Chapter Twenty

Finn

Now

There’d been a noticeable shift between them the past week, that small yet loaded word setting something into motion that they were both tiptoeing around. Spank . He’d recognized the fire in Hank’s eyes immediately because it was currently blazing through his own body. Just having woken up from another explicit dream, he found his right hand wrapped around his aching cock, the left clenching the sheets next to him.

Fuck . For a week now, they’d been partaking in this strange dance; a heady anticipation in the air whenever they were together. Like on humid summer days seconds before thunder rolled in over the fields. A sudden awkwardness now invaded their previously effortless companionship. Every word carried a hidden meaning; conversations that would usually flow easily now tainted with a pungent tension that lingered long after the last word was spoken.

Every night, he would wake up between one and two, chest heaving, sheets tangled, sweaty and confused. At first, he’d thought that the fever had returned, but his hand was healing just fine, the wound no more than a small scab on his hand. No, it was another part of him that was aching, his cock rock hard and tender to the touch, only somewhat blurred by a dull, hidden ache in his chest. After fruitless attempts at getting himself off to images of anyone but Hank, he would end up groaning into his pillow with frustration and need. So much fucking need. And that would only make it worse because the pillowcase smelled like Hank, too, just like everything else in this fucking cabin.

Every day was like walking a minefield—or worse, like walking through a perfume department where they only offered that one fragrance that you couldn’t have, shouldn’t have. Hank Dietrich. H.D . Shit , even his initials were sexy. Hot Daddy. He wasn’t even that into daddies, but he guessed for Hank, he could be. Hot for Hank. Fuck. Maybe the infection in his hand had spread to his brain, and he’d developed some rare version of encephalitis—mad-man disease, maybe. Mad, horny man. At least, the symptoms were there. Constantly.

Most of the time when he was anywhere near Hank, it felt like his balls were going to burst, the phrase blue balls a useless expression, insufficient to describe the physical torment he was going through. Even motherfucking Dante couldn’t have described the pure hell he was subjected to, his body aching, invisible flames licking at his oversensitive skin. And he only had himself and that mouth of his to blame. Spank.

Just go to him, the devilish voice echoed inside. The same voice that had popped up when he was a kid. Just one more pancake. You know you want to. That sugary, manipulative voice of his teen years. Go on, then. One more beer won’t hurt you. Whispering into his ear on the cramped dance floor, some stranger grinding against him, tempting him, taunting him. C’mon, you know you want to. What’s the harm in letting this stranger blow you in a bathroom stall? You know you’ll never see him again, anyway. Do it. Just. Do. It. Like he was in some twisted X-rated Nike commercial.

He knew better than to try to get it to shut up. It usually won out in the end, so it was just a waste of effort to block it out. Fuck. Throwing the blanket aside, he rubbed his hands along his face, his hair damp from his nightly wrestling match with his libido. Sitting up, he swung his legs off the bed, his naked feet connecting with the cool hardwood floor, the chilling sensation coursing through him, providing some temporary relief. He was still hard, the crotch of his pajama pants— Hank’s pants —wet and sticky. As he stood, his cockhead rubbed against the threadbare linen fabric, a hiss escaping him, his feet nearly giving way beneath him. Pressing the palm of his hand against his groin, he sucked in a shallow breath, then one more, before walking to the small ensuite bathroom.

The bathroom light tore at his eyes as he squinted, taking in his sweaty blotchy face in the mirror. He looked like he’d gone through the pits of hell and back, his hair wild, damp strands sticking to his forehead, dark-blue shadows beneath his eyes, his skin white, paper-thin. His eyes looked back at him, tinged with hunger, the pupils blown wide, a golden ring surrounding them. If he didn’t know any better, he looked like he’d gone into fucking heat or something.

