Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition

by 6 Author Anthology

  He shakes his head and tries again, with a rehearsed resolution. “I … I really like you.”

  Oh shit. Sweetness isn’t straight.

  Normally, Carlos knows exactly what he wants to say and says it as simply as possible. The measurements of a scaffold, the size of the wrench, the color of the gel for the light. But right now, he’s turned bass-ackwards. “You’re really smart and talented and well, hot obviously.”

  Obviously. I chuckle. God, he’s cute when he’s nervous.

  He smiles when I laugh at him, and for the first time, lifts his face.

  Fuck.

  I shouldn’t have laughed. That’s encouragement. I gotta say something cruel.

  “Vanessa said you didn’t know I was, you know, so I was hoping you and me could … do something sometime.”

  I can’t bring myself to kick this particular puppy. Fuck. Where’s that mythic gay cattiness?

  So, I say nothing.

  Carlos recoils from my silence.

  Maybe that’s all I need. To say nothing. Yeah. I’m a nice guy who got ambushed by Carlos and his emotions. I don’t think of him that way. I’m totally flabbergasted and also not interested. He’s definitely not my type.

  Because my type is stupid rich, dominant, and might kill one or both of us if he witnessed this conversation.

  Carlos cringes and smiles at the same time, which melts my damned heart. “Well now, that’s about the most awkward way to say it, huh?”

  “Then take it again from the top, Sweetness.” I slip before I can stop that warmth bubbling in my chest from spilling out. Alarmed at my own unguarded response, I quickly add. “After the holidays.”

  After the holidays. After the run. I’ll know what Ito wants then. Get me a script to reject Carlos kindly.

  Right now, though, he struggles to contain an irrepressible joy. His grin blinds me when he looks up again, pure as a middle-schooler. “So, you do like me, too?”

  Good God, I do. I want to tear that innocence right out of him and trap it in a cage. Drag him into the filthy little alley behind Froth and stick my tongue down his throat and my hand down his pants until he discovers an adult language for his lust.

  “Oh, that wasn’t obvious?”

  Stop flirting! Tell him “no” firmly and with believable conviction!

  “Okay, so after the show closes … we could…” He doesn’t know what to say.

  I suggest. “Grab a coffee. If it’s too weird, we’ll have a couple weeks before the summer camp planning starts up.”

  “Yeah.” He looks relieved. “Good plan, you’re much better at this than me.”

  I open the door to Froth, swallowing my own giddy delight. This is not how I should feel. Not how I should act. Not what I should have said. Should have told him I was seeing someone. Should have laughed in his face as if he was unworthy of me. Neither of those scenes would play with that same genuine spark, but they would better serve the narrative of my dance.

  “I’ll order the coffee.” He walks up to the counter, floating a bit.

  Whoever is talking to Mr. Ito is bound to notice. My heart sinks. I’m gonna get in trouble for this.

  ****

  Since I closed down the theater, I’m not terribly surprised Mr. Ito is waiting for me.

  He sits cross-legged in the window-seat, bathed in red lights, the Kindle on the sill beside him. A strange image because he’s wearing his mask and a mostly open black silk robe. Stern and forceful, glaring at me like a warlord from a Kurosawa film, except that’s New York City stretching behind him.

  Christ, that’s real anger. I’ve fucked this whole thing. I set the satchel down and take off my shoes. How much can he really know?

  “Hey, boss.” I charm him. “Didn’t know I had a curfew.”

  “You don’t.” No trace of movement in the dim red lights. “You have one rule, and you broke it.”

  My casualness crumbles. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I work with the guy. Conversations are gonna—”

  He lifts one hand. “Come here.”

  Like a trained animal, I go. “Please, Ito-sama—”

  “If you’re going to beg, do it right.”

  I drop to my knees, a fluid falling. Even if he choreographed it, the grace of my buckling surprises him. His lips part, his jaw slackens with lust. I crawl toward him. Christ, I’m already rock solid. I want him so bad.

  “Ito-sama, please. I didn’t tell him anything.”

  He doesn’t move a muscle.

  He towers over me in his window ledge perch, the night sky like a shroud behind him. He grabs my hair and tugs, dragging me to my feet, so he can take my chin in his other hand. Then he holds me still, studying my face while he squeezes my jaw.

