Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition

by 6 Author Anthology

  I pump my cock deeper, fuck his face, but he slams his hands on my hip and cuts all contact. I whine, missing his lips on my cock, his fingers in my ass. My own fault. I should not disrespect Mr. Ito, not when he’s kind enough to pleasure me.

  To torture me.

  He returns. More fingers. More forcefully inside my ass. More delicate on my cock.

  Still, I race to orgasm. I don’t trust him to let me come. I stifle my moan, praying I can surprise him. But he’s onto me. When my begging strangles into a strained silence, he slips away.

  I pant and thrash in full force, an angry rant of muffled vowels and restrained limbs. When I’ve exhausted my tantrum, I heave a petulant sigh and give a final resigned flail. Then I lie helpless before his power, ready to cry from how much I want this. Utterly broken.

  Mr. Ito gently kisses my neck, lifts my legs over his shoulder, and leads his cock inside.

  “Yes, please. Oh, God, please…” The gag garbles my joy, but Mr. Ito understands.

  He’s not gentle, but I wouldn’t want him to be. Fast and hard and deep. His arms wrap around my knees, bowing me in half. He pants on my neck, and he’s so filling, pushing so fast and deep.

  Then I’m coming, a total shattering. For a moment, the pleasure is so intense it’s painful. I fly out of my own self on a wave of stolen bliss. Any resistance left hiding in my body surrenders at once to this master of my lusts. I’ve never come like that in my life, unaided, pushed over the edge just by another’s man’s cock.

  Jesus, I’m lost entirely.

  I’d probably kill Carlos myself to be fucked like this again.

  ****

  When Mr. Ito’s finished with me—and he takes a good long time to be finished with his toy—he removes the ball-gag but doesn’t bother with the hood or the cuffs. I flit between awareness and sleep. My dreams are so sensual I’m not sure when he actually stopped playing with me and what I dreamed.

  But I know I’m awake when my alarm buzzes. Precious few other people have “Libertango” as a ring-tone.

  He’s in the shower. I’m still so exhausted, I don’t try to figure a way out of the cuffs or the blindfold. I remain where he left me, totally used, jeans gathered around my thighs, shirt rolled around my neck. Waiting for the master to tidy up and put his toy away for the day. To give me back to myself.

  The shower dies, and a short while later he walks into the room.

  I greet him cheerfully. “Morning, boss.”

  He says nothing.

  Shit. Even after all that punishment, he’s still not satisfied.

  Mr. Ito removes the blindfold first.

  He’s dressed for work, a slick beige suit with a crisp white shirt, but his frown is stern under the implacable mask.

  I give him my sweetest smile. “Ito-sama, are you going to tell me what I did wrong?”

  “Carlos.”

  He looks down at me, the ridges of the mask nearly hiding his eyes. I’m deeply aware he could keep me tied to this bed as long as he likes. That I’d miss my classes and an audition and rehearsal. That he could do worse than fuck me if he wanted.

  This passing fear must reach my face because Mr. Ito leans over and does something halfway up the chain. Both cuffs release at once. Trick cuffs. Just toys.

  With my hands free, I fix my jeans and then my shirt. He never even fully undressed me. The shame I completely lacked yesterday threatens to drown me.

  He keeps watching.

  The silence crushes me.

  “What more do you want? So what if I like the guy? He’s—”

  Not my type. Not if last night was any indication of how dark my tastes run. “Nothing serious.”

  I gesture vaguely to the diamond handcuffs, the mask, the … everything. “Listen, if you wanna keep this up after the show, I can tell him I’m committed to someone else. No big deal. But if you get tired of me by then…”

  Fuck. I should have stopped half a sentence sooner. “Then … maybe I wanna get to know him better.”

  Mr. Ito has the cruelest smile. I know I’ve walked headfirst into any other trap when he pulls something out of his pocket. “Get to know him better now.”

  He extends a tiny case, a bit like those little velvet boxes engagement rings come in. “The nice boy or me, Omocha.”

  The box is terribly light, and when I open it, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. Three squares. Smooth white bubble devices. With round black eyes.

  “What’re these? Cameras?”

