BRIAN’S POV

 

 

You’ve known him for seventeen years, and you still give him more than a passing glance when he walks into Kinnetik to meet with someone in his office there. Rarely do his business dealings intersect with yours, but it’s nice to bump into him at the water cooler now and again—emphasis, of course, on bump. You motion for him to come into your office when he’s leaving, and he walks in with his hands stuffed in the pockets of obscenely-expensive-yet-oh-so-casual khaki pants, and when you tell him that you want to take him out to dinner later on, he asks, “Why?”

 

 

 

“Do I have to have a reason to take you out to dinner?” you ask him.

 

 

 

He smiles, feigning embarrassment at your admonishment, “No.”

 

 

 

“Half an hour,” you say.

 

 

 

He looks at his watch and then back at you, “I’m not going to be hungry in half an hour.”

 

 

 

“Yes, you will.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

Ten minutes later he calls you from the loft to complain, “We can’t go anywhere upscale because I have nothing here to wear.”

 

 

 

“Figure it out,” you tell him.

 

 

 

“I’m serious, Brian.”

 

 

 

“Justin, you have at least twelve pairs of pants in that closet, at least four pairs of shoes, and between the two of us, there are probably twenty or so shirts.”

 

 

 

“Twenty-three.”

 

 

 

“So figure it out.”

 

 

 

He hangs up on you.

 

 

 

……

 

Four minutes later you receive a text message from him:

 

 

 

4get it. not hngry. gng home.

 

 

You get up and step into your private lavatory and call him on your cell. “What?” he bemoans as if your voice is the most exhausting thing he’s ever had to endure. (Pity he’s about to be so so wrong.)

 

 

 

“Leave the loft, and you won’t sit down for a week,” you inform him.

 

 

……

 

 

There’s dead silence on the other end of the line. You take your phone away from your ear to be sure you’re still connected, and once you realize that you are, you hang up on him.

 

 

……

 

 

Three minutes later you get another text message from him:

 

 

 

wtg 4 u…

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

So it’s four thirty on a gray Thursday in December, and you call it a day, get in your Mercedes and drive to the loft. The elevator ride takes fucking forever, so long that you realize that elevators age just like people. When you open the door to the loft, he’s standing right there—like he hasn’t moved since he last spoke to you. His cell phone is on the island, his hand is covering it, and the look on his face…you’d pay five million dollars to freeze it like that for a year. He watches you, his eyes are the only part of his body actually moving as you take off your coat and lay it over your desk chair, and when you walk over to him, when you put your hand on his waist, your fingers slipping underneath his shirt, he gasps and pulls away. “Cold,” he warns you, and you kiss him as your freezing fingers head for the waistband of his pants, unbuttoning them, and then they warm….

 

 

 

You stop kissing him to tell him, “You’re hard,” and he shivers while he’s redirecting your hand inside his underwear, and you let your hand slide down his dick just so you can feel the heat coming off of him, and he curls his arms around your neck and destroys your hair on purpose so you’ll be too ashamed to take him anywhere.

 

 

 

When the kiss resumes, it’s no longer a kiss. It’s a very frenzied chaotic affair…

 

 

 

It becomes it’s own entity, trying to rush things and it’s working, and he’s close, achingly close; your hair clutched in his fingers, and then you stroke and stroke and stop and squeeze—hard—and then you let go because you have new information for him, “You need to cool it—,” but…

 

 

 

“Oh…oh, oh god,” and he comes in your hand.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

……

 

And so you stroke him, your hand warm and slick with his mistake, and he’s panicking; his mind is racing; you can feel his heartbeat in his tongue when you kiss him. His mind and his body have broken off all forms of communication that don’t go directly through you which is exactly what you wanted and why he won’t let go, and you need to change the scenery ASAP, so you reluctantly take your hand out of his pants…but it doesn’t go far, just to the small of his back as it nudges him in the right direction, and when you get him to the bedroom, you let go of him and lie down on the bed, picking up your ever-present pack of cigarettes off the nightstand and lighting up. You nod your head at him as you exhale, “Get undressed.”

