[ 9:59 PM ]
The door flips open the way a sleepy eyelid does. Who’s standing before me when the eye opens is always a gamble, but tonight he’s not half-bad. To be honest, I don’t give two fucks who’s on the other side of the door. For the right price, I welcome any flavor of man.
“You look better than your pic,” this forty-year-old who claimed he’s thirty tells me. He’s got a pudgy gut, a fiery orange beard and too much cologne. He wears lots of plaid. “Do I pay you now, or … Listen, hey, sorry, I’m so nervous.” And sweaty, from the look of it. “I’ve never done this before.” He wipes his forehead.
“Money first, boy,” I tell him. He requested that I act dominant and cocky as fuck. That’s the easiest to role-play, so I’m happy to oblige. I have a “classic high school jock” sort of face, star-of-the-team, or so I’ve been told at least twenty times, which is funny considering I never finished high school and, back then, I was more the skater-punk black-shirt-wearing reject. I’m twenty-six now, far more bulked-up and muscular than my younger counterpart, and times have long changed me in many ways, but my wispy brown hair still gives me that distinct air of cockiness I don’t always intend.
He fishes for the cash in his front pocket, pulls it out like a wad of mama’s lunch money. Unfolding the papery puzzle, I give it a quick thumbing-through. “You’re short twenty.”
“You sure? Fuck.” Worry lances through his face so harshly, you’d think I just kneed him in the balls. “I-It’s all I brought.”
I stare at my client, at his twitchy orange beard and the fear in his eyes. I’m a generous person. I’m a good person.
The cash disappears into my pocket. “For the next forty minutes, I’m all yours tonight.”
The relief explodes across his face. “Thank you, Axel. Thank you so much. Is that what I call you? Do I call you Axel?”
I push into the room, giving the usual spots a onceover. It’s your typical hotel room: two beds, flatscreen with dodgy reception, dusty lampshades, flickering balcony light and stained 90’s curtains. You have to check for cameras, too. You check for surprise lurkers or friends. For drugs or weapons. You gotta do this really fast while pretending not to do this. Discretion is key, but so is seduction; while you’re your own insta-security guard, you’re also still the sex bomb that’s been paid for in sweet, dirty dough.
“On the bed,” I order him after my quick survey’s complete. “Call me Master.”
“Oh.” He fidgets at the other end of the room. “I uh … I don’t like the Master thing.”
“Sir, then.”
“I don’t like the Sir thing, either.”
I heal the world one indecisive order at a time. “Just Axel, then.” I’m so patient, too. These men and their wishy-washy desires … I am negotiating with fussy boys in candy stores. Just pick a damn flavor. “Get on the bed before I punish you worse than I’m already going to.”
His eyes light up. I basically just told him it’s Christmas morning. “Punish me how??”
“Just get on the bed.”
He complies. The sad bed protests with the addition of his weight. For some reason he’s face-up, fully-clothed, and beads of sweat are already lining his forehead like a headdress of tiny gooey diamonds.
“Take off your clothes, boy.”
He complies again. Wrestling like a bear with a fish from a river, he wriggles out of all his clothes, then splays himself across the bed again, his hands and ankles spread and ready as if I intended to bind them. Maybe I should.
I slowly begin to undo my buckle. His eyes flick to my expertly moving fingers. I have his full attention right where I want it. I’m a snake charmer. “On your belly, boy,” I command, loosening my belt. I want him to know exactly what I’m about to do to him. “Your ass isn’t going to spank itself.”
The buckle releases with a soft metal clink.
He flips faster than a Burger King patty. His huge palms gripping either corner of the bed, his enormous feet stretched apart, he waits with quivering excitement as I continue to free my belt from my pants. This routine never gets old. I’m one of those “escort wonders” who was basically born for this job. I’ve been doing this for nine years now. I didn’t finish High School and, after learning how much I can make satisfying the unfulfilled fantasies of others, I haven’t had a single flicker of interest in going back. I learned my share of arithmetic counting sticky dollars.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Bill.”
“I’m sorry, Axel! I’m so, so sorry! I deserve all the punishment you’re about to give me. Oh god. Can you make me count? Please, can you make me count the spankings?”