  What does he see? The intensity of his gaze—this utter dominance over his toy—makes my belly swim and my mind spiral. I want to perform for him, to please him, but I don’t know the steps to this dance.

  His fingers trip over my lips. Instinctively, I open my mouth. His thumb enters, grazes over my teeth, then tugs my face down.

  The black silk parts. His cock is hard and ready for worship.

  I bow over to tease the tip with my tongue. He’s already past the point of idle titillation though; Mr. Ito is ready to fuck. He grabs my hair and pulls me deeper onto his cock. I take it eagerly.

  How long has he waited in the darkness for me? Did he imagine my body that whole time, planning how he’d pounce on me? Planning how I’d cling to this window sill while he pumped his cock into my mouth, planning to make me choke and gasp and writhe around his shaft.

  No, he’s been planning something much eviler.

  “You have a choice to make, Omocha.”

  Good God, it’s not fair to make me choose anything now.

  “The nice boy…” He jerks my hair, delighting me with the pain, and forcing me to look up him. At his hairless chest, the soft roundness of his muscles, the dignity of his frown.

  “Or me.”

  I’d dash myself to pieces to please him.

  This has nothing to do with the money. It’s this moment, this surrender, his complete power over me. I’m addicted to this sex now, and … what if Carlos can’t satisfy this hunger in me?

  “I don’t like to share. Not affection. Not intimacy. Certainly, not your body. After the run of the show, you’ll make your choice.”

  He presents me with a pair of cuffs he’s hidden in the robe. They’re real metal lined with shining studs. Diamonds, if I have to guess.

  I offer my wrists at once.

  He smiles, a little smugly and clips the cuffs in front of me. “And when you choose me, I’ll be here waiting for you. Unmasked.”

  Christ, he overwhelms me. Intimidating and scary, but sexy as hell, too. There must be something wrong in my head that I get off on this crap.

  When my wrists are shackled in his beautiful chains, he slides forward in the window seat and pushes me to my knees. His fingers dig through my curls, and he allows me to suck his cock again.

  I can’t stand it anymore. But when I unzip my jeans, Mr. Ito withdraws his cock and yanks my head back. For a moment—a trick of those hellish lights and my dizzy desire—the mask is his face, and there’s an angry demon frowning down at me. I put my hands on his calves.

  He nods his approval. Strokes his cock in front of me. He holds my hair when I lean toward it, preventing me from delighting in that luscious dick. So, I beg for it.

  I flash him the baby-blues, pleading with my widest, most innocent eyes. I’ve practiced this pose in a few professional shoots, on my knees, mouth open in invitation, lips wet with gloss, staring into bright lights and a photographer on his tiptoes. But I’ve never had a lover who made me beg enough to try it in real life.

  Mr. Ito groans something vaguely word-shaped but not in any language I know. I’ve undone him, even before his cock returns to its rightful place inside my mouth. He’s as broken as me, as much a slave for my body as I am for his domination.

 
Mr. Ito allows himself to come almost as soon as my lips seal around his shaft again. The brief deluge and the sudden bitterness shock me, but he doesn’t give me any time to reject, only holds me tighter and pumps faster. So, like a good toy, I swallow and take it. Anything for his pleasure.

  My cock rages, demanding I at least squeeze it. I’m as ready to come as he is. Christ, I can’t have walked in more than ten minutes ago. A bit of Shakespeare distantly comes to mind, “His soul is so enfettered to her lust that she may make, un-make, do what she will…” From Othello. Act Two. Scene Three. Not word perfect, and that annoys me.

  Mr. Ito tucks his fingers under my chin. “Very good.”

  I smile, sweet and innocent. “So, you forgive me?”

  His smile is hollow. “No.”

  He yanks me to my feet— rather, he tugs my neck slightly, and my stage-training rockets me to my feet. Improv 101, say “Yes and…” My body has wandered entirely into the role it’s been given, and I inhabit the physicality of weak, defenseless, and soft as if I were born to the part. I’m as strong as he is. I can break free anytime I want, but only if I remember who I am.