 

 

 

He has a smile on his face that’s barely there, one that he’s (rightly) afraid to indulge, and he’s boring the hell out of you taking off his shirt, but you don’t chastise him because there’s no blood left in his head to respond to you anyway. His shirt falls on the bed as if it knows how utterly useless it’s become, and then he does the little thing he always does when he takes his shoes off--stands on one shoe to get out of the other—because unlike a genuine fag, he has no respect for shoes. But he always redeems himself when he gets to his pants…

 

 

 

And that’s when he looks at you, and that’s when you smile just a little, and that’s when you make a gesture with your hand that he understands very well, so he turns around. “Go ahead,” you say, and he pulls them down, and you wait a few seconds, stub out your cigarette and get up.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

JUSTIN’S POV

 

 

You hear him, and then you smell him, the remnants of his cigarette as his hand curves beneath your ass, his lips lodged at the base of your neck. The soft kiss he plants there is meant to both calm and deceive you at the same time. You reach up and put your hand on the side of his face and hold him there and breathe. His hands smooth over your underwear for way too long, and when he pulls them down, you sigh in relief.

 

 

 

His zipper goes down like a threat and promise at the same time.

 

 

 

His left-hand leaves your ass and wanders to your stomach, and you look down and close your eyes as he pulls your body against his.

 

 

 

“Like that?” he asks you, meaning the feeling of him stroking himself against you.

 

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

 

You don’t answer him; you just squeeze his hand where it rests on your stomach and push it lower. “I already know you’re hard,” he says, “That’s not the information I’m after.” Every time you try to concentrate on the real answer to his question, you feel like you’re going to faint, and he knows it and exploits it, becoming almost perversely affectionate, making you feel like he’s cloned himself and that there are suddenly twelve of him in the room. “I want to know what’s going on in that blond little head of yours.”

 

 

 

“I’d really rather not elaborate on that,” you admit, and your voice sounds hollow to you like it’s not even yours. You can hear him thinking, his thoughts are in your head, not yours, and you have to consciously push them out, and he knows this because he doesn’t say anything for a long time out of respect for the task you’re trying to complete—a quiet, still, and yet a very tactile power conversion.

 

 

……

 

……

 

……

 

 

But after awhile, he decides you’re taking too long and starts pushing you along. “I think we both know I’m not interested in your dick tonight, right?”

 

 

 

“Yeah.”

 

 

 

“And just to be clear, you’d prefer that I focus my attention elsewhere, correct?”

 

 

 

You breathe in because you can feel all twelve of him pull back into one, “Yes.”

 

 

 

“Good. Nice to know we’re on the same page.”

 

 

 

Your hand that’s still resting on his cheek slides around to the back of his neck, pulling him down a little more. You want to say something to him, a million things really, about what you want and don’t want and need and don’t need, but he already knows…so you just kiss the side of his face…

 

 

 

He smiles; you can feel it in your hand before he moves it and pins it behind your back, trapping it between you. You open your hand; he feels you do it, and he rests his cock in it. You squeeze and his voice deepens and then softens in that way that you hate to love. “How did it feel to stand there and undress for me?” he asks. Your mind starts chanting in some faraway place…

 

 

 

Perfect.

 

 

 

Perfectly perfect.

 

 

 

But you sigh and say nothing.

 

 

…….

 

…….

 

 

You can’t answer him because telling him is the surrender you want him to steal from you, and you both pretend to be ignorant of this fact as the atmosphere in the room gets a little thicker. “You’re way too quiet,” Brian oozes behind your ear, his hand moving from your trapped arm to between your legs. Your head falls back against his chest. His free hand wanders up from your stomach and touches the side of your face, his thumb tracing your bottom lip as he speaks, “Don’t you think that information belongs to me?”

 

 

……

 

 

The chant gets louder again…Yes.

 

……

 

……

 

 

“I feel like I’m speaking in a language you don’t understand, Justin,” he says, a warning tone in his voice as his hand wraps around your chin, keeping your head back. Your eyes start to dry out; you want him so badly. He walks around you and stands in front of you, his hand still on your face and looks at you with an intensity that makes all the blood in your body run to your eyeballs to stay in the moment, and then his expression softens, his fingers relax, and he leans down to kiss you, but it’s not a kiss, it’s a question. “So we’re gonna do this the hard way?” he asks your uncooperative silence, towering over you in the mitigated darkness falling over your bedroom. He kisses you, and for a few seconds, everything is like it always is.

 

 

 

Except not.