It’s all about fulfilling the client’s requests. I’m not here for myself, I’m here for him. It’s a win/win: I get paid, and he gets the desired companionship he’s long dreamed of and craved. Sometimes, in fact, it doesn’t involve sex at all. I’ve been paid to be a man’s plus-one at a wedding so he wouldn’t go alone. One guy wanted to just watch a movie and cuddle.
I am a healer of lonely souls.
“You’ll count each and every spank I give you, and you will thank me for them.” A healer, that’s what I am. “Any miscount, we start over. Failure to thank me, we start over.”
“Yes, sir!” he cries, muffled in the pillow.
I guess we’re doing the “sir” thing after all. Sometimes, even the client doesn’t know what he wants. Folding the belt in half, I give it a tight pull, emitting that deliciously loud and leathery snap through the room. He moans.
“Are you ready, boy?” I have to make him long for what I’m about to do. Anticipation and foreplay is everything.
“Ymmrr!” I think he means: Yes, sir!
“You’re getting ten spanks for being such a bad boy. I want to hear every single number loud and clear. I want to hear you thanking me every single time.”
“Thnkyu, thnkyu, thnkyu!”
“Not yet, dummy. I haven’t even spanked you. You’ll know when I spank you. You want me to double the number, boy?” His muffled response, I assume, means no. “Good.”
The first client I ever had, I was so cocky and stupid. I walked into it not knowing the first thing and made all the worst mistakes. The client seemed especially forgiving, though, and he never took advantage. He could have, he really could have, but he didn’t. He was kind, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, dimply smile. I’ll never forget his face, or the patient look in his eye when I had trouble getting hard. I’d just turned seventeen, was living at my friend Peter’s house because my dad kicked me out, and I remember the man telling me, “We can go slow,” as if I was the client … as if I was the one who needed the comfort. I kinda did. Several times that night, I’d forgotten who was paying for whom. His name was Rod.
“Can we pretend I got in trouble at school,” the orange, fuzzy man on the bed asks of me, “and like, you’re the young principal? Or wait. Can you be some cocky senior?”
Cocky is the characteristic most requested. Dominant. Arrogant. Rude. So few people want the nice guy. “You’re in big trouble, boy. The big bad-ass senior varsity Axel just caught you in the locker room and he’s gonna give you a big ass-whooping.”
“Oh god yes,” the fuzzy man moans into the pillow, so excited his rock-hard baby-maker is probably leaking on the bed already. “Please, please, yes, yes, yes.”
“Get ready, boy.” I prepare the belt, ready to land my first blow. Lifting it high, I consider the suspense of my client, how he holds his breath, how his body tenses in anticipation of the first cracking of leather against flesh. You have to kinda understand your client. Empathy is vital to getting into their heads. “Count.”
And then the belt comes down on his big, plump ass.
“One, sir!” he yelps out.
I didn’t hit him that hard. Really, you gotta be careful with this corporal stuff. “Thank me, boy.”
“Thank you, Axel sir!”
I raise the belt into the air, taking my sweet time between each lashing. I want him to look forward to each one. I want him to fear them, to cringe, to quiver excitedly. This is my figurative tip money I’m working for. This is my reputation. This is my guaranteed callback.
“Two, sir, thank you, sir!” he cries. Only sometimes, as I whip or fuck or cuddle or spank or otherwise dominate or pleasure any of these men who pay me, do I wonder their story. It’s none of my business and I never ask. Better that way, really. The less you know, the more you learn. “Three!” But I wonder: is there a husband or wife they’re neglecting back home? “Four! Thank you, sir! Five!” Am I saving their life? Am I a safe vessel through which they live out some dormant, strange fantasy? One guy wanted me to sit on his face for an hour while I watched TV. “Six!” I watched Shark Tank.
“Did you thank me that last time?” I ask when all ten spankings are given. I hope there’s a place nearby to grab a bite of dinner. I really don’t want to do midnight Taco Bell again, and everything else around home’s closed. “Didn’t think so. We start from one again, boy.”
He moans into the pillow, and with that helpless moan, I know I’m giving him exactly the unfair treatment he so craves.
My belt kisses his ass over and over, flesh dancing and leather singing. Watch me heal the world one spank at a time. I take my time with every slow and calculated spank. “Thank me,” I remind him and listen as he responds, muffled and throaty with ecstasy. “Good boy.”