“Shit,” he murmured, hanging his head over the sink, turning on the water. Splashing the cold liquid against his skin, he closed his eyes, willing his heart to quiet down, the frantic thump echoing in his ears. Although cooling at first, the water didn’t have the desired prolonged effect, invisible flames still licking at his skin, his cock still hard, his balls hanging heavily between his sticky thighs. Eight years. Eight years of celibacy where he thought he’d buried that part of himself for good only to have his desire return with a vengeance. All because of a grieving fifty-nine-year-old mechanic from Nebraska.

Shutting off the water, he swept the excess through his hair, rubbing at his neck. Putting on his glasses, he turned off the light, not wanting to spend one second longer glaring at his own pathetic reflection. Closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, he padded down the dark hallway, letting his eyes get used to the absence of light. Brushing his fingertips against the cool wall, he walked the few steps toward the kitchen.

He sensed he wasn’t alone seconds before he recognized the familiar figure leaning against the kitchen counter, looking out of the window at the still night. The broad shoulders carrying the solid neck. The outline of the beefy upper arms and the solid lower arms he knew were covered with strands of coarse, dark hair. The soft waist hidden behind the white T-shirt, hips leading down into strong thighs, built for standing bent over the hood of a car for hours at a time. He loved the way Hank was built, layers of muscle wrapped in softness—or at least what he imagined being cushions of soft skin covered with a thick coat of hair.

“Hank,” he mumbled into the moonlit darkness, not wanting to startle him.

“Hmmm,” the low hum swept towards him. “Can’t sleep either?” Hank remained facing the window, but Finn noticed his shoulders tense, his fists clenching at his sides.

“Yeah.” The few steps toward Hank felt like fucking miles, his mind running rampant, his heart just about to beat out of his chest.

“Must be the moon,” Hank spoke, looking to his side as Finn came to stand next to him, only a small space between them, their shoulders nearly touching. He wanted to lean in, rest his messed-up head against Hank’s solid shoulder, close his eyes, and breathe him in. Instead, his lips moved, working on their own accord, his mind not fully registering what he’d said until the words were out there, living a life of their own in the darkness.

“It’s not the moon, Hank.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so.” A cut-off sigh slipped from Hank’s lips as he turned towards Finn. “Are we gonna have to talk about this?”

“About what?” They were standing so close that the tips of their noses were nearly touching, Hank’s warm breath tickling his lips, begging for him to lean in and brush his own starving mouth against his. Oh, how easy it would be to just lean in and take what he wanted, what he craved.

“Don’t get smart with me, kid ,” Hank rasped, an unprecedented edge to his voice, and the kid said almost like a warning.

“I’m not a kid,” Finn countered, those fucking flames licking at his inner thighs now, setting his loins on fire, his balls threatening to explode right then and there, creating a river of pent-up desire beneath them. Wouldn’t that be fucking embarrassing?

“I know you’re not.” Hank took a step—or half a step—closer, the tips of their bare toes the first to meet, then their bellies rubbing together.

“I don’t wanna talk, Hank,” he croaked, his voice pathetic to his own ears. Needy.

“Yeah? What do you wanna do then?” Hank challenged, something hard now brushing against Finn’s stomach. Holding his breath, his eyelids fluttered closed as he leaned further in against Hank. The moment was so heady, so raw, that it left him swaying on his feet, and before he knew it, a pair of strong, firm hands grabbed his waist.

“I don’t know,” he breathed. “I don’t know, Hank.”

“But you do. You do know. Tell me.”

“I want to forget. I just want to forget.”

“So do it,” Hank mouthed against his lips, Finn’s eyes blasting wide open at the sensation of his scruff scratching against his chin. “Use me to forget. Then I’ll use you to do the same. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Inhaling Hank’s proposition, the words moved down his throat, awakening every part of his being that they encountered. His fingers were buzzing, itching to touch the man standing in front of him. The man who had just offered himself to him, asking for a piece of himself in return. Licking his bottom lip, Finn pursed his mouth, the tip of his tongue pressing against the palate, getting ready to speak that one little word. The word that he knew he should speak, but that just tasted wrong and bitter on his tongue. The small negation that’d gotten him through the past eight years whenever he’d felt like stopping and laying his head down to rest.

No. The sound died before it even left his mouth, replaced by a low whimper that drowned in a deep, demanding groan when Hank slammed his mouth against his. Yes, lust resounded through his body. Yes. Yes. Yes. Fuck yes, his dick chimed in.

Wrapping his arms around Hank’s neck, he rose to his toes, tilting his head slightly, savoring the feel of their lips pressing against each other. Maneuvering them in a half-circle, his large hands wrapped securely around Finn’s waist, Hank hoisted him effortlessly on top of the counter. Spreading his legs with his right knee, Hank moved to rest between his thighs, his hardness aligned with Finn’s through their cotton pants. Opening his mouth, he welcomed Hank inside, their tongues meeting in a dance that should’ve felt less familiar. Licking along the seam of his mouth, Hank moaned, his hands squeezing Finn’s midsection tighter, the grip bordering on painful. As if Hank instinctively knew that Finn preferred it that way, just on the edge of slipping into pain but still with that domineering feeling of pleasure.

Tilting his pelvis, his hips searched for Hank’s warm body, craving the friction that only he could provide. It should’ve embarrassed him, how wet he was, precum leaking from his slit, smearing against the already-soaked fabric of his pants. But he was beyond caring, dipping his feet into that delicious pool of impending gratification. No one had made him come in eight years, his body never craving another person’s touch until now when, with Hank’s hands on him, his hard cock against him, and his brutal tongue inside him were all he could fucking think about. It felt like the entire slate was being wiped clean with each stroke of Hank’s broad tongue against his; no past, no guilt, no shame. Just pure, untainted need.

“Please. Please, Hank,” he whimpered, his dick grinding against Hank’s length. An animal-like sound vibrated through him, Hank groaning into his mouth.

“What do you need? Tell me what you need.”

“I need to come. I need to come so fucking bad, Hank.” Never had he been the one to beg, usually the one just taking and taking. And now he suddenly felt like a novice, unsure of what to do or what to give. “Please. Take me out. Make me come. Please, Hank.” As whiny and pathetic as the words sounded, Hank seemed to grasp their full meaning. Leaning back, Hank reached for Finn’s glasses and removed them carefully, placing them on the windowsill behind him. Tilting his head slightly, Hank seemed to contemplate something, and then he nodded.

“Lift,” he ordered as he reached for the hem of Finn’s pants, tugging at the lining. Clinging to Hank’s massive shoulders like some horny koala, Finn lifted himself just enough for Hank to tug the pants down his hips and further down his shivering thighs. His cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach, smearing stickiness into the trail of dark-blond hair below his belly button. The cool surface of the wooden counter felt delicious against his heated ass cheeks, his balls throbbing, resting heavily against his taint. Taking a step back, Hank’s gaze coasted hungrily across his body, taking him in, his hazel eyes colored with admiration. Closer. He needed Hank closer.

“Damn, look at you,” Hank said, his voice raspy, strained. “Dripping all over my goddamn kitchen counter. What a sight.” Reaching out, he brushed the calloused tip of his thumb against Finn’s slit. Just the whisper of a touch, really, but his cock twitched eagerly as if it had just been electrocuted. “You’re like a goddamn fountain, aren’t you?” Nodding, Finn swayed his back, straining to rub his cock against the palm of Hank’s hand, an impatient whimper that he hardly recognized as his slipping from his mouth. Moving his fingers to his mouth, Hank lapped at the stickiness coating his thumb before he sucked it into his mouth, moaning around it. With eyes closed, Hank looked like he’d never tasted anything more savory in his life.

“Please, Hank,” he pleaded, his hands squeezing the edge of the counter, his hips humping the space between them. “Fuuuck,” he groaned, one second away from throwing a tantrum of epic proportions if Hank didn’t get his hands on him rightthefucknow .

Eyelashes fluttering, Hank opened his eyes, pupils blown wide with lust. Spitting into the palm of his hand, Hank moved back between Finn’s thighs and grabbed his cock roughly. Smearing his saliva up and down Finn’s length in ungraceful strokes, the sound of slapping skin against skin resounded through the darkness, a repetitive soundtrack interrupted only by the occasional moan and whimper. They were mostly quiet, though, Finn fucking himself into Hank’s large fist, the spit replaced by another mouthful as soon as the movement became labored. They didn’t touch aside from Hank’s hand wrapped around his cock, setting a punishing pace. Finn’s eyes remained fixated on his cockhead, disappearing in and out of Hank’s grasp, fascinated as if he’d never been subjected to this crude interaction before. As if he hadn’t spent countless Saturday nights leaning against a bathroom stall, some stranger with his lips or hand wrapped around him, in a meaningless exchange of carnal favors.

“Hank,” he whimpered, his balls tightening, his asshole clenching between his damp cheeks. “Hank, please.” He looked up at Hank, but he was gazing over Finn’s shoulder, staring determinedly at something far away in the dark night. He didn’t know why, but it turned him on even more that Hank seemed detached from the situation. That he ignored Finn’s presence in such a blatant way, his hand around Finn’s cock the only acknowledgment that this was happening. It made him feel like an object instead of a person and it spoke to that deep-seated feeling inside of him of being nothing. Of deserving nothing.

Suddenly, Hank added his other hand, grabbing Finn’s balls forcefully, squeezing them painfully tight in his massive fist. A whine spilled from his lips as Hank continued to beat him off at a brutal pace, his eyesight blurring, the pain so clean and vivid. Locked in this limbo where he could only just glimpse the outline of his impending orgasm, Finn felt like a puppet on a string, Hank his master, his every move determining his fate. It should’ve felt wrong, a grown man being controlled like this, but he just felt safe, free from everything that usually held him down.

Turning his head towards him, Hank leaned in, slowly wetting his bottom lip.

“Come,” he spat, releasing his grip around Finn’s balls. All the blood rushed to his cock, a scorching pain blasting through him, seconds before he came, strings of white hot cum coating his right thigh and Hank’s knuckles. While waves of his climax hit him and he was still submerged in an ocean of bliss and quiet, Hank scooped up a handful of his cum and tugged him off the counter. With a pitiful yelp, Finn landed ungracefully on his feet and was immediately spun around, facing the window, blackness staring back at him. Bracing the palms of his hands against the cool tiles, he heard the rustle of fabric as Hank pulled his pants down. A heavy hand landed on the base of his spine, pressing him flat against the wood, his dick still throbbing between his thighs. Sticky fingers swept between his cheeks, brushing along his crease, probing at his pucker. Leaning his heavy chest against Finn’s back, Hank slid a thick finger past the tight ring of muscle, and it was the hottest fucking thing—the awareness that Hank was using the proof of his own desire to breach him. So filthy. So primitive.

Resting his cheek against the cool wood, his eyes connected with the coffee cup that had become his as he melded with the surface, boneless and sated. The dark-green ceramic glaze with a light brown deer in the center staring back at him, all doe-eyed and innocent. Here we are. He felt like laughing at the strange turn of events, praying to any higher power that Hank would please— please —fuck him. Here we are, indeed, the deer seemed to glare back at him.

Breathing against his ear, Hank’s words teased him back to the present moment.

“I’m gonna fuck you now. If you don’t want me to, then say so. If not, then stay quiet and don’t move.” Gulping in a clipped breath, Finn felt his cock stir to life at the nonchalant tone in Hank’s voice and the matter-of-fact way in which he relayed he was going to fuck him. Remaining still, he bit back a whimper, afraid that Hank would take it as a no and stop what he was doing.

Fucking Finn open with his thick, rough fingers, Hank brushed a damp strand of hair away from his forehead with his other hand. There was something unapologetic about the otherwise withdrawn and polite older guy that spurred Finn on as he eagerly pushed back his ass against Hank’s fingers, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Such a good boy, aren’t you, Finn?” Hank sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t expected those exact words to leave his mouth. Nodding gratefully, Finn bit his lip to the point of pain, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth. Yes, I am, he wanted to say. I really am. A good boy. But he settled on savoring the words inside where they were still reverberating in his chest.

Slipping his fingers from Finn’s hole, Hank remained quiet, and for a second Finn was afraid that he’d changed his mind, the emptiness bordering on unbearable. Then his deep voice broke the silence.

“Do I need a condom?” Shaking his head furiously, relief coursing through him, Finn bit his tongue to not whine out a pitiful no . When Hank aligned his fat cockhead with Finn’s hole, it dawned on him that he hadn’t even seen Hank’s cock yet. The idea that he didn’t know what the cock that was about to enter him looked like should’ve felt wrong in so many ways, but it just felt right. This wasn’t about him. About his pleasure or about his curiosity. This was about Hank. Finn was just a means to an end. An object that would hopefully bring Hank pleasure. Just a hole that could be filled at his leisure. And he preened inside at that image. It felt right. Even kind of wholesome in a fucked-up way—a reciprocal exchange of goods, so to speak.

There was no careful slide inside his opening, no tentative inching forward. In one violent movement, Hank nearly split him in half—or at least, so it felt—the sting simultaneously sweet and painful, stealing his breath away. He hadn’t been fucked in a long time and even though Hank had prepped him, he wasn’t accustomed to being filled anymore. Some part of him—the part that recognized this for what it was and what it was never going to be—wanted to yell stop! as his hole stretched to accept the intruder into his body. But in the end, as pain morphed into a dull burn and finally into a numbing bliss, there was only an affirmative yes and a greedy more, more, more going on repeat in his head like some scratched fucked-up record.

For what felt like hours, but was probably no more than minutes, Finn viewed the world through a rosy haze, his cock throbbing between his thighs with each thrust that Hank sent his way. Hitting that magical button deep within, Hank pounded into him, his large hands braced on each side of Finn. With every thrust, his hip bones slammed against the edge of the wooden counter, but he barely noticed, the sensation like a caress. Too soon, Hank’s cock grew before spilling inside him, coating Finn’s inner walls with his warm, delicious cum. Resting his entire weight on top of him, Hank panted heavily against the spot between Finn’s shoulder blades, his length throbbing inside him, accompanied by his own hasty heartbeat.

Pressing a gentle kiss against Finn’s skin that stood in sharp contrast to the impersonal nature of their fucking, Hank rose, his fingers trailing along Finn’s spine, down between his ass cheeks where they were still connected. Poking carefully at Finn’s pucker, stretched to the maximum around his thick girth, Hank drawled, his voice tinted with the aftermath of his orgasm, “You okay?”

Nodding slowly, Finn whispered, “Yeah.” Then a low chuckle escaped him. “Yeah, better than okay.”

“Good,” Hank hummed as he withdrew from Finn’s hole, pulling a small hiss from his lips. “You sore?” Concern clung to the words, Hank back to being Hank-the-caretaker again instead of the Hank-I’ll-fuck-you-into-oblivion-and-back.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Finn replied, already missing the sensation of being filled to the brim, stuffed full of Hank’s cock. Bending beside him, Hank pulled Finn’s pants back up his thighs and then over his hips. Then, patting his right hip, Hank reached for his left hand, pulling at his fingers.

“C’mon,” he coaxed.

“What?” Finn asked, still dazed, exhaustion catching up with him, his eyes searching for something to fixate on in the darkness, Hank’s heady scent, in the end, becoming his sole focal point.

“Shower, and then we better catch up on some sleep.” Moving across the kitchen, Finn trailing behind him on unsteady legs, Hank spoke over his shoulder, “It’s late, kid. Or early, however you wanna look at it.”