 

 

 

His voice begins to drip with molasses—slow and sickeningly sweet; it matches the pressure beneath his fingertips, but not the sentiment behind his words, “I’m not fucking around with you tonight.” His hands feel bigger; the room feels smaller. “Are we clear about that?”

 

 

……

 

……

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

He smiles at the tardiness of your answer, “Good. Face down, please.”

 

 

 

There’s a heavy expectation seeping into the room as you lie on your stomach and watch him undress. You smell the sheets before he gets in them because you know they’ll smell different after he’s done with you, and when he walks out of the bedroom, you turn your head toward the window and close your eyes because that’s what you’re supposed to do. You don’t need to know anything else; that’s what he would tell you if you needed to be told, but you don’t. You hear the refrigerator open and close; you hear ice; you hear cupboards closing; you hear him as he gets closer, as he comes back. “Here,” he says, and you open your eyes and look up and he’s standing above you with a drink in his hand; you thank him and take it. It’s whiskey; his is neat; yours isn’t. His is gone when he gets to the other side of the bed—an empty glass left on the night table right before he pulls the top drawer open. He lies down next to you, and you offer him the rest of your drink, and he shakes his head, “No, I want you to finish it,” and then he’s lying next to you, his head propped on his hand. When there’s nothing but ice left, he gives you a look that means you’re done so you hand it to him and watch as he reaches back and sits it next to his glass. And all he has to do is look at you with a scintilla of expectation, and you lay back down on your stomach again. He surveys you, and you follow his eyes as they scan the length of your body and then return to your face, his gaze is so intense that his eyes feel like his hands. He reaches out and touches you on the shoulder and you tense up; his brow furrows immediately in disapproval. He sees the regret on your face; he watches you as you force yourself to relax. He touches you again, his fingertips on your forehead. The expression on his face…

 

 

 

He’s sizing you up like he’s trying to decide if you’re even worth fucking. You’re dying to close the space between you, to answer that question for him, but he’s not the least bit interested in a second opinion on the subject; he window shops alone.

 

 

 

Minutes pass as he inspects you; your skin begins to warm where he’s been staring at it for too long. Finally, his fingers spread apart as they move through your hair; he smiles—just for a second--before he speaks, “How long has it been since I’ve paddled you?”

 

 

……

 

 

It’s not exactly the question you were expecting.

 

 

 

But…perhaps one that you’ve been wanting…

 

 

 

“Um…a long time, I guess,” you answer.

 

 

 

“So long overdue?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.

 

 

 

You don’t know what answer he wants; you give him the answer you want him to have, “Yeah, I guess so.”

 

 

 

His hand rolls down your back as he moves closer to you; he kisses the side of your face. The closeness is a relief, but you know it comes with a price…how high still a mystery. His hand moves lower still, resting possessively on your ass as he launches a very intimate, very claustrophobic conversation, “I think it’s been way too long.”

 

 

 

His gaze is making you nervous and really, really hard; the intensity feels like the first night you met him. When you speak, your voice sounds like a little boy, “You do?”

 

 

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

 

 

And then his face comes closer to yours, and you know he’s going to kiss you, and just knowing it makes you need it twice as much as you needed it a second ago, and it’s the way he kisses you that makes you want him in that way that you’re ashamed to want anybody. And he pulls away when he’s done, slow and reticent like he wants you to come with him, but he pushes your face away, gently but with purpose, and makes you lie down again, makes you put your face in the sheets, and his palm stays on the back of your head as he moves down your back until he needs his hand because he’s between your legs. You feel his fingers and then his tongue on the inside of your thigh, and your hands inch forward to hang on to the edge of the mattress. “This is the most beautiful, most fuckable view in the world,” he whispers right where he fucks you. His hands continue the intimate scrutiny, “Will you come for me if I eat your pretty little ass?”

 

 

 

Your heart thumps into the mattress, “Yes.”

 

 

 

His fingers spread you apart, “You promise?”

 

 

 

“God, yes.”

 

 

 

Your stomach drops; his mouth, the pleasure it’s offering, you have to have it; you can’t stop yourself from pushing toward his face. He doesn’t shy away as you try to get some leverage in the sheets. “I could watch this all night,” he says as your bottom comes toward him, again and again trying to steal some pleasure. Your eyes close after they roll back in your head.

