“Beer?” He walked past me, not looking at me, flopping down on the bed, shoes still on.
I crossed to the minifridge and fetched one, taking him in as I popped the cap.
He was in his late twenties now. Maybe thirty. Surely no more.
He wasn’t quite the angel he’d been when we met. He’d fallen. There was a sharpness in his face, a world-weariness in his eyes. He’d cut his hair a few years back, and I missed the long, dark waves curling messily about his ears and brushing his shoulders. He was still long and rangy, with hard ropy arms, but the panther had gone out of his movements.
I could make myself remember what he used to be, though, and if anything, the fact that he’d just barely begun to wither, to submit to life, made me want him more. This might not be the last time we met like this, but all traditions—even the ones that build slowly—die sometime. Ours might be reaching its sell-by date. Sensing the approaching end made me greedy for the now.
As I crossed to him, he adjusted on the bed, scootching into a sitting position, rucking up the comforter with his heels. I waited till his shoulders rested against the headboard before handing him the cold bottle. He nodded rather than thanking me, then drank.
He swallowed. “Not having one?”
I shrugged. “Waiting for you.” I remained standing, eyes cast down to take in the length of his body. He took another sip, then lazily clunked the bottle next to the plastic ashtray already on the chipboard nightstand. He fumbled in his shirt pocket, retrieving a joint and an emerald-green lighter. Properly stocked up, he patted the mattress near his hip, giving me permission to sit. I perched on the edge of the bed, hiked his shirt up a few inches to expose his navel, and began undoing his belt.
I heard the rasp of the lighter and the crackle as the joint began to burn. By the time the skunk of the weed hit my nostrils, I’d opened his fly, exposing a vee of Creamsicle-orange briefs. I fondled him through the fabric, feeling him start to stiffen almost immediately.
I looked up, stroking with my left hand and reaching out with my right. He placed the joint between my fingers and I put it to my lips. The paper was wet.
Mat doesn’t care if I smoke, but he doesn’t do it himself, and because I work for a smallish college in a smallish town, I’m careful about how often I partake. These days my dates with Skye were the only time I got high. Not blasted. Just a hit or two to give me a nice, draggy buzz. Enough to relax me. Enough to heighten sensations. I sucked the smoke down my throat, eased into the burn, then exhaled before handing the joint back. “Beer, please?”
He reached for the beer and passed it. I wet my mouth, mingling the hops with the earthy taste of the weed, then swallowed.
Skye watched me, hooded amber eyes flicking from my face to his groin, where my hand still squeezed him and stroked him through his briefs. My gaze stayed locked on his face. Those backdoor blowjobs, given in the dead of night, had hidden him for years. I knew his smirk and his grin. I knew the angles of his face when he sang. But for so long I’d had no idea how I affected him. Once these afternoon motel sessions began, I’d grown fascinated by the way he looked when another man got him hard, got him off.
He withheld. It was plain he liked what I was doing to him—he’d grown thick and rigid, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths—but his expression gave me nothing. Judging by his glazed eyes and the thin set of his mouth, I might have been reading him a weather report.
Fuck you, I thought. You can lie, but you can’t hide.
I handed back his beer, then began undoing the buttons of his shirt, starting at the bottom and working my way upward. I exposed the mole resting just above his pubis. His flat navel. The valley beneath his sternum. The jungle of tattoos—sharp blacks that seemed to slash his skin rather than to be part of it, bitter greens and angry reds.
This had been Skye’s project. For all I knew, they were the only thing he cared about, aside from music and cannabis. When we’d first started hooking up—really hooking up, in a room with a bed, rather than crouched in gravel—he’d had a few: the crows on his shoulder, the pirate ship sailing across his ribcage. Over the years, he’d collected so many that even naked he seemed—whether protectively or secretively—to be hiding his body from me. He was always adorned, always covered.
My throat grew thick. I swallowed. I forced my eyes from his decorated skin and met his gaze. I didn’t like what I saw in his face, his casual acknowledgment of my need, so I looked back down and continued to open him.
When his chest was fully exposed, I paused to take it all in: the pierced and bleeding heart over where his own heart lay, the skulls, the flowers, the jungle cats. I sighed. Tenderly, I placed my fingers on the black flourishes inked below his clavicles and traced downward, feeling his torso pass under my touch, from his chest to the hem of his briefs.
“Like it?” he asked, all smug, throat scratchy from the weed.
“Yes.”
And I did. I loved it. The novelty of this decorated man beneath me, who’d paid to have his imagination imprinted on his body. His boldness, his choice to prick This is who I am into his skin, fascinated me more than the pictures themselves.
I could have stared longer. I wanted to, but what I wanted didn’t matter with Skye. The pleasure I derived from him came from the battle, and then the service. I got my satisfaction from forcing him to be satisfied.
Each of his nipples was pierced with a silver barbell. Moments of intense pain leading to a lifetime of heightened pleasure. I could understand that. I reached behind me to find his cock and fondle him again, then, like a fawn at a lake, bent my body downward, craned my neck, and began to drink him in.
