The Misters Series (Mister #1-7)

by J. A. Huss

  I know he’s close. I want him inside me when it happens, but just as I think he’s about to make my wish come true, he pulls out of my mouth, pushes me so I fall back on my haunches.

  “Close your eyes,” Oliver says, his hand fisting his cock. Sliding up and down. Fully covering his tip, then all the way down to his balls.

  I close my eyes and his hot semen sprays across my face in spurts. Hits my cheek, then my lips. My tongue darts out to lick it off, and his cock is there once more. Still spilling the white liquid into my eager mouth.

  “Fuck,” he says, leaning back against the counter to steady himself. “I want more of you. I never stop wanting more of you.” He reaches down for me, urging me to stand and tipping up the handle of the tap on the sink faucet next to him at the same time.

  I feel such relief just being here with him.

  Oliver grabs a dishtowel, holds it under the running water, then half-heartedly wrings it out single-handedly and applies the soft, warm cloth to my face.

  “Sorry about that,” he says. Small lopsided smile along with a deep sigh as he cleans me up.

  I shrug. Uncaring about the mess that makes him want to take care of me. “I don’t mind.”

  “I know,” he says, tossing the towel on the counter. “But I do.”

  He leans in, holding my face with both hands, and kisses me lightly on the lips. There’s no tongue. No rush, or hardness to him now even though his whole body is hard from top to bottom.

  Oliver Shrike is tender and caring. Deep and complicated. He is poetry incarnate. There is not one damn thing about him that requires adjustment or modification. Not his temperament. Not his body. Not his mind.

  He is perfection.

  “Sit here,” he says, patting the seat of one of the low-back, ultra-modern barstools lined up along the counter. “I have something to show you.”

  I sit on the stool and his hands are instantly on my knees. They are warm and rough. The hands of a man who works for a living. Fixes things like motorcycles and the carburetor on his classic Camaro. Creates things. Like this place. This building someone abandoned and took the life it used to have with them. Oliver remade this pile of bricks and concrete into a home.

  God, if I only had him like I used to have him. I would be complete.

  His hand travels up my leg. Slides between them to caress my inner thighs. He leans into me, his head dipping down to my neck so his lips can find that spot he loves so much. My scar. The beginning and the end of everything I’m made of.

  I lean into his embrace, just as his fingertips find the wet spot between my legs. He presses up against my underwear, pushing the soft cloth aside so my eagerness can coat his fingers with slick want.

  “I thought you had something to show me,” I say.

  “Stay here,” he says, taking his kisses to my mouth. “And I mean it this time.” He’s hinting at my disobedience this morning when I left this house and went to his sister’s.

  But he doesn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s not about controlling me and he doesn’t want to hurt me with those words.

  He just wants me to stay. It’s that simple. He’s always been that simple. He says what he means, even when his words are ambiguous poetry.

  He backs away, tucking away his cock and zipping up his jeans just enough to keep his pants in place. His eyes only leave mine when he has to turn and walk towards the loft. I bite my lip as I watch him take the stairs two at a time and then I lose sight of everything but his head and shoulders between the iron rails that separate the loft from the open air of the tall ceiling.

  He starts rummaging through a chest of drawers, whispering curse words as he searches for the thing he needs me to see.

  He sighs up above me, his shoulders relaxing as he holds something small in front of his face. He turns and walks over to the railing where a small table holding some kind of electronic equipment sits.

  “Did you make me a mix tape?” I ask, trying to imagine what he’s doing up there.

  He grins over the railing. Thunderstorm eyes bright like the sun breaking through the clouds. And then he ducks his head and messes with the equipment.

  A whirring noise, above and to my left, makes me turn a little to see what’s happening.

  There’s a projector mounted on the ceiling. It powers up and then a movie starts to flicker on the massive twenty-foot white brick wall that separates the living space from the garages.

  Music begins and I laugh. “It is a mix tape.”

  Oliver is smiling so big as he leans forward on the railing in the loft. His forearms resting comfortably. Hands clasped together. His tattoos half-hidden in the shadows. One foot resting on the other. Those sexy fucking white strings hanging from the hem of his jeans.

  I want to fucking eat him up.

  “Don’t look at me,” he says. “Look at you.”

  He nods to the white wall of brick and I turn.

  “Jesus fuck,” I say, appalled. There is a ten-foot image of me on the wall. I am naked and on my back on the air mattress we pretended was a bed that summer four years ago. We had the tripod set up and we used it. Nightly.

  “I’m so goddamned young,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the girl from back then. A girl I barely remember these days.

  “Just old enough,” Oliver says.

  Not quite, but close enough.

  Oliver comes into the picture just as the music starts. A dark, deep, electronic thrum of organ, and bass, and slow tech synth beats. The vocals claim they want more. And I can relate.

  “I want more,” Younger Oliver sings to Younger Katya in his low voice. He lowers his naked body over hers. “More… gimme more… gimme more.”

  Then Older Oliver is walking down the stairs, hunger—nothing but complete and utter hunger—in his expression as he looks at Older Me.