He forgets to thank me again after the ninth stinging wallop. I suspect he forgot on purpose.
“Back to one,” I state firmly.
He moans in delight. Yippy.
What a symbiotic relationship: he gets his ass reddened and sore, I get a paid bicep workout. “Thank you, Axel sir!” he cries.
Six more slow and steady lashes later and he, again, forgets to thank me. They do this on purpose, the clients who crave punishment. It’s a strange form of gluttony, really, to want too much of something in the bedroom. One thinks it isn’t possible, but it really is. I draw the line at actually hurting people.
“Flip over,” I tell him instead of restarting our figurative spank counter. “I want you to see what I’m gonna do next.” He flips over to pay witness as I lay the belt on the bed and, ever slowly, begin to peel off my shirt. I feel his eyes on me, taking in the sight of my smooth, ripped body. This is the real commodity. Beneath the fine face I got and the attitude I’m paid for, there’s a gem box of muscles and nipples and abs underneath, ready to be admired.
“You are amazing.” He can hardly contain his own drool. “Can you spank me over your knees next? Please? Oh god. Do you trim?”
He means my cock. “Only one way to find out, boy.” I undo the button of my jeans.
“No, no,” he says quickly. “I don’t want to see it. It’s okay. Do you have a paddle? Can I pretend to be joining your fraternity?”
This wishy-washy type is the worst. They change their mind about what they want with every creak of the bedsprings and take forever to cum. When a boy cums, it’s usually over right then, a satisfied customer, a lazy smile. It’s very “thanks, you can leave now.” Quicker they cum, quicker I’m home for a shower.
“Get up.” I sit on the bed opposite him, shirtless, making sure to tighten my abs as I sit, half a crunch so he sees all my hard work at the gym. When his eyes glaze over and drift downward, I find I’ve succeeded. I give my right thigh one solid slap. “Get your butt over here, boy. You wanna join Kappa Lambda Gamma or not?”
“I was actually hoping you’d say Alpha Delta Alpha, because it has the word Alpha in it twice, and … like … I like the idea of—”
“Get over here before I spank your ass so hard you taste my hand sweat.”
His face wrinkles as he wriggles off the bed; I guess the words didn’t sound as sexy as I’d intended. This naked fuzzy forty-something climbs awkwardly across my lap, steels himself for my hand. Before he realizes what I’m doing, I maneuver my muscled legs and affix his cock right between my thighs, trapping the boned-up little excited thing.
“Uh … Axel, sir …?”
When I deliver the first spank with my hand, he yelps out like a cat whose tail just got stepped on. Between my thighs, I feel his prick hardening even more. Good. I deliver the next slap before he’s ready for it, inspiring another bleep of surprise. His cock grows even harder yet, throbbing between my tightened thighs. Every spank strokes his cock more and more, so much so that my spanking turns into a sort of rhythm—almost gentle—as I slowly bring him to the edge with just the power of my jeaned, muscled thighs and my surprising hands.
“Thank me, boy.”
He cums instead.
After I’ve washed my hands in the bathroom, I notice a spot on my jeans where his cum landed. Fuck. I carelessly use two of his hotel towels to wipe it up, running a washcloth in the sink. He appears at the door, still naked, and smiles lazily at me. “When you’re finished wiping your body off with that washcloth, can you leave it in the sink? I might want to play with it later. Or … is that gonna cost me more? Should I look for an ATM downstairs?”
I force a seductive smirk, then let him watch as I wipe all the sweat of my body off with that washcloth, then toss it onto the counter. “It’s all yours.”
Leaving these hotels, I always feel a sense of accomplishment. Despite the less attractive clients, or the bizarre and outlandish requests I get, or the annoying personalities I’m forced to manage, I love what I do. I’m a therapist. I’m a bringer of relaxation and happiness. I get paid to be adored and worshipped, and these men get an exotic satisfaction they cannot otherwise find. I’m the question and the answer.
I’m the treasure hunter and the treasure.
I pull into the parking lot of my favorite bar. Liza, my childhood friend and personal moral compass, works here fulltime as one of the bartenders. She has more skills with mixing liquors and flavors than I do with juggling men’s balls, and that’s saying something.