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

BRIAN’S POV

 

 

He tastes like it needs to be spanked, needs to be fucked—relentlessly--and when you stop eating him and let your mouth wander back up to his face, he greets you with a pillowcase strangled in his hands, “Jesus Christ, why’d you stop?” And then he hears you, sees you, slides the paddle across the sheets and he knows the answer. His elbows bend, his hands press the sheets for leverage as he starts to get up; you stop him, “No, stay right where you are. This is how I’m going to paddle you.”

 

 

 

He resists you as you hold him down, “Brian, no.”

 

 

 

“Face down,” you whisper behind his ear as he gives up and puts his head back down, “Face down with your ass wet and ready.”

 

 

 

“Please don’t.”

 

 

“Open your legs for me.”

 

 

 

“No,” he pleads again, “Please no.”

 

 

 

“What’s the problem?” you ask as you let him feel the cool, smooth wood of the paddle on his back.

 

 

 

The vulnerable tenor in his one-word protest is customized for your dick, “Brian.” He’s so torn up inside, god, it’s beautiful; you press yourself against his thigh…

 

 

 

“What’s the problem?” you repeat.

 

 

 

His initial reluctance to answer your question means that he gets to feel the impending wood smoothing down his inner thigh; it also means that he immediately changes his tune and answers you, “I want to be on my knees, please.”

 

 

 

“Why?” you ask.

 

 

 

“You know why,” he says, a little pissed.

 

 

 

You abandon the paddle in the sheets for the moment and turn all of your attention to your conversation with him. “I do know why, but I want you to tell me.”

 

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

“Because it makes my dick harder than a ten karat diamond and because I said so.”

 

 

 

“You’re harassing me,” he says with a bit of a smile on his face.

 

 

 

“Justin, I’m going to come from the look on your face, and then you’re really going to get it. Answer my question.”

 

 

 

……

 

 

 

“I forgot the question.”

 

 

 

You laugh at him as your hand takes up residence between his legs again, your fingers wrapping around the paddle, “Why do you so desperately need to be up your on knees with your tight little ass—?”

 

 

 

He’s aggravated now because he remembers so he cuts you off, answering you into his pillow so he can pretend he didn’t say it and you didn’t hear it, “Because it feels like punishment to me.”

 

 

 

You follow him down into his pillow, “And that’s what you want, right? To feel like you’re being punished?”

 

 

 

”Yes.”

 

 

 

“Open your legs.” He acquiesces, disposing of a vicious, reluctant moan at the same time.

 

 

 

You smile at him and hook your leg over his to keep his legs apart, “Thank you.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

Justin’s frustration with you is no surprise; it harkens back to the night before because you didn’t click over and answer him when he was calling your cell for over an hour because you were on the phone with an asshole client whose account you were about to lose. And while you might be the smartest and hottest man on the planet, you’re still an idiot because when you walked into the door of your house—from the garage and into the kitchen—Justin was sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner, and he’d set a place for you, only there wasn’t a plate there, there was just a knife, fork, spoon and a postcard sitting where the plate should’ve been. So when you walked into the kitchen and smiled at him, put your hand on his shoulder and leaned down to kiss him, he kissed you back, but not in an I’m glad you’re home way, but more like an I’ll suffer through this tedious ritual way, and when you sat down in your chair, he immediately got up, rinsed off his plate, put it in the dishwasher, turned off all the lights in the kitchen, walked upstairs, and slammed the bedroom door.

 

 

 

And there you were, sitting in the dark having a postcard for dinner.

 

 

 

You got up, turned the light back on and read the postcard. It was an emergency recall for the driver’s side airbag in your new Mercedes--turns out that its trigger mechanism was overly sensitive.

 

 

 

Sort of like what was waiting for you upstairs.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

For all the years you battled with Justin about the parameters of your relationship, you realized once you finally shut up that you were protesting in an echo chamber because there are few things that bring you more pleasure than tending the garden he grows in. Granted, you forget to pull the weeds now and again, but once you remember, it will be in tip top shape before the sun sets again. And when you really fuck up and don’t water the flowers for months on end, then he’s more than happy to destroy the entire plot while you stand there and watch…

 

 

 

…because he loves you that much.