I lapped at his chest, pressing my tongue against his skin and dragging it upward, bathing his always-pert nipple in my spit. I did it again, then again, then took it in my mouth and began to suck.
He arched beneath me and hissed. I sucked harder, simultaneously flattening my hand and sliding it inside his briefs.
He’d showered before coming over. (He didn’t always.) His skin tasted clean and bitter and aromatic from whatever soap he’d used, and his bush was still damp. I tangled my fingers in the curls, then wrapped my hand around him again, stroking as freely as I could while trapped inside his briefs. Mostly, though, I focused on his chest.
I kept sucking, wanting to bruise him, to add another mark to his body. I played my tongue over his silver rod. I scraped his skin with my teeth and bit down, earning a yelp. He grabbed me, twisting his wrist to pull my hair while pressing me down to him, proving he could take it. I bit again, slow and steady, top and bottom t
eeth braced against the hot little nub, and closed down by fractions.
“Fuck,” he yelled, and jerked my hair back, hurting me. I let him pull me off and we glared at each other. His long fingers rubbed where I’d sucked him, gauging the tenderness, then he released me.
Showing contrition, I spat on his abused left nipple, then began to soothe it with the pad of my thumb. But as I did, I stretched my body across his torso and began the process anew with his right nipple.
We played like that for a while, me tugging at his chest with my mouth, seeing how much he’d let me hurt him, and him dragging me off by my hair when I crossed the line. Pleasure for both of us, pain for both of us, all underlined with prickly struggle. I noticed he cried out when I went too far. I took pride in keeping quiet.
He let me suck and tug and bite each nipple nearly raw before finally stopping me—“C’mon, dude. I didn’t come here to have my tits played with.”
I rose, knowing I would obey but staring him down just long enough to signal that I was choosing to acquiesce. Then I held out my hand silently. He placed the beer in my grip. The bottle had warmed in his hand as I’d worked him over, but I took a long swig, letting it soak into my tongue and get me wet, before swallowing and passing it back.
Then, taking my time, hoping to piss him off with my slowness, I stood. Angry pink rings circled his nipples, and they shone from my spit. I smiled. He just stared.
I removed my glasses, folded them, then placed them on the nightstand. Skye went blurry, his precise tattoos fuzzing into whorls and blotches.
I stripped out of my shirt and tossed it in a wad onto the nappy beige carpet.
I toed out of my shoes and pushed the waistband of my shorts and briefs down, wiggling out of them. When they hit the ground, I stepped out of them where they fell.
I was naked. An offering. I didn’t like him and didn’t respect him, but I admired him, and so for the next little piece of our lives, he could have my body to use.
Every part of me was tense with the decision. It happened every time. I loved this, and needed it, but it was never easy to give myself to him. Still, firm in my decision, I turned from him and padded to the end of the bed. Kneeling on the carpet, feeling the rough nap dig into my knees—softer than gravel, I thought—I slipped off his right shoe, then his left, then peeled his tiny little no-show socks off his feet. The soles were rough, but his toes were long like his fingers, almost elegant, and I planted slow, wet kisses on his arches. Another mark of my service.
And then I rose to the bed, spreading his legs and planting myself between them. Even parted at the fly, his jeans clung tightly, but I wrestled them down, exposing pale thighs and another labyrinth of tattoos: snakes and thorns and—randomly—a reproduction of Hokusai’s great wave, the only bit of blue on his body.
And there he was, this awful, lovely, fading, decorated man. His shirt clung to his shoulders but his torso was bare. His skin went from farmboy tan to parchment pale, except for the markings he’d paid for. And he still wore his Creamsicle briefs, the fabric stretched against his erection.
I reached for the waistband, shocking white against all the colors, and pulled it down, negotiating it over the hardness of his cock.
That was pierced, too.
It had shocked me the first time I’d seen it. He’d gotten it back in the Dice’s days. One night I’d sucked his dick, decently-sized, proud and pretty, but otherwise unremarkable. Then he’d denied me for his next two gigs, occasionally giving me that shitty look he had but mostly ignoring me. When I’d gone to the third show, telling myself this would be the last shot I gave him, he’d nodded me outside.
“Watch your teeth,” was all he’d said, then pulled me onto him.
But here was the thing: I kind of liked it. I wouldn’t want one myself. If Mat suggested getting one, I’d put my foot down. But on Skye, already marked and branded, the strangeness of it worked. I hadn’t learned until later how good the thick, beaded ring of his reverse Prince Albert felt when it stretched me open and pressed into my prostate.
The weed was hitting me now—I really am a lightweight—and my head felt floaty and thick, and my body craved contact, and I wanted to smile. My mouth had already dried out again, though. I reached for the beer.
“Almost gone.” Skye took the last sip, proving his point, and set the empty on the nightstand. “Get me another.”