  “Yes.”

  I don’t understand.

  “They clip magnetically. Or you can use the kickstand to steady it. Tap it twice to begin recording. It transmits wirelessly to my device.”

  I don’t like this. “You want to record me at any given moment?”

  “That’s a little obsessive, even for me.” He chuckles. “No, I have simpler desires. Record yourself with Carlos. When you ‘get to know him better’.”

  The request stubbornly refuses to click into place. “Like … you want me to go on a date with him and record it?”

  “I want you to fuck him and record it.”

  Oh shit.

  “I’d like to see you in action as a seducer and as a…” He says a Japanese word. It annoys him when he translates. “As a top. The more aggressive, the better.”

  This is pushing a line I never thought I’d be anywhere close to. Totally disrespecting another man’s privacy. There’s no way.

  But before I can speak, he says, “Take your time making your choice, Omocha.”

  I remain sitting on the bed. Aching all over, burdened by the weight of such small light cameras. But I know myself. “I won’t do this.”

  He shrugs. “You have until the end of the run to make your choice. I’ll know when you start filming. But I must go to work now. Go shower.”

  I rise obediently. He’ll leave the apartment while I stand under the water, leave the mask on the wall when I cannot see him.

  When I’m in the doorway of the bathroom, he pauses. “Harper.”

  Christ, has he ever said my name? It sends chills up my spine.

  He’s so perfectly put together, this man. His hair gelled in neat streaks, his pale brown suit crisp and professional. Just that damned demon mask.

  His smile is reassuring. If I could see the rest of his face, I’d probably fall in love with him on the spot.

  “I doubt I’ll tire of you any time soon.”

  ****

  I start filming as soon as I spy Carlos peeking through Froth’s windows. Mostly in hopes of pissing off Mr. Ito. Even if he thinks he wants to share my body, he won’t be able to stomach the intimacy and affection. He’ll cancel the entire thing. He has to.

  Carlos is nervous as hell. His hair is combed something between a choppy sleek look and its usual wild puff. It gets messier as he fusses with it in the window. He wears a button-up t-shirt—black like everything else he owns—and a blue tie he probably got for a wedding and wore to all his first dates. Did he have a lot of first dates? Probably not. Judging by how fucking nervous he is. It’s only Froth. We come here all the time.

  I wave at him from the line for coffee. He startles on the other side of the window. His eyes are enormous—Christ, he’s wearing a nice pair of glasses, transparent ones—and his eyes are big and round enough to swallow the world. He hurries around to the door and smiles when he enters.

  It melts my heart. He’s so sweet, so pure. Worth so much more than this filthy little game. I’m tempted to smash the camera clipped to my chest pocket. My shirt is patterned like modern-art, so the tiny white box and its black eye don’t stand out.

  “Hey.” He watches the people behind me in line as if they’ll attack him, then stuffs his hands awkwardly into his pockets.

  “Hey, yourself.” I open my arms for the hug we usually exchange.

  He corrects his stance at once and hugs me briefly, afraid to put his body in my hands.

  I tease him by holding on and whispering in his ear. “Rela
x, Carlos. It’s just a date. You already know I like you.”

  He stiffens in my arms and springs away. His tan cheeks blush a vibrant pink. I can’t help but notice those few little words “relax” “date” “I like you” combined with my nearness and my enticing purr stiffen him up a bit below the belt, too.

  “You drink green tea, right?” I wave him away dismissively. “Grab us a seat. I’ll get it.”

  “Sure. I’ll, um … Venmo you, the—”

  “How ‘bout you get dinner if this goes well.” I wink at him.

  He nods and staggers to the last empty table.

  I hope Mr. Ito watching. I hope his jealousy kills him. I hope to God, he stops me.

  Because, Carlos, poor lamb, doesn’t stand a chance.

  ****

  The coffee date is not so much a seduction as a brutal assault on his shyness. If Carlos resists at all, the slightest touch of my hand on his arm breaks him. Within half an hour, he fearfully suggests we move the date to a restaurant. I agree wholeheartedly.