I slide onto the barstool just as she comes around the corner. Her bouncy blonde curls dress her bony shoulders, dancing as she comes to the counter. “Hey there, Wes,” she sings. “Thought you had a thing tonight?”
Axel is my escort name. She’s the only one who knows what I do. My dad, who I haven’t had a decent relationship with since I wet beds, thinks I sell knives. I’m pretty sure he thinks it’s a euphemism for dealing meth, but I don’t care. I might as well have told him the truth. “It’s over, babe. Can I get a Coke?”
She whips out a glass from thin air. “Did I tell you the latest with Bobby?” My blank stare and a shake of my head is her answer. “His ex is back in town. Fucking twat …”
Bobby’s been her on-and-off boyfriend for about six years now. At one point they were gonna get married, but then there was this big fight on Thanksgiving Eve that involved police, an arrest, and a broken Wii.
Yes, Liza and I have fucked. Admit it, you were wondering. I was teenaged and confused.
“And that’s not even the end of it,” she goes on, continuing to tell me the rest of her latest drama with Bobby. I still remember the fear that struck my heart when I got the call from the jail. I was on my way to meet a client and my first thought was, I’m not gonna be there for Liza when she most needs me because I’ll have my cock in some dude’s mouth.
She pushes the Coke in front of me, leans on the counter and gives me a pouty face. “Tell me what to do, Wes.”
“Considering my track record,” I say after taking a sip, “I don’t think I’m the right one to ask. I see too much of what men secretly want.”
“So what does Bobby want?”
Bobby is trying to be friendly with his ex, and said ex is probably just in town to ignite a withered flame. “Knowing him, he probably just wants to have fun. You said his ex was into weird kinky shit.”
“You think that twat’s kinkier than I am? You think that’s reason enough to let that twat put her hands all over my man?”
“Told you, I’m the wrong person to ask. I can’t fathom how many of my clients are likely escaping wives and lovers just to … experience something. Maybe he’s ashamed to try it with you, figures his ex is a safer bet. What was her name again? Tired of calling her the ex.”
“Her name’s twat. She’s a fucking twat, that’s what we’re calling her.” Liza slaps a washcloth into a glass, wiping it with more force than she ought to.
The washcloth makes me think of a dirty one I left in a hotel room. I smirk, thinking on it. “We’re not meant to be with just one person. It’s so unnatural. You realize in other parts of the world, it’s like, totally normal to have open relationships?” I take a sip of my soda, feeling the dark carbonation pop along my tongue. “We’re the weird ones, really. Basing all our love in possessiveness. You can’t own a person, not really.”
“Not unless you got him tied to all four posts of the bed, you mean? Oh! Oh! Nine o’clock, quick.”
“It’s almost eleven,” I respond, still nursing my biceps from all the spanking I did tonight. I really put more of myself into walloping that fuzzy guy’s ass than I intended to. I’m sure he’ll be feeling it worse in the morning, if he isn’t already. “What do you mean?”
“Your nine o’clock. A cutie.”
I turn my head. Holy fuck. At the door, he stands like a lost boy at an amusement park. He looks so out of place, this poor adorable guy. Dressed in a white button down with a loose black tie, a nest of spiky yellow hair hangs over his fretted, flushed face. Two beady blue eyes pour over the room, despondent, searching, sad. There’s something about him that resonates beyond the initial holy-fuck-he’s-cute thing, something deeper, something pure about him. He looks somehow … free from the grime of the city. He looks untouched. You can see it in his eyes, the feelings and the thoughts and the wonder. I’ve never been so instantly affected by someone’s presence alone. And I’ve been in hundreds of boys’ presences.
“Ouch,” I say, as if the sight of him just punched me in the face. It kinda did.
As if lifting from a trance, the boy starts to move, taking a seat at the nearest vacant table—a tired-looking booth by the broken TV—and then he turns to stone, staring at his hands. His eyes are fierce, blazing from across the room.
“Go say hi,” demands Liza. “Now.”
“I’m not looking for new clients.” I lick my lips, watching him from across the bar.
“He’s probably super kinky,” reasons Liza. “Looks like he just got out of some late night business meeting. Ooh, I bet he’s rich. Cute rich twenty-something. Hit him up. Do it.”