 

 

 

So when the trust has eroded in your relationship, the tangible reality of it often plays out first in the bedroom, which is fine with you because that’s the best terrain for you to be standing on when you’re ready to repair the damage.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

So when you opened the previously slammed door to your bedroom, you found Justin sitting in the dark in the wingback chair by the window, his legs tucked underneath him, his arms folded—not in defiance, but rather self-protection—which is always a very bad sign. He looked away when you opened the door. You sat down on the bed, facing him. “Go ahead, yell at me; get it out of your system.”

 

 

 

“It’s not even worth it.”

 

 

 

“I shouldn’t have ignored your calls; it won’t happen again.”

 

 

 

“Because I might have more life-saving factoids for you or because you might actually want to talk to me?”

 

 

 

“How about both?”

 

 

 

“How about you leave me the fuck alone right now?”

 

 

 

“How about you bring your ass over here right now?”

 

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

 

“Because I said so; that’s why.”

 

 

 

He got up from the chair with every ounce of irritation you expected and walked over to you, and you put your arms around him and kissed him, and he was less than cooperative until you made it clear that you weren’t letting go and that your hand had every intention of staying in his pants. “I’m gonna fuck you,” you said, “Whether you like it or not.”

 

 

 

“I’m still mad at you.”

 

 

 

“I know, but your ass isn’t.”

 

 

 

“You’re so clever,” he said, rolling his eyes.

 

 

 

“And you’re so hard.”

 

 

 

You didn’t let him say anything else, and your shirt was thrown to the side in short order, and your pants were all but off, and to his credit, Justin assisted in that endeavor, and then you lay back on your bed and motioned for him, “To get on it.”

 

 

 

……

 

……

 

All the dust floating through the air froze.

 

 

 

Something was off.

 

 

 

“Yoo hoo…,” you said trying to bring him back into the same universe that you were in.

 

 

 

His eyes moved back to your face so slowly as he posed what you thought was a real question, “Why do I have to do all the work?”

 

 

 

You gave him the real, logical answer, which, to your credit, you were pretty proud of, “Because you feel powerless. You have the power now; the fuck is yours; it’s your show.” Duh, you thought.

 

 

 

But he refused.

 

 

 

And went back to his chair.

 

 

 

You sat there staring at each other for almost a minute, and then he looked away, and when he wouldn’t look back, you started to realize what was wrong. “Come back to bed,” you told him as you leaned against the headboard, and he did so solely because of the unyielding tone in your voice. He sat next to you with a painfully stoic expression on his face. “It’s okay,” you said as you pulled his shirt up and over his head, and when your hand touched the waistband of his pants, he finished the job for you, letting them fall on the floor. You held your arm out, and he climbed into your lap, straddling you like he’s done a million times, his head laying against your shoulder. He was no longer angry; he’d passed angry a long time ago; he was hurting. Your hand smoothed down his back as you conceded, “Okay, I get it. The power is mine.” He relaxed a little, his hands opening behind your head. “I’m sorry,” you added, “I’m dense.” The tense quiet returned; you wrapped your arms around him, “What’s the matter?”

 

 

 

“Is it me? Are you just not interested--?”

 

 

 

You cut him off, “Who authorized your lobotomy?”

 

 

 

“I’m serious.”

 

 

 

“So am I.”

 

 

 

“It’s just…. It’s been over seven months since we’ve done any—“

 

 

 

“You’ve been counting?”

 

 

 

“…Wishing.”

 

 

 

“Well, perhaps you should wish aloud once in awhile,” you suggested.

 

 

 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have to.”

 

 

 

“Point taken.”

 

 

 

……

 

……

 

“Do you ever have to ask to have your dick sucked? Every day?”

 

 

 

“I said, ‘Point taken.’”

 

 

 

“Never once in a million years did I think that you’d take any part of our sex life, much less this part, for granted, you of all people.”

 

 

 

“Why don’t you see how many more times you can beat that dead horse, Justin?”

 

 

 

“Well, at least something would be getting beaten.”

 

 

……

 

……

 

You smacked him on the ass, and that’s when you realized, “Did I just walk into a fucking trap?”

 

 

 

“I don’t know. Do it one more time so I can tell for sure.”

 

 

 

“You little twat.”

 

 

 

“It’s so good to see you again, Mr. Kinney.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

It was pitch dark in your bedroom as he sat in your lap, and you listened to him, to everything he said—verbal and nonverbal…

 

 

 

How he missed the days when you kept him on edge about what his night would be like, how he missed being across your lap on a regular yet not predictable basis, how he enjoyed being so fucked out that he was absolutely useless until at least noon the following day…

 

 

 

How he missed you.