  With the same unbearably light force, he drags me to the bedroom, hurls me on the mattress. I land where he wants me, on my back, legs spread. He crawls over me and pins my arms over my head.

  This is real. His weight straddles me. I couldn’t get out of this, not without a real struggle. This reality makes my heart beat faster, my cock pulse harder.

  “Ito-sama.” I moan, struggling with the chains, as he feasts on my neck.

  He hangs the cuffs on the headboard while he kisses and sucks my throat. Those cuffs are real, too. As solid and serious as Mr. Ito.

  When I’m restrained, he leans back and studies me. What’s his real expression beneath the mask? Admiration? Is he proud to have such magnificence at his mercy? Disgust? Is he repulsed by the echoes of his own orgasm and my slavish willingness? The angry silver and gold eyebrows hide the real man.

  He rubs the bulge of my cock, still snug and suffocating in my jeans.

  Just that touch, reduces me to humping his hand. “Please, Ito-sama. Take it out. Touch me. Please make me come. I need it so bad.”

  He smiles, mysterious and a little evil, then squeezes me through the worn denim, torturing me with the rough fabric on my sensitive cock. Serves me right for not wearing underwear with such tight jeans. I moan and writhe into his hands, arching my hips up against his pressure.

  “Tell me when it’s happening. I want to see your face.”

  The bastard is going to make me come in my pants. I can already feel the wetness of pre-cum against his palm, slickening the fabric while he kneads my cock. This fucker wants to prove I have no control, so little ability to restrain myself. He didn’t have time to get my jeans off before … before—

  “I’m gonna come.”

  With one last hard squeeze, Mr. Ito removes his hand.

  For a moment, my brain can’t make sense of the lack of sensation. My hips continue to lift, seeking the friction I crave. But my cock immediately understands and throws a tantrum of twitches, radiating pain and misery. My brain catches up.

  Oh, the bastard … the beautiful evil bastard.

  He’s not gonna let me come.

  Mr. Ito answers my expression with a soft chuckle. He pushes my hips onto the bed, slides his hands over my chest, deliberately avoiding the straining swell of my trapped cock.

  “Ito-sama,” I beg him. “Please.”

  He gives me an amused smile.

  “Please, let me come.”

  He ignores me and strokes my sides, rolling my t-shirt higher up my chest. His fingers dance over my nipples. A lightning bolt of lust scorches my desperate cock. He doesn’t spend any more time on my erogenous areas, just in case. But Christ, can this man make me come through nipple-play? Is that how starved I am for him?

  My shirt stretches as he tugs part of it over my head, but leaves the rest over my face, a soft blindfold.

  His tongue touches my chest, between my pectorals, licking a slow, hot trail toward my cock. I shudder and moan.

  That damned mask snags, and he withdraws.

  He stays there, weighing the bed down, staring at me.

  Maybe he’s taken off the mask.

  God, could I possibly see him? If I wiggle just a little out of this shirt will his unmasked face be on the other side? Reassurance in the thin lines of his eyes. Care in the furrow of his brow. The softness of a cheek instead of the glitter of precious metals. The answers to every strange question in this strange situation would be etched in his face.

  When I jerk free of my impromptu blindfold, I find myself gazing into the mask. Mr. Ito shakes his head a slow and gentle “no”, smiling wickedly. Shame on me for not following the simplest of unspoken directions. Shame on me for being such a needy slut.

  I smile at him, sheepishly.

  He frees my shirt from my neck, and stands up. Abandoning me.

  “Ito-sama,” I plead, as my cock strains to follow him, trying to rub itself against the jeans in each throb of my heart. “Don’t be so cruel.”

  He opens a place on the wall—oh, a hidden closet? That’s cool. In the half-dark of his dim bedroom lights, I see a dresser. He opens the drawer, pulling out fabric. My heart quickens even as it sinks. My cock gives another pointless twitch. That’s the blindfold and the ball gag.

  “Okay?” He asks because I once said I didn’t like to be blindfolded, gagged, and bound at the same time.

  What idiot said that? “Yes, sir, Ito-Sama.”

  With the slow diligence of a professor, he prepares the blindfold. “Do you know what you’re saying when you say that?”

  “Not a fucking clue.” I swivel my body a little to try to rub my cock against him.