  He chooses Italian. A nearby side-street place that makes its own dough, thrives off deliveries, and rarely has anyone inside because dirty bricks scare tourists. As we wait for the food, Carlos opens up in a way that makes me realize what a private person he is. I’ve known him for nearly a year, after all, but he’s never talked about himself except in the vaguest of terms. He blooms completely over a small bottle of wine—a beautiful sweet red that ought to be way out of our price range, but Carlos insists. He tells me about his family’s restaurant back in California, about putting himself through tech school on scholarships and delivery-boy tips, about his little sister who currently lives abroad with his grandparents—he doesn’t say where but I picture it as someplace sunny and South American. He strikes me as Brazilian. But since I really ought to know that by now, it’s awkward to ask the specifics.

  ****

  Not an hour later, I’m trying to remember which key gets me inside my own apartment. I’m not drunk. In fact, I’m weirdly clear-headed, aware of every step, and every wrong choice. I ought to have told Carlos about the cameras, about Mr. Ito, about … me. But he’s so gentle and smiling, so open and trusting, I can’t break the spell I’ve cast.

  I feel like a foreigner in my own apartment. It’s too clean. I’ve been renting it out on Airbnb, and it’s as tidy and unlived in as Ito’s minimalist hellhole. Not a book out of place. Even the pillows are neatly arranged on the bed. I only came back to place the tiny cameras. One on the picture-frame aimed at the chair and bed. The second on the shelf with a closer view of the bed. The one on my shirt will end up on the headboard if I can manage it.

  Carlos enters and observes. “I didn’t take you for the tidy sort.”

  “Shut up.” I slam the door by pushing him into it. I kiss him harder than I’ve dared yet—though I’ve been kissing him through the train ride. Carlos melts, gripping the door, afraid to touch me. I haven’t heard a peep out of Mr. Ito all night, so the plan now is to scare Carlos off. I grope his chest violently. “I don’t want to hear another word from you unless it’s to beg me to fuck you harder.”

  “Whoa.” Carlos is stunned.

  Yeah, run away, Sweetness. Get far away from this hot mess.

  Instead, he laughs nervously. “No promises.”

  I push him against the door again, kissing him hard. He lifts his hands to my back, hesitant, uncertain if he’s allowed to touch me while I fumble with his shirt. I want to slow down; I want to kiss him softer, to whisper we can go at his pace.

  But Mr. Ito asked for aggressive. My patron wants a performance.

  Carlos gasps again when I tug open his pants. He looks down as if he’s astonished to find his dick exists … and that it’s in my hand. When I stroke him, he drops his head back and moans. I kiss his neck and shoulder, sure to leave a mark.

  God, he smells good. So strong—if he decides to fight me off, he’ll win easily. But he’s boneless in my hands. His hair is so soft and so dark. Consuming him will not be difficult; burning through his sweetness will be a pleasure. As I lick his neck, he pants and shudders.

  “Carlos, you’re not gonna come before I get a chance to fuck you, right?”

  “N-no.” He doesn’t sound confident.

  I ease off and smile up at him. I delicately unbutton his shirt with one hand, accenting the roughness of my grip on his cock. “You do want me to fuck you, right, Sweetness?”

  He nods carefully.

  “Good.” I jerk him away from the door. He’s only worked his way out of one of his shoes, but I don’t care.

  He sits in the chair where I push him, meekly offering his chest when I sit on his lap and tear at the buttons on his shirt. I kiss him, and he absorbs the attack with a frantic gasp and a helpless surrender. He tentatively touches my thighs, his fingers brushing too lightly. He wants to move them to my ass, but he’s afraid.

  He needs to be gently caressed. He deserves a slow tasting and extended foreplay. But I’ve got to push him harder. The limit to his compliance can’t be far now. He’ll buck under this assault, soon. He’s too skittish.

  After I expose his chest, I squeeze hard at his nipples, and he jolts underneath me, nearly throwing me. He mumbles an apology into my mouth and braces himself in the chair. I laugh at him and do it again, harder. He hisses at the pain and looks up at me, startled and blushing.

  Don’t let him recover. Push him harder.