 

 

 

The more you thought about, the more you realized that you didn’t even know where you’d been. And the longer he sat on your lap, you realized that wherever it was, wasn’t as good as where you were at that moment. And so rather than belabor the moment with a tedious, lame-ass apology, you told him to get up on his knees, and you spanked him. As soon as you heard the hesitation of pain in his voice, you made him sit on you and ride, and if he didn’t listen, if he didn’t sit all the way down each time so you could feel the burn all the way through to your thighs, you pulled out and spanked him again.

 

 

 

 

There was no more bitching after that.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

And so that next night, you were in the loft making it up to him, yes, but also to yourself. The neglect of the last few months was never going to happen again, and if your dick somehow catches another round of amnesia, you’re going to have to man up and spank it, too.

 

 

 

So that Thursday night you were coming to terms with that fact that it’s not easy to paddle Justin because you have to give up the experience of feeling his bottom heat up in your hand, of feeling the correlation between the pain in your fingers and the beautiful distance in his eyes when he starts succumbing to the endorphins that overtake him. So to offset this horrible side-effect, you warm him up with your hand. And so he’s face down in the sheets as you press yourself against him and start to escalate the situation. His hand is on your chest, and it slides and hooks through the triangle made by your head propped on your hand as the paddle dips between his legs; you lean down and whisper in his ear, “You deserve this, don’t you?” His face moves closer to your arm as his eyes shift up to yours, his fingers tighten around your muscle, “Yes.”

 

 

 

“And why is that?”

 

 

 

You can actually feel his face heat up against your arm before he answers you, “Because I want it.”

 

 

 

It’s been a long time so you take your time; you’re in no hurry…

 

 

……

 

 

And the whispering goes by the wayside because he’s moaning…

 

 

 

And not flinching…

 

 

 

And your dick is calling 911 every ten seconds because you won’t pick up the phone. It tends to forget that there’s no more call waiting when your name is name is being repeated over and over like it’s a prayer for salvation.

 

 

 

Justin’s mouth is sort of open, and he’s staring all glassy-eyed and high, and breathing in that way he breathes when he wants you in his ass five minutes ago, and when you tell him, “I don’t think you want it; I think you need it,” he disagrees and you smile and say, “Yeah, you do because your sweet little ass chases the paddle the second it’s gone. You’re coming after it.”

 

 

 

“No,” he insists in that way that means, Tell me again.

 

 

 

“And now all of your cheeks are blushing.”

 

 

 

He rolls his eyes at you, “Whatever.”

 

 

 

The pain he feels after that is very, very real, and you stay tethered to him as you push him right out on that ledge; you lean down, smell his hair, kiss him, force him to marry the two conflicting sensations, and he thanks you by starting to get up on own…

 

 

 

The paddle falls out of your hand as you force him back down in the sheets, your hand between his legs cutting his knees right out from under him.

 

 

 

“Brian, God; fuck me, please.”

 

 

 

You let your hand go where it wants to go, let it sink into the red heat that’s waiting for it; he begs as you touch him, tells you he’s ready, asks you to rim him, smacks your arm when you grab the red raw skin you just paddled and squeeze it tightly in your hand. “I’m not ready to fuck this yet,” you tell him, and he begs again, just much more quietly because even he realizes how unseemly it’s become.

 

 

 

And so there’s a pleasant intermission—the sound of him pleading with you under his breath, the sight of his sore bottom trying desperately to fuck your hand, and trying and trying and trying, and you kiss him because you feel sorry for him, and that’s when he does it, that’s when his knees try to pull that little trick one more time.

 

 

 

You make a decision: you’ve got to get one head back in the game and the other one out of it.

 

 

 

“Roll over,” you tell him, and he looks confused, and you raise your eyebrows at him like did I stutter? so he rolls onto his back, and you hover over him, caging him beneath you, “Did you think I was kidding when I said I wasn’t fucking around with you tonight?”

 

 

 

His eyes shift back and forth nervously, “No?” Confusion is so delicious on him.

 

 

 

You put your hand on his face, trace his jawline with your thumb, pull his mouth open; he wants to say something…and he can’t. But you can…

 

 

 

“It’s not like you to misbehave like this.”