  “I want more,” he says, coming up to the stool. He lifts both of my legs, placing my ankles on his shoulders. He grips my white schoolgirl blouse and rips it open. Buttons fly off as he exposes me with a small grunt that sounds like lust. And then he pulls my panties down to my knees and presses his body into mine.

  Fingertips on his zipper, Pulling him out. It takes me one whole slow-motion second to realize I’m the one doing that.

  His hard cock bumps up against my wet pussy and he grinds me like that. His breath is hot like cinnamon when he kisses me. “More… gimme more… gimme more,” he sings into my mouth. “I’m gonna take more, Katya.”

  I have no complaints. I don’t even bother wasting time forming words to let him know.

  On the wall, Younger Katya is moaning as Younger Oliver slips his dick inside her pussy.

  In front of me, this Oliver does the same thing.

  The music is hypnotic and the sex going on all around me is like a drug. An aphrodisiac that makes liquid pool between my legs. Surround his cock as he fucks me slowly. Makes my whole body yearn…

  More… gimme more… gimme more.

  “Oliver,” Younger Me is saying in the movie on the wall. “Oliver,” Older Me is panting in real time.

  “I love you,” Younger Oliver says in the movie. “I fucking love you,” Older Oliver is saying as he bites my lip hard enough to make it bleed.

  The sex is loud.

  And sick.

  And slick.

  Filled with filthy erotic grunts and the slapping of skin on skin as he pounds me to the rhythm of our past.

  We are animals. We fuck like animals. Primal and intrinsic and primitive.

  But it is nothing if not love.

  We come together this time.

  Hot, and so sweaty our bodies want to stick together. And then we kiss. He kisses me like he is thirsty and I am cool, clear water.

  More… gimme more… gimme more.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - OLIVER

  We breathe heavily for several seconds. My head bowed down into her breasts. My hands wanting to touch her everywhere at once. But if I let go of the cold, stone counter I’m gripping, I
might collapse on top of her with relief.

  On the wall, Younger Katya says, “Hey, Mr. Buckeye. You can plant your seed in me if you want.”

  In the present, we laugh immediately at the sound of her voice. All smiles and satisfaction.

  “Is that right?” I hear Younger Oliver saying.

  I don’t need to look at the movie on the wall to know what’s happening. I am holding her tight. She is giggling like the girl she was. Squirming in my arms, blushing furiously with heat. Slightly embarrassed at her provocative words.

  She has no idea what those words mean to a man like me. A man who wants roots more than the tree he grows in his living room.

  But I know what they meant then and I take them to heart now.

  How do you plan anything when all you see in your future is threats? When you have things hanging over your head like rape, and secret societies, and murder? How do you live with the fact that even when you’re in control, you’re never in control?

  I wish the worst sin they had on me was murder.

  I’ve watched that movie hundreds of times but Katya hasn’t. I didn’t put it together until after she’d gone. We had been dating—if you could call it dating—for about two months. We used to meet only at the church but we got bored with that quick enough. Pretty soon she’d show up outside at the bus stop. And then every day after work she was out there across the street. Sometime she wore the uniform. If she had sex on her mind. It drove me crazy because she only did it to tease me. Wave her jailbait status in front of my face like a temptation.

  Not that I cared. I didn’t care.

  You can plant your seed in me any time you want.

  Nothing could stop me from fucking her when she asked for it.

  But a girl is silly at that age. Innocent. Even girls like Katya, whom I have always known was a lot less innocent than she let on.

  “Fuck me,” Younger Katya says. “Right here against the window.”

  It’s funny that she was bothered by the idea of the large garage-door windows when she got here tonight. Because I fucked her up against them dozens of times back then. And there was no brick wall around the parking lot back then. No pine trees around the inside perimeter for privacy. No mirrored glass to hide behind.

  But I don’t blame her. Times have changed for both of us.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Younger Oliver says in the movie.

  “I have a surprise for you,” I say, staring down at her peaked nipples as I make my plan.

  Older Katya tips her head back and exposes her throat to me. It’s so… defenseless. She bares herself to me with her throat, not her nakedness. “Tell me,” she says. That scar is every vulnerability she has ever experienced wrapped up into one silver-white line of potential death.

  On the wall the movie has skipped ahead to more sex. We recorded something almost every day we spent together. Sometimes it was just a quick thirty-second video if we were too busy having fun to care. But we always recorded the sex from start to finish.

  “Stay here,” I say, looking her in the eyes to make sure she understands. She smiles as I pull back, tuck my dick away and zip my pants up so I can walk over to the drafting table I have on the other side of the room. It’s one of those slanted ones. I use it to design bikes and there are a dozen or so partial drawings of something I’m planning to build over the winter.

  I glance over my shoulder, afraid for a second that she will disappear before I can capture her properly. But she’s just sitting there. Her shirt ripped open. Her face red from the sex. Her skirt hiked so far up her legs I can almost make out the lips of her pussy from here.

  She smiles. Eases my mind with that smile.

  And I look at my desk, find the brush markers sticking out of an old beer stein that says Breckenridge Oktoberfest, and grab a whole fistful of them.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Younger Katya says in the movie just above my head.

  I look up at her for a moment. Enjoy her as she was. Then turn away and enjoy her as she is now.

  Older Katya knows what I’m doing too. Because she’s already taking off her clothes. Her blazer is on the floor. Just a puddle of dark blue wool. She slips her white blouse down her arms as I approach the counter and put my tools down, lining them up in a neat row from blackest black to lightest gray.

  Katya stands and lets her little schoolgirl skirt fall down her legs with her underwear. She steps out of them and turns to face me. “What will you write about?” she asks.

  “The same thing I always write about,” I tell her, grabbing a bunch of paper towels off the roll standing up on the counter and turning on the faucet so I can get them wet. “Get up on the counter.”

  She places her hands flat on the stone and sits. Then lifts herself up to her full height above me.

  I uncap a brush marker and close my eyes for a second to picture it all in my head.

  And then I begin.

  I start on her foot the way I used to. A stupid Roses are Red poem. Just something small and childish that can fit across the top of a foot. My touch affects her the same way it always did. She’s ticklish.

  I smile at her as I make the letters. Fancy R’s and loopy L’s.

  And then I move to the next foot and write a childhood rhyme. Red Rover, Red Rover, I’m gonna bend you over.

  If I had a lot of time, I’d decorate it with flowers. But I doubt we’ll get that far tonight.

  My hand wraps around her calf, another sensitive spot that makes her gasp, and then I begin a beautifully scrolling poem about something a little more serious.

  You are in front of my window

  Ready for me to take you

  I remove your clothes and keep your rose

  And when you leave

  A part of you stays behind.

  I use both legs to fit it all. When I look up at her she’s frowning. “What?” I ask.

  “I wish you took my virginity.”

  I glance at the movie on the wall. Katya is moaning as I lick her pussy. Her legs hiked up over my shoulders. Her hands holding on to my longer hair like she might float away.

  The music is back. That hypnotic thrum that seems dark and ominous, but so completely captivating at the same time.

  “Leave the past where it belongs,” I tell Kat now. “Time to move forward. Now sit and lie back so I can get to the best part.”

  I hold out my hand so she can use it to lower herself. When her back hits the cold soapstone counter, she hisses some air through her teeth.

  “You won’t be cold for long,” I say, rubbing her breasts.

  Katya closes her eyes and enjoys the moment as I drop my pants to the floor, step out of them, and then climb up next to her, lifting her legs up to give me access. One knee on each side of her ass. Her legs drape over my legs until we are both comfortable.

  My hand is on my cock, pumping it a little to get myself hard again. It doesn’t take much. I’m always ready for Kat.

  I ease forward. My knees painfully pressing on the stone island until the tip of my cock finds the entrance of her pussy. I enter her and then relax.

  I place both of my hands on her hipbones, helping her move in sync with me. It’s a long, slow fuck. Agonizingly slow. A slow you can only accomplish if you’ve recently come and your thoughts are more about the act of sex than the end result.

  But we’re not fucking.

  We’re making art now.

  I leave my dick inside her as my marker takes on a life of its own. I sketch out the motorcycle on instinct only, switching between different shades of black and gray. I have been drawing bikes since I was little. My father had a habit of doing this too and there is one particular sketch he did that hangs on the wall in the Fort Collins Theater. A gift to my Aunt Rook back when they were young together. The bike belongs to my mother now, but it was Rook’s at first.

  It’s the same drawing that graces my father’s back. My mother’s handiwork. And I always found it interesting that so many of the people
in my life were interconnected by this one particular piece of machinery. My sister Jasmine did my ink years ago. Before I ever even met Katya. When the road was nothing but a dream that slipped me by and life was dark.

  Every few minutes I stop sketching so I can fuck her. Flick the top of my dick up against her clit and make her whine and whimper.

  “I can’t take it,” she mutters, over and over again each time I do this. Her hips rising up to make me penetrate her deeper.

  But we both know she can take it. And we both know I’m fucking her deeply. I’m in her mind. I’m in her heart. I’m completely surrounding her soul.

  When I start the lettering—a fully complete circle of words that ring the bike on her, just like they ring the bike on me—she begins to beg. “Let me come,” she whispers. “Please, let me come.”

  I say nothing because this is the best part. Her words and my words are different in every way. But in context, they are the same thing.

  Around my bike they spell out my longing for a new life, a new direction, a new way forward.

  Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

  Healthy, free, the world before me,

  The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

  And around her bike they spell out the satisfaction I could only find in her.

  I give you my love more precious than money,

  Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me?

  Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

  Around her bike they are the completion of a journey.

  I put my marker down and let out a sigh. Katya opens her eyes. “Are we done?” she asks.

  I shake my head slowly. “No, darling. We’re just getting started.”

  I fuck her for real then. For the first time since we met, I fuck her for real. Everything that came before this moment is junk. Trash. Pretending. Fake. And everything that will come after is genuine.