  He doesn’t help me, but puts his hand on my thigh to push my hips down to the mattress, the way one might lovingly push away an over-eager dog. “It’s an honorific to indicate importance.”

  He puts the blindfold over my eyes. He takes his time, tucking it the way he wants, under my hair. “We call God sama.”

  The way he says it sends a little shiver of terror up my spine, because with his hands on my cheeks, with my arms shackled to his bed, with my body helpless beneath him, calling him “god” does not feel incorrect.

  He chuckles lightly and tugs on my shirt, arranging it just so around my neck. “Of course, in a good business email, customers are also sama, so…”

  Mr. Ito shrugs at his little joke. Just enough to slice the tension. To carve the atmosphere like a stage technician. He runs his fingers along my neck, and I shiver again, wishing there was more of me to surrender to him.

  “I have a word I want you to say, instead of ‘yes, sir’. It’s a little more formal. It’s hai.”

  “Hai?” Simple enough. I probably won’t forget it. “Shall I scream it over and over again while you fuck me, Ito-sama?”

  “No.” His lips purse inward, stifling his response. But his hand travels down towards my cock again and brushes lightly over my shaft. “Say it when you agree to a request, Omocha.”

  I nod, hardly able to think with his fingers so near to my straining cock.

  “So, when I ask, ‘do you want me to make you come, even though you are a God-damned faithless beast,’ you say?”

  “Hai, Ito-sama.” Faithless beast? How could he know about Carlos?

  “And when I ask, ‘Do you want me to fuck you like you’re my toy?’”

  “Hai, Ito-sama.” He needs to teach me the words to beg.

  “And if I ask, ‘Is it okay to gag you, even though you’re blindfolded and bound’?”

  He’s so fuckin’ smug. Maybe I won’t give him everything he wants. “Ah, come on, man. You know I’m a slut. Do whatever you like.”

  He makes an amused chuff, and then the gag is between my teeth. He takes his time to adjust the gag, to put the ball properly between my teeth, to make it comfy for me … no, to get the aesthetic he wants.


  When he drops his hand to my cock, I moan past the gag. Oh, fuck yeah.

  My cock pulses in his hand, rubbing like a friendly cat. Mr. Ito, distinctly not friendly, squeezes too hard, knotting his other fingers around my balls.

  I flinch at the hard touch, but I need it so bad I don’t resist, just whimper like a miserable bitch for his mercy.

  I receive none, but my cock is past the point of caring. Even with the rough handling, I’m about to burst. Any second now, just a few more of those wicked strokes. I feel the rise, the shudder rakes through me—

  Then he lets me go.

  I whine and thrash as he abandons me at the edge again. His laughter grows fainter and farther.

  “Don’t go, please.” The gag reduces it to a pathetic mumble. Oh, Christ, this man.

  I wallow in misery, cock throbbing, utterly unable to satisfy myself. Totally defenseless against him. He really can do whatever he likes with me, for as long as he wants.

  “I want to take a picture of you for my own purposes, which might include blackmailing you.” I would laugh at his wit if I weren’t its victim. “Okay?”

  I don’t want evidence of this moment, of my utter and complete desperation for him. I shake my head no. It feels like a century, but it can’t be longer than a minute. Just enough for the burning build to smolder. I hear nothing. Not the click of a camera or the tap of a phone.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever refused him. I wait breathlessly for him to refuse my refusal.

  Instead, I feel the wet tip of his tongue on my head.

  Oh, fuck, please yes. This time. Please suck me ‘til I come.

  When his mouth is around my shaft, it’s wonderful; though, of course, he’s teasing. My torture is about to ramp up. He’s taken off the mask, and his forehead buries in my pelvis. He nuzzles the base of my cock and ignores most of the shaft. If I could make myself come now, through force of will, I’d drench his shoulder and his neck. Stain his black robe. But I need more… I need…

  He wraps his lips around the tip of my cock and tongues the ridge of my head. He pulls my jeans off, just far enough for his fingers to explore my ass. I accept his invasion without hesitation, hardly aware of any pain because he’s torturing my cock. Light flickers of his tongue, the trace of his teeth, then a deep long suck that makes my whole body rattle with lust.