I paused just long enough to seem defiant, then got up and crossed to the minifridge. After I’d opened the bottle, I took the first drink, again holding it in my mouth, noticing the bubbles popping and burning against my tongue, then delivered it to him. Refreshed, I resumed my station between his calves, finished hiking his briefs down to mid-thigh, grabbed his thickness, and lowered my mouth onto him.
He’d force my head down eventually, the way he had on his nipples, so for now I took the time to play, clutching his ring between my lips and tugging it, making him hitch and squirm beneath me. I teased his artificially widened pisshole with my tongue. I took his head into my mouth, sucking at it and bathing it. Then, finally, when his breathing grew rough, I began bobbing up and down on it in long, slow strokes, nuzzling his dark bush with my nose, feeling his piercing shift my uvula. I hummed against the ring, sending tiny vibrations into his cock. That triggered him into grabbing a fistful of my hair and holding me tight.
“Stay on it,” he said, then drank some beer and swallowed wetly.
I followed instructions.
I had to be careful with Skye. I’d learned the hard way that if I blew him too good, he’d shoot in my mouth, rendering him useless. Luckily, performing all those illicit starlit beejays had trained me to sense when he was close. I knew how to handle him.
I held him in my mouth, sucking softly, tracing the thick vein beneath his shaft with my tongue, stroking halfway up his length with my lips before pushing back down and gagging on metal. At one point, he grabbed my hair again and tried forcing me to quicken the pace, but I resisted, loving the pain he gave me. After some grumbling, he let me go. Just to exasperate him, I pulled off completely and dropped a gob of thick, beer-scented saliva onto his cockhead, then worked him with my hand while I tongued his sweet little mole and sucked the shallow cup of his navel. For all his complaining, he was into it. In between sips of beer, he’d shift and sigh under my attentions, and his cock never stopped pulsing against my palm. When he’d gone a few seconds without trying to direct me, I rewarded him by letting him back into my throat.
This was my last stand, my last bid for control. Once I convinced him to fuck me—and I would have to convince him, the lazy thing—I’d be in his hands. I held onto the power for as long as I could, savoring every moan and throb, glorying in every whispered insult, riding the pain when he pulled my hair. It was heaven.
But when he started giving me the signals—his moans becoming whimpers, his breath growing raspy—I pulled off.
“I want you to fuck me.”
“But your mouth feels so good, baby.”
I rolled my eyes and sighed the breath from my lungs, letting him know I wasn’t quite so easily manipulated. “My ass feels good, too.”
“C’mon. I won’t come. Or if I do, I’ll rest a minute and we can go again.”
“You will come, and then you’ll fall asleep. I’m not brand new.”
“Baby—”
“You can fuck me, or I can leave and you can jack off, Skye.”
A long moment passed between us, and then he sighed with all the weight of a grounded high school sophomore. “Do I have to use a condom this time?”
In response, I rose from the bed and opened the drawer of the nightstand.
“C’mon.” Almost a full-fledged whine.
This moment always thrilled me, because I did want him raw. I wanted him raw so bad. I wanted him to stick his dirty dick inside me, hot and naked, and fuck me senseless and tag my insides with his cum. I wanted to take some of him with me when I left, reminding me what a slut I was.
But this was Skye, and I wasn’t an idiot, so I tore open the foil packet in my fingers.
“Baby, I’m clean.”
I fed him some side-eye, then freed the slippery ring of latex.
“What? You think I’m gonna give you something?” Offended, shocked I’d insinuate that he, a man who invited parking lot blowjobs from strangers, might have picked up a souvenir from some other trick. I fitted the condom around his piercing and rolled it down his shaft.
“You’re such a little bitch.”
“Well, you’re about to fuck me like one, so quit crying.” By now I was coating his sheathed cock in lube, making sure to do it nice and slow, making it feel good, keeping him hard. He took a sullen sip of beer, but kept quiet, setting the mostly empty bottle down for the first time since I’d handed it to him. I rose, paused long enough to pour some more lube in my hand, reached between my legs to smear it on me and inside me, then lay beside him, my back to his chest. It felt odd, actually, getting into such an intimate Sunday-morning-cuddle-fuck position with him, but this worked best for us. He could go deep without making eye contact, and it let him ram me without having to hoist his lazy ass off the bed. Once I’d placed myself, pressing close, I raised my leg, stretching back to rest my thigh on his, then reached down to find his dick.
It twitched when I touched it. I smiled slightly and aimed his head at my hole. I pushed down, forcing him to widen me, then hitched my hips. He took the cue and sank in.
Fuck.
Accommodating the ring was as strange and exciting as I remembered, and the knot of metal—warmed by my mouth and my hand and the heat of Skye’s body—nudged into my prostate then nestled there, earning a reflexive clench as I tightened around him. For the first time since he arrived, I let out a moan.
“You like that, bitch?”
“I need it. Fuck me.”
“What did you say?” Teasing. Cruel.
Throw Hips: A Gay Hothusband Erotic Short (Bryce Can Play Book 4) Page 2