“This is a straight bar.” The boy hasn’t moved since he seated himself. He’s completely drawn to his hands, frozen. Those glowing blue eyes aids in his chilly demeanor.
“Straights need love, too,” Liza points out. She hands me a menu. “You’re hired for ten minutes. My new server. Go serve him.”
Picking up on my friend’s quick-thinking, I slip off the barstool with the menu at hand and stroll to the boy’s table, feeling confident. The room vanishes behind me like it never existed as I cross the room, which suddenly feels miles long. Even as I approach, the beautiful boy at the booth stays completely entranced, lost behind those radiant baby blues of his.
“Welcome to Bangers Bar & Grill,” I say, slipping the menu into those hands he’s so focused on. “Can I start you with a drink?”
“I don’t drink,” he says coolly, not even bothering to look up.
Failing to catch a boy’s attention. This is a first. “Neither do I,” I tell him, testing the waters. “Start you off with an appetizer?”
“I’m not hungry,” he says, as if realizing it just now. His voice is light, not rude, and his eyebrows give a little lift.
“I don’t really work here,” I confess, taking a seat across from him. I watch his forlorn expression for a while. Something is definitely wrong. All my years of reading men and their desires, and all I see in front of me is some strange, emotional puzzle I can’t quite work together. “You look nice. Dressed up. Just come from the office? From a … convention?”
Now he looks up. When his eyes touch me, a warmth caresses my bones. I feel like I already know him intimately, yet we just met. I notice how gentle his eyes look in that tanned, bronze face, how brightly his yellow hair glows in contrast. His ears are small, his neck thick, and his dress shirt clings to his slender, sloped shoulders. The loose black tie at his neck lends a hundred different fantasies to my dirty mind; I could pull on that tie and bring his puffy, pouty lips to mine.
“From a funeral,” he answers.
“Oh.” A cold-fish slap in the face. Now I’m left to stew over who this pretty boy’s lost. From the look of it, it’s someone important. A good friend, or family, if I had to put money on it. “My condolences. Whose funeral?”
“You’re really, really good looking.”
His words come out in such a daze, I have a moment of wondering whether he’s talking to me, or to some figment in his misty mind. “Thank you?” I say anyway, half a question.
“I’ve had so much terrible luck lately,” he confesses, still looking at me and squinting as though I were too bright to stare at. “It’s just funny to me that the random guy in the bar who comes up to me is … so good-looking.”
“You’re not bad yourself,” I tell him. “I’ve seen a hundred guys come through that door. You’re about the best-looking guy I’ve …” I start to sputter, unable to land on another word. Quite suddenly, all my confidence turns to ice and my butt cheeks clench. I’m usually so much more smooth than this.
“Is it okay that I’m hitting on you?”
Is he kidding? “Of course it is.”
His eyes glow. Whether out of sadness or excitement, I can’t say. “Have you ever just … done something totally reckless?”
Every day. Every client. Every wad of cash in my back pocket. “Not really.”
“I’m not right in the head,” this beautiful, sad boy tells me. “I’m emotionally unstable right now. My ex was a sweet guy and he gave me a custom cheesecake thing for our one year anniversary and I gave him the door. I wasted my scholarship to pursue a life in art, earned my dad’s disapproval—my dad, who I love so, so much—and everything’s fucked up now. I’m not ready for a boyfriend thing, but I kinda don’t want to be alone tonight, if you get what I mean. Please tell me you get what I mean.”
I stare at him hardcore. “I get what you mean.”
“I don’t even want to know your name. I hope that’s okay. Just please. I need to like …” He looks at his hands as if reading what he’s saying off of them. “I need … company.”
If only he knew how very lucky and how very unlucky he is to encounter such a person as I, a person whose career is based exclusively in giving men such company. “You have my attention,” I say, almost hoarse.
“I want more than your attention.”
His eyes pour into me, and I know without a sprinkle of doubt what this blue-eyed boy is really hungry for, and it’s not on that stupid menu in his hands.
We’re out of the bar two minutes and six words later. “My place is a mile and a half that way,” he says, pointing. “Can I please not give a fuck how weird this is and just, like, invite you over right now?”
“Please don’t give a fuck,” I assure him.
“Can we go in my car?”
This is literally textbook rule number one that I’m breaking. “Sure.” I could follow him in my truck, yet I’m opting not to. “Which one’s yours?” And we’re going to his place, which is breaking textbook rules number two and three.
“The expensive one.”
When we reach the side of his shiny silver Maserati, my heart quickens. He slips in and, without a moment to recover, I let myself into the passenger side. The inside smells clean and leathery, as though he bought this work of art two days ago.
Even my highest dollar client never showed me the inside of a Maserati. “Wow,” I remark, glancing around at the interior. The little digital letters of the radio glow and flash, forming words and pictures and dancing pixels. “Quite a fancy ride you got.”
He’s already backing out of the parking lot. “I want to do everything I can. I want to try everything. I want every single fucking day of my life to count.”
I look at him, only a trace of worry crossing my eyes as his foot bares down on the gas and we’re thrust onto the main road, soaring into the night. I’m all about living dangerously and taking risks, but …
“You said you’re emotionally unstable.” He giggles nervously. I don’t. “What’d you mean?”
“I just came from a funeral. What do you think I mean? Hey, I’ve never gotten road head before. Wanna give me road head?” One hand on the wheel, he’s already undoing the button to his dress pants with the other.
“Oh, shit, we’re really doing this.” I look up at the road one last, fleeting time before his hand grapples the back of my head and brings me diving into his crotch. I’m assaulted with the scent of his cologne and freshly-showered pubes. “You’re not hard.”
“Do it anyway,” he says above me, the blues of his eyes sparkling in the light of the streetlamps as they pass by. “Please.”
Well, he did say please. “As you wish,” I murmur, feeling wicked, and let his limp cock into my mouth. It won’t be limp for long.
The car hums so cleanly, I hardly feel a bump in the road. As I work on his cock, my seatbelt stretched so far it’s half-strangling me, my right hand finds purchase on his thigh, and I discover how very firm it is. He does squats, I decide. He’s an artist who does squats.
“Feels good,” he says.
He’s still not hard. “Great,” I come off his cock to say, then dive right back in. His hand rests on the back of my head, caressing the hair there, fondling it. I feel goose bumps running up the back of my neck, tickled, sensitive. If I wasn’t so unnerved by his driving and emotional instability, I reason, I’d have taken this seatbelt off so that nothing would hold me back.
Maybe I’m a touch unstable, too.
The car jerks, turning, the seatbelt yanking on my neck as I instinctively come up from his cock, startled. “We’re here,” he announces as the car comes upon the darkened front of a quaint, two-story house. He pulls into the garage, which yawns open to welcome us.
Sudden as a bolt of lightning, he’s flipped off the car and undoes his seatbelt. The sorta-not-blowjob I gave him ends as quickly as it’d begun, and I’m undoing my own seatbelt to keep up with him. Out of the car, he moves to the door leading into the house, nervously works a key into the lock, then shoves it open.
Following, I come into a wide, squatty kitchen with reflective tiles that goes on forever and ever. The house is dark, so all I make out is the sheen of moonlight coming in from what I presume to be the back windows, which are as tall as the God Of Night, whoever the fuck that is. The footfalls of his dress shoes slap against the tile, the little clacks disappearing down the endless maw of this boy’s home.
He turns around suddenly at a staircase. “You coming?”
I’m a healer. “What? No tour first?” I walk across the dark foyer, casually looking left into what might be a study, looking right into the living room, complete with an enormous TV on the wall the width of a small planet and a huge, longer-than-life couch to match. I see the glint of pool water through the windows, pale light from the moon dancing across it. “You have quite the pad, here.”
I hear the fumbling of a belt, which brings my attention back to the beautiful boy at the foot of the stairs. “Fuck it,” he says suddenly. “We’ll do it down here.” He rips off his belt so fast that I hear his pants tear. The belt is cast to the side and I watch as his fingers—jumpy, nervous, shaking—work on jerking his cock, which still hangs out from the not-road-head I gave him.
Emotionally unstable, he said. This isn’t right. None of this is right. He just lost someone and he’s acting out. “Hey, hey,” I tell him, my voice echoing off the tiles and enveloping us. “Slow down, man. We don’t have to—”
“I want to do it on the couch,” he decides, and even in the dark, I can see his eyes flash with inspiration, watery and crystalline. “My lovely mother gave me that couch. I want to do it there and make a mess and regret nothing. I need this.” Finally working his pants down, he kicks them off, then struts into the living room while anxiously undoing his cufflinks.
I come up to him quickly and grip both his hands, stopping him at the couch. His eyes meet mine, stunned. “I know what you need,” I hear myself whisper, stroking his hand.
His eyes turn fierce, threatening, yet he says nothing more. He just waits, turned still as an ice sculpture. I bring his hands down, slowly pulling them from his cufflinks until they’re hanging loosely at his sides. Your hands are so soft. Then, with my Expert Sexy Seducer Level turned up to maximum, I start to undo his cufflinks for him. I’m smooth and calculated. I breathe evenly, sure to pass my focused energy onto this nervous, unsettled boy in front of me. I want to give him peace … I want to give him my comfort and I’m not charging a cent for it.
Next, I reach up to undo his tie, then stop suddenly, finding my eyes lost in his. Staring into them, it’s like I’m adrift in an ocean of endless sapphires. His lips parted, only the side of his face illuminated by a conservative wash of deathly moonlight, his half-lit eyes hang on my every action, needing me, letting me care for him, letting me take charge. His eyes are so sad, I realize. He’s so, so sad.
I pull his tie, bringing his lips to mine, and in the semidarkness, two strangers kiss.
The sound of our lips touching fills the house. There is nothing else in the world. He is so gentle and I am gentler. Soon, the jagged sound of our breath overpowers the smacking and parting of lips and tongues. The kiss gains strength, our mouths growing more and more fierce with every tilt of our heads, with every twist of our necks. I’m gripping his tie the entire time.
Then quite suddenly there is no more tie and there is no more shirt. I might have been wearing one too, but not anymore. Falling onto the couch, I start to work my pants off while our mouths stay utterly, inescapably united. I have never tasted a boy this good before. He is so clean, I tell myself. He is so perfect.
He pulls his lips from mine to make a tiny request. “Can you finish what you started in the car? I think I’m good now.”
If the stiffness I’m feeling against my thigh is any indication, he’s more than good now. “Do I get to know your name yet?”
“No names.”
I slide down his body like a snake. His body is slender, lean as a cat and smooth. A gentle cascade of modest abs lead to a dusting of hair that ends with a cock that’s aimed at the stars. Bringing my warm mouth on it, I resume our moment in the car. When I hear him rasp, I know I’ve scored. The experience of my job has made me an expert in communicating with more than just the language of words. There is another sort of language the tongue speaks, and his cock is responding quite approvingly.
I hear the pleasured rasp from the boy once more, and satisfaction fills me. My hands race up his smooth body, feeling him, letting him know I care. Figuring him to be the sensitive type, I bring a hand to his unmoving arm, stroking down its length, reassuring him. You are not alone, I’m telling him with my touch. You are not alone.
When I hear the rasp again, I look up.
He’s crying.
I lift off of his cock, laying my eyes on his crushed face. The rasps I heard were his sobs. An unwelcome and sudden wave of guilt rushes through me. Unstable. I lift myself up to him, aligning my face with his, witnessing him cry openly, silently. His eyes clenched shut, his mouth twisted into a strange, opened grimace, he hardly makes a sound but for the occasional rasp of air. Tears pool at his right eye and spill from his left, running down the side of his face to his ear. I don’t even know your name.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around this beautiful person I don’t know. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I pull his face into my chest, letting him snot and gasp and breathe on me. I hold him tightly, arms squeezed, this person I just met less than an hour ago. “It’s okay.”
I’m used to the quick variety of intimacy. I’m skilled at it, in fact, but tonight is different. Is it that I’m doing all of this for free? Is it that what I’m fulfilling isn’t some shallow sexual fantasy? What is it about tonight?
What is it about this person? “You smell really nice,” I tell him quietly, my nose and the fingers of one hand buried in his hair.
Still quietly crying into my chest, he makes no reply. Our bodies feel white-hot, skin like two fiery blankets pressed together. I slowly play my fingers through his yellow hair, breathing my calmness into him, comforting him, healing him, until the crying is eventually replaced by quiet, and the only song that takes the house is a ringing, solemn silence.