Chapter 9
Max
When I get back inside from taking out the trash, Clay is closed in his room. My gut tightens as I wonder if I pushed too hard, asked too much. I could tell Clay was uncomfortable discussing it. But I can’t shake my fascination.
My body aches from unloading the shipment of tires we got in today. I’d kill for a back massage and a hot bath. But I’m too tired to get back up once I’ve collapsed on my bed.
I wiggle out of my pants and toss them on the floor. My shirt joins them a second later, and I sigh at the blissful feeling of my cool sheets against my heated skin. My cock lays half hard against my thigh, beckoning me to tug out a relaxing release before I fall asleep. I spent the day getting hard every time my mind wandered, and now my balls are heavy and sore.
I suddenly remember the picture of Clay I found this morning, and my cock is back to full mast within seconds.
I groan quietly as I try to fight the urge to pull the picture out and study it again. It would be so wrong.
I wrap my hand around my thick length and give it a slow stroke from root to tip. My eyes fall closed and my brain immediately conjures the image of Clay bound and steeped in pleasure. I gasp and bite down on my bottom lip.
My balls jostle and ache as I jerk myself faster. My chest heaves with heavy, panting breaths.
I can almost hear the way Clay might gasp and plead when he’s bound and being worked to the edge. I can imagine the way his smooth skin would feel under my rough fingers as I’d tease and pleasure him until we’re both pulsing and desperate for release.
My cock stiffens in my hand, and I whimper. My free hand plays over my sensitive nipples and down my stomach as I thrust harder into my fist.
I imagine Clay’s eyes shining with lust, his full lips falling open, and his head tilting back as he gasps my name.
My release barrels through me, spurting over my stomach, and I stroke myself through it.
I’m trembling from the intensity of my orgasm as I reach for my dirty t-shirt to mop my cooling cum off my stomach. Then, I toss it back on the floor and let the shame and confusion wash over me.
I feel like I don’t even know myself anymore. And the key to all this seems to be bondage.
I grab my laptop and prop myself up against my pillow. I start my search sticking to articles and info pages like Wikipedia to get a basic understanding of bondage and specifically about the kind of bondage Clay mentioned—Shibari. Apparently, Shibari is Japanese bondage art, and it’s absolutely spectacular. It’s sensual and visually stunning. I can’t get enough of it as I scan through image after image.
I’m enamored with the beauty of it, but it’s not exactly getting my dick hard. I decide to go all in and click on one of the porn videos.
I pop in my ear buds so Clay won’t overhear—although I’m sure he already assumes I’m looking at bondage stuff since I did just ask him about it.
It’s not until the video starts that I realize it’s guy on guy. I almost click away out of reflex, but then I decide to give it a minute just to see.
The smaller of the two men efficiently strips out of his clothes with little finesse. It’s clear he’s eager to get to the bondage part of the video by the way he hurries to present himself to the other man. A little electric thrill runs up my spine as the small man turns his back to the camera and grabs his elbows.
The camera zooms in to focus on his arms and back as the larger hands start to thread the colorful rope through his arms, around his torso, and back again. It doesn’t take long for a beautiful design to emerge.
Then, the bound man is lead to a chair, and I notice his chest is already heaving, and his cock is hard. Not just hard, throbbing red, and leaking pre-cum. He’s painfully aroused from being tied, without a single other touch so far.
The larger man continues to work, now binding the small man to the chair. Every time the rope brushes his skin, his cock heaves and a whimper falls from his lips.
It’s easy to picture Clay in that role—wanting, needing, desperate for me—aching and gasping for me to take care of him.
My own hot longing settles in the pit of my stomach, my cock resting hard again against my stomach.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I whip the ear buds out and slam my laptop shut.
Desperately, I close my eyes and try to picture the beautiful woman from the shop the other day—Lynn—bound and begging for me. The image is appealing, but it doesn’t hold the same heat the thought of Clay did, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.
I’m straight. I’ve always been straight. You don’t go thirty-two years only ever looking at women, and then one day want to tie up and fuck a man.
I wish there was someone I could talk to about this. Someone who could assure me that I’m not going crazy. Maybe this is a phase; maybe it’s just Clay’s kink that has me going. Right now, there are too many what ifs and maybes to risk my friendship with Clay.