11. 11

11

Robbie McGuire

One of the most awkward things that ever happened to me was the time I went to the doctor to have a swollen gland in my groin checked on a day I happened to be going commando. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I decided not to wear underwear that day. I was nineteen at the time, so you’d think I’d have had at least a modicum of awareness that the doctor would need to examine me, but nah. Totally didn’t think of it. It didn’t occur to me that it would be a problem until I was on his table.

I can still feel the hot, sticky humiliation that washed over me as I unzipped. It was hard to say who was more surprised, the doctor or me, as I lay there with my limp dick lolling on my thigh when there was a clear and reasonable expectation that it would be clad in boxers or briefs.

For years, the memory of that appointment has flitted in and out of my mind at inopportune times. When I drift off to sleep after a day in the sun. When I’m at formal events that require me to wear a suit or tux. Once, it even happened mid-sentence when I was at brunch meeting my then-girlfriend’s parents. That’s how bad it was.

Still, that’s nothing compared to this.

Decker is sitting in the armchair in the far corner of the room, near the window. He’s showered and brushed his teeth, something I know because the fresh gust of wild mint and citrus was hard to miss when he sailed past me on his way out of the bathroom. He hasn’t looked at me or said a word since we entered the room, which was almost an hour ago. I haven’t said anything to him either.

The silence is palpable.

Unbearable.

It’s my worst nightmare.

I’m trapped in an enclosed space with a man I don’t like but have kissed. A man who’s punched me and groped my dick. A man who hates me and makes me hard at the same time.

If someone could let me know how you’re supposed to act in this type of situation, that’d be great. Thanks. Seriously, contact my agent, drop me an email, DM me, I don’t care. Just tell me what I’m supposed to do, okay ?

The longer the silence drags out, the more discomfort washes over me in thick, putrid waves.

To make matters worse, I’m in what one would call a quandary.

I sleep naked three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. Always have, always will. Pants twisting around your ankles and creeping up your legs, cutting off your circulation all night? No, thank you. Who needs that in their lives? Not me.

As a result, I don’t pack pajamas when I travel.

I had no fucking clue I’d be sharing a room with anyone, much less Ant Decker, so of course, I didn’t think to bring something to sleep in. The only pants I packed that I haven’t worn yet are jeans with big cargo-style pockets down the legs and a button-down shirt. There’s no way I can sleep in that. A straitjacket would be more comfortable.

Not to mention, they’re all I have to wear tomorrow.

So here I am, showered and ready for bed, skittering around a perfectly nice, if non-descript, hotel room in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. I’ve tried my best to get as much of my ass under wraps as possible, but my options were super limited. I felt naked as fuck when I put my underwear on in the bathroom. So naked, I started to think maybe sleeping in a straitjacket of uncomfortable clothes would be preferable, so to minimize the feeling, I put on a pair of socks and pulled them up as high as I could. They’re at mid-calf, which isn’t much, but I think it helps a bit.

I go over to the luggage rack to toss the clothes I’ve just taken off into my duffel. The rack is right next to the chair Decker is sitting on—the cuck chair, as they call it—which makes it about one hundred yards closer to him than I want to be. Getting there feels more like an arduous cross-continental voyage than a short walk across a hotel room.

“Put some pants on,” Decker says with a dismissive flick of his head. His voice startles and angers me in equal measure. It worms its way under my skin and makes me feel hot.

“Can’t.”

He looks at me like I’m the dumbest fuck he’s ever met. “How come? Seems a simple enough request. You just hold them by the waistband and put your right foot in and the—”

“Um, ’cause, Decker , I only brought jeans. Didn’t bring anything to sleep in because, oh, I don’t know…I guess I wasn’t expecting to be sharing my space with someone else. ”

“I guess not.” His eyes travel down my body. Down my chest, thighs, and knees, settling somewhere near my calves. It takes the awkwardness in the room and cranks it up by a thousand percent. It changes the mood, tweaking it and altering it from awkward to something even more worrying: hyperawareness.

I feel the space between Decker and me like a physical thing. A yardstick that stretches and shrinks when I breathe in and out.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I say firmly, neatly ignoring the fact I can’t tear my eyes off him either. I know from experience what this type of situation can devolve into with this guy, and that’s the last thing I need in my life. Someone has to take the high road here, and it’s going to be me.

“Stop prancing around like that then.”

Prancing? I’m not fucking prancing. I’ve never pranced once in my entire goddamn life.

I don’t reply, though I admit the high road seems a fairly lofty concept right now. Far away and well out of reach.

Decker is such an asshole. He seems to get off on talking down to me. It pisses me off to such an extent that I decide to make no effort whatsoever to move out of his line of sight. If I block his view of the TV, great. So be it.

In fact, I lean forward at my leisure, unzip my bag, and riffle through it to find the clothes I packed for tomorrow. I’m not going through this shit again. I don’t want to have to be anywhere near him in this state of undress for the rest of my life. I’m going to lay everything out on the bedside table so I can roll out of bed tomorrow, get dressed, and get the hell out of this room as fast as humanly possible.

He’s still looking at me. I can feel it, a hot slither of warm fluid running down the back of my legs. Beads of sweat on a hot day. A subtle trickle that feels like breath on my skin. It distracts me so much I can’t remember what the hell I’m trying to achieve here.

I unzip my duffel and rezip it.

Then I remember that I’m here to get my clothes out for tomorrow and unzip again.

A slow exhale from behind me travels toward me and sends a tiny tremor up my spine.

“I bet you think those socks are a real power move, don’t you, McGuire?” His voice is gravel with disapproval ground into it.

I spin around, intending to launch myself into a sound defense that wearing socks in Detroit at the end of October is an entirely normal thing. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my mind glitch. His eyes are dark, brimming with menace, and his chin is drawn down in an open threat. He tracks me lazily, the muscles bunching in his jaw when I move closer.

“No,” I say calmly. “I don’t think my socks are a power move.” There’s something a little off about my tone, which is concerning, and added to that, I have no idea where I’m going with this. Like none. Literally not a fucking clue. I have a bad feeling about it, a worrying flutter just below my navel. It’s a feeling I recognize—a feeling that I’m about to be as surprised by what I say as he is. “ This is a power move.”

I watch, removed, as my hand drifts through the air, wraps itself securely around his throat, and applies pressure. Facial hair and hot skin singe my palm. Under his skin, ligaments and muscles work in concert to send cartilage up and down the column of his neck. Other than that, he doesn’t move or react. He considers me carefully, eyes notably without fear, and says, “Careful, Princess. Keep this up, and you’ll end up on your knees with my dick in your mouth.”

My entire system shuts down. Body, brain, all of it goes offline, leaving me in a strange, dreamy place. A warm place where thoughts are sluggish and my heartbeat is so hard and loud I feel the thump in my hands and face.

I come back online with a slow whoosh that settles in my knees and my groin. Rampant arousal floods my senses, drowning everything else out.

I don’t move. I still have Decker in a chokehold, and I’m increasingly aware that one of my knees is pressed against his. It’s warm where we’re touching. There’s a light pressure that seems to be getting harder. Bare skin against soft cotton fabric and solid bone.

His hand moves, a considered, laborious trail as it makes its way to me. His fingertips graze where we’re touching, drawing a line up and down the join, and then travel up my inner thigh. Slowly. So slowly I feel the joints in my arms and legs going lax and my head becoming heavy. Hair is disturbed as his hand moves up my leg. Soft, sensitive hair. Hair that grows on pale skin and spends most of its time hidden from others.

His hand continues moving to the smooth, hairless skin a couple of inches from the seam of my underwear. It doesn’t stop. I can’t breathe. His fingers find the seam in the fabric and follow it, blunt fingernails curling and drawing three parallel lines on the underside of my scrotum. Light, barely-there lines that set me on fire.

I jerk my hand off him in shock .

He doesn’t move his.

He keeps fondling me gently. So gently, my eyelids become weighted and my head threatens to flop back.

He must sense that I’ve entered a trance of sorts because he wastes no time yanking me out of it. “Hey, Pretty Boy,” he croons. His words ruffle my feathers, but he quickly subdues me by dragging a single finger up my shaft and tracing the indent of my piss slit. “Are you going to kneel for me?”

I badly want to say no. Every part of me connected to things like pride, prudence, and sound judgment screams at me to step back and laugh in his face.

I don’t.

It’s not that I decide to kneel so much as my knees buckle and give way. He spreads his legs wide so they’re caging me, and I slither bonelessly onto the floor at his feet.

My heart pounds as he tugs at the drawstring of his sleep pants and pushes them down just enough to give me an eyeful of his cock and balls. The lust it invokes is extreme and immediate. A hard kick of arousal that makes me feel winded. A deep, tight coil of want that snakes its way through me.

His hair is dark and neatly trimmed. A perfect, almost innocent-looking setting for his raging erection. An erection that’s veiny and thick, curved aggressively back toward his navel.

On top of everything else, Decker’s a liar.

Above average doesn’t begin to describe it.

He’s cut, so his head is fully exposed, and to me, that makes him look even more threatening. Even more enticing. His head is red and swollen as he takes himself by the base and angles his cock toward me.

Saliva pools under my tongue. I swallow hard and consider my options. My mind is slowed-up, thoughts thick and cumbersome, sluggish, as they wade toward me through a murky quagmire. I have options. I do. I know that. I can do this. I can open my mouth and let Decker slide his dick into it. I can suck him off. I can taste him. Make him come and swallow his load.

I can do that. It’s a definite option. Let’s call it option one.

I have other options too. I’m sure of it. I must. It’s just that I can’t think of any. I wrack my mind, searching every recess of a vacant lot, a tumbleweed street in a ghost town. I come up with nothing.

By that rationale, going with option one seems like the only sensible thing to do.

I let my bottom jaw drop open and wait like that, on my knees, hands on my thighs, palms flat, until Decker wraps his hand around the back of my neck and guides my head down to his dick. He holds himself firmly as he feeds me his cock. I take it into my mouth gratefully without thinking. I don’t need to. He controls every moment. His. Mine. Nothing happens without his express direction. I don’t blink or swallow. All I do is stay open and lap at his cock every time he lets me come into the slightest contact with it.

I feel crazed. I feel calm. I feel crazed and calm in a way I’ve never felt before. I’m still not thinking. There’s no voice in my head criticizing or questioning what I’m doing. There’s no running commentary to distract me or bring me to my senses. There’s nothing but an endless sphere of bliss. Thick and dense, a circular swirl of desire that winds its way around me and drowns out everything but the heat of the man in front of me and the salty burst that hits my tongue every time he gives me a taste of his dick.

He teases me like that until I don’t know the day of the week. Until I don’t know what city I’m in. Who we just played. Whether we won or lost. The only thing I know is that I want more.

He has his fingers in my hair, curled tightly, holding me in place so I can’t move unless he lets me. He gives me his head, fat and bulbous, letting it push my tongue down, and takes it away before I’ve had my fill. He does it until I’m drunk. Dizzy. Arching my neck and fighting his grip until my scalp stings and screams in pain.

Only then, when I’m less than half human, does he concede and release me. I fall upon him, jaw as wide open as I can get it, and jam as much of his cock into my mouth as I possibly can. It’s pulsing and hot, so thick, there’s something almost comforting about having it in my mouth.

I bob my head with urgency, hands still on my thighs, desperate and ungraceful, grunting as I take him into my throat. I can’t get enough. I want more.

“Slowly,” he warns as a burst of precum hits my tastebuds. My dick leaks in sympathy, empathy, envy—all three.

I rake my hands up and down my legs as the urge to touch him or myself becomes overpowering. I want to ask him for more, maybe even beg for it, but my pride won’t allow it, so I whine pathetically around his cock instead.

His lids drop to half-mast, obsidian glittering and coming to life beneath dark lashes. He runs his fingers through my hair, not pulling now, just combing it out of my face so he can see me.

“Aw,” he says sweetly, “look at you, Babygirl.” The word hits me right between the eyes and slices through reason. It enters my brain and rewrites neural pathways. My hips buck, fucking into the air, and I force my face down onto his cock as hard as I can while still maintaining eye contact with him. “Look at you.” It’s softer this time. Raspy and raw. “So pretty with my dick in your mouth.” He gently strokes my hair again and smiles darkly. “A dick in your mouth and not a thought in your head.”

I’m dimly aware that I should be offended, but right now, I can’t think why. There’s a deep vacancy where there’s usually clarity. It doesn’t matter though. Nothing matters because Decker has clambered to his feet. One hand is on my jaw, pushing it down, and his other is prying my mouth open. Two or three thick fingers force their way between my teeth until my eyes are almost as wide as my mouth.

You’d think I’d hate it. You’d think it would scare me, or piss me off, or take me out of the mood.

You’d be wrong.

It’s fuel to fire. Gas to a flame.

My entire body is hot, so hot that my skin feels too tight and my pulse races so hard and loud I hear a clear thump with every beat.

He looks down at me and his expression is unlike anything I’ve ever seen—on him or anyone else. He looks at peace. Completely still. As if he’s in his rightful place, and I’m in mine. He slips his cock into my mouth and down my throat so deep my eyes water, and I gag loudly. He pulls out when it happens, and I whine at the loss of him, worse than before.

I’m vaguely aware that I’ve lost control of myself because I can hear myself moaning and garbling nonsensically around his cock. Most of what I’m saying doesn’t make sense. They’re just words and whimpers that wind around and around the thick, hard meat in my mouth and get lost.

Now and again, I do make sense, and when I do, I say the same thing over and over.

I want it.

I need it.

My hands rake my thighs harder and more urgently every time he thrusts until, eventually, the heel of one hand is digging into my erection in a desperate attempt to appease it.

Decker sees me and stops moving. “Uh-uh,” he says softly, “that’s mine now. No touching unless I say so.”

Something’s gone wrong. Something is seriously wrong with me because when he says it, I let go of my cock even though doing so feels like it could kill me. I do it without question. Without hesitation. I do it for no earthly reason.

Except for the fact he told me to.

My hands hang limply at my sides as Decker fucks my throat in earnest. The sounds he fucks out of me are borderline grotesque and only growing louder.

My eyes are closed when I feel his orgasm approach. His dick pulses and swells, and he stops panting for two, maybe three seconds, and then I feel it. I taste it. A thick flood of pleasure. A salty river of release.

I choke and splutter and cough, but mostly, mostly, I swallow like a man dying of thirst.

When it’s over, he drops back into the armchair and sighs heavily. He hasn’t told me to move, so I don’t. My lips feel puffy and thick, and I have strings of saliva and semen dripping down my chin. He shakes his head slowly in clear judgment at the state of me. I’d like to mind, and I almost do. I just can’t seem to muster the focus required to make myself feel anything other than the urgent need to nut.

“Show me your dick,” he says after so long that my knees have gone numb and my lower back aches.

I look down wordlessly as I hook my thumbs into my waistband and slide my boxer briefs down. I’m so hard it’s painful. I hiss, sucking in a breath between my teeth as the thick elastic of my waistband scrapes over my inflamed crown.

Decker leans forward, face inches from mine, so close a pair of dark, infinite orbs dominate my entire field of vision.

“You’re a mess, Princess,” he says almost kindly.

I nod unsteadily, and that makes him smile.

He stretches his hand out and holds it up to his face. He licks his palm from his wrist all the way to the tip of his fingers, then he reaches between my legs and wraps his hand tightly around my cock without any warning. Every nerve in my body fires. Every pleasure center explodes.

I come instantly.

I come so hard I double over and fall onto my hands and elbows. Pleasure rips through me, breaking me, having its way with me, leaving me bellowing mindlessly as my orgasm ravages me.

As I thrash and convulse, he pulls up his pants and ties the drawstring in a neat bow. He sits down and crosses his legs at the knee and watches, removed, as I writhe on the floor.

When it’s over, and I have the presence of mind to put my dick away and wipe my face with the back of my hand, he chuckles quietly and says, “See? Told you you like dick.”

The fog that invaded every part of my body and mind finally lifts and is quickly replaced by a damning sense of clarity. Clarity and a quick flash of fury.

“You think that bothers me?” I say, pushing myself up and hoping like hell my knees will stop knocking long enough to bear my weight. “You think I’m going to panic or spiral because you take pleasure in saying things like that to me? Well, the joke’s on you asshole. I’ve had plenty of dicks in my mouth before.” Factually untrue, but I say it with such conviction I almost believe it myself.

With that, I stagger to my bed and get under the covers. I switch off the lights and turn my back on him before he has time to make his way to his bed.

The blissful mental peace and quiet is a thing of the past. My mind is racing, churning, regurgitating everything that happened over and over on repeat. I don’t fall asleep for a long time. The mix of emotions rages from regret, an overwhelming sense of what-the-actual-fuck, to a dark, all-encompassing sense of shock that I willingly let Decker treat me like that.

What the hell happened to me ?

It’s like I saw Decker’s boner and everything else ceased to exist.

As minutes change to hours, emotions shift again. Decker’s breathing grows long and deep. A predictable in-and-out gust that strangely lulls me. It doesn’t relax me exactly. It’s more like it centers me. It brings me back to myself. It’s like practice the other day when it was just him and me on the ice, and I could feel where he was without looking at him. It’s like that but stronger. And weirder too.

I’m furious with him, obviously. The way he spoke to me was intended to annoy me, and it did. I’m almost as angry with him as I am with myself, yet here I am taking comfort in the fact he’s breathing near me.

I don’t know what to make of it.

When the gamut of my emotions has had their way with me, it’s still there: the sound of his breathing. Steady and even. A soft rasp of a saw blade wearing down wood that anchors me. Grounds me. Lets me know who and where I am.

For a long time, maybe an hour or more, that’s all it is. A soft sound in the dark that I cling to. I don’t know what time it is when it changes again. Probably the early hours of the morning. It finds me gradually, a gentle tap on the shoulder I wasn’t expecting. A nudge and then a light caress. It washes over me so slowly it takes me a while to register that something has changed, and when I do, it takes longer for me to understand what it is and what it means.

It’s relief.

It’s a long exhale of a breath I’ve been holding for years.

I did it.

I touched a man. I finally, finally did it, and holy shit, I loved it.