  I lift out of his lap, grinding my cock against his chest. Then grab his hair and bring his mouth into my crotch. He moans and obediently tongues at the bulge in my jeans, caving in his broad chest to better service me.

  Between my spread thighs, I can see his cock straining against his jeans. He wants me. Christ, he wants me.

  I see suddenly how Mr. Ito does it. It’s in that pause, that small, “Okay?” He acknowledges the unwillingness, the boundary he’s pushing. But his casual request for consent forces his lover to reconsider. It says: if this is okay, sex will continue. If it’s not, you’re alone with your maddening lust. His lovers surrender all control because of that terrible loneliness. His lovers deny their own humanity, become objects only for his pleasure. He can do it because he doesn’t permit the softness of compromise, only offers a lonely retreat.

  I can do that to Carlos. With the right words, I can make him my slave, but I … I don’t want that. Do I?

  I pull him out of my crotch and stand, holding his hair and give him the slightest tug. If he doesn’t move with me, his hair will slip through my fingers.

  Just how Mr. Ito does it.

  But like in the improv games we play, Carlos comes easily. No pain, only subjugation. I propel him toward the bed, push him to his knees before the mattress.

  Don’t give him time to think. Make him bolt.

  When I follow him down, he gives a little cry and resists—God, he’s so strong—then collapses face first to the mattress. The position sticks his plump ass in the air, even more so when I rake my nails over his back—God, he’s been working out. I tug his shirt over his head. I bow over him, grind over his ass, suck on his neck.

  Carlos pants and stiffens and shrinks under the burning heat of this lust.

  I bite his ear. He flinches off the mattress, then braces himself. I wrap my hand around his tie, choking him, and he bucks back to loosen my hold. I grip tighter, fighting the instinct to release him and apologize.

  He’s close to running. Don’t give him an out, and he’ll have no choice.

  Has any Dom ever been so driven to force resistance? With my free hand, I pull his jeans and his boxers off his ass. His skin is lighter here than the rest of him, but still with the soft tan as if the sun kissed him all over at birth and permanently touched even the parts where it would never see again. His cheeks flex tightly, afraid of this imminent invasion. I squeeze hard, enjoying the give of flesh that’s impossibly sexy to me because it’s so foreign to my own skinny body.

  He wriggles away from my fierce grip.

&nbs
p; Soon. Break soon, Sweetness, or you’re gonna break me.

  I resist the impulse to turn the grope into a caress by grinding my cock against his leg. He doesn’t fight.

  Moment of truth.

  I slip back and unzip my pants.

  He freezes at the sound.

  I pull out my cock and stroke it loudly, watching him intently.

  His cheeks are clenched tight, his shoulders tensed, his hands fisted. He’s holding his breath. So afraid of me. But his cock—Jesus Christ—he’s so hard.

  I want so badly to touch him gently, to kiss his shoulder, and whisper reassurance. To slow down and to make love to him.

  I glide my cock across the plump flesh of his ass, drawn so tight. I can’t force this. I can’t make him. I’m going to break down first. I’m going to—

  “Stop!” Carlos thrashes.

  Thank God.

  His desperate flail pushes me away and back to my feet, even as it drops him onto his ass. He scrambles away from the bed.

  Perfect. This is what I want.

  He looks at me with shame and fear and lust that’s drowning in disappointment.

  That is what Mr. Ito wants.

  I stare back at him, dick in my hand, killing the feelings of grief and embarrassment. It’s a strong ballerina’s stance, head tilted slightly down, feet grounded. I know my expression is cold because every muscle in my body is coiled tight and ready to pounce into a flurry of action.

  Weird contrast to the flamboyant shirt, the open jeans, the exposed cock in my hand.

  “S…” Carlos can’t look at me. “Sorry, Harper.”

  He says my name like it will change who I am. And he’s right. Everything tight in my stomach uncoils. Still, I remain steady and silent.

  “I just…” His eyes are so beautiful when they look up at me again. “I’ve never done this before.”

  Fuck.

  He shifts to his knees, a little closer to me, even as he staggers backward verbally. “I mean, not sex. I’m not a virgin. Even with men. I’ve been with guys before. I just never … this particular…”