 

 

 

You lean down and kiss him, and he tries to respond, but your thumb is still holding his mouth open; he moans instead, reaches up and puts his hand on the back of your neck, petting you out of desperation. “And I don’t like it,” you tell him. His tongue slips out from under your thumb and he tries to swallow. You let him, and the second he swallows, he gasps, and then you kiss him, and he opens wide, the way he always did when you first met, when he never knew when he was going to see you again; he gives you everything you want; he plays his whole hand in the first three seconds of that kiss. And then you stop, his face in your hand, your eyes locked with his, “Slide down so I can fuck your face,” and the confusion turns to anger that he tries to hide by staring at you like you didn’t just tell him to do something. “It’s no joke, Sunshine; go,” and you slap his face—lightly—and laugh, and then watch as he disappears, and when he’s right where you want him, you clamp him still with your legs; his arms snake around your thighs, and when you tell him to, “Open up,” he rolls out the red carpet and lets you slide down his tongue and straight into heaven. You reach between your legs and stroke his hair, “Good boy.” He knows better than to try to control you; he just holds on, lack jawed when necessary, tight when you want it; your fingers twist in his hair as he grunts from the pressure.

 

 

 

“Be still so I can come,” you tell him when you’re ready, and his hands tighten around your legs, “Wide open, Justin; I want to feel you choke.” His throat tightens; your brain warms; his hands move immediately to your hips, pushing you down inside him, the gurgling, gasping sounds he makes are the soundtrack for a later fuck.

 

 

 

He coughs hard when you pull out, clears his throat as he slides back up to be eye level with you. Even in the darkness, you can tell that his face is red; his eyes are watering. “You okay?” you ask him. He puts his arms around your neck and nods; his attitude apparently adjusted. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. “I’m not sure I am,” you say. He smiles…just a little; he never loses his sense of humor. You reach between you and touch him, stroke him, lean down and kiss away the tears on his face. “Did that feel like punishment?” you ask him quietly.

 

 

 

“Yeah,” he whispers.

 

 

 

“Good because it was.”

 

 

……

 

 

……

 

 

“Now you can get on your knees.”

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

JUSTIN’S POV

 

 

 

This side of heaven is so fucking beautiful.

 

 

 

Because he’s unleashed himself on you and there’s no turning back.

 

 

 

You don’t have to tell him how far you want to go because he’s already miles ahead of you, and now you’re blindfolded in the backseat. It’s the best road trip in the world. He forces you up against the wall in front of your bed, keeps you up on your knees, his hands in front of you and behind you as he kneels on your left side. He strokes you, kisses you, paddles you…all at the same time. You want to come for him; you don’t even feel the pain anymore. His face is leaning on the wall; he stares at you as the tunnel the two of you are in gets even more narrow. You feel the paddle rest on the back of your calves. “Close your eyes,” he says, and you do.

 

 

 

The next time you feel it, he’s back and it’s pressing on the inside of your thigh and then resting there, and then he’s right there; his mouth is right in front of yours when he says, “Open up,” and pushes a plug inside you. The paddle is picked up; he tells you to open your eyes; he kisses you and says, “Hands on the wall, please.” You flatten your palms on the wall and he smiles as his hand presses on your stomach, forcing you into the posture he wants; your ass is flush with the paddle. “We’re going to do this until you come,” he says, “Understand?”

 

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

It’s nothing but hot pink madness behind your eyes when he hits that spot and holds you still and hits it again and again and again, and he makes you hold that position, his face right next to yours on the wall, “I want you to come from the shame. I know you want to, Justin. I know it’s all you want.”

 

 

 

“It’s not.”

 

 

 

“Oh, it is. You use the pain, Justin. You use it like a whore just to get you there.”

 

 

 

“No.”

 

 

 

“Go ahead and come all over the wall. Just let it go because once you do, I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t know how to spell shame."

 

 

 

Instant art.

 

 

 

You make it and then the plug is history, and he practically picks you and turns you one hundred and eighty degrees, and you’re facing the kitchen getting your ass pounded while everything starts to feel dull and numb—until he yanks you up by your hair, knotting it in his fist when he comes, jerking your neck back with each wave.

 

 

 

“Ow, ow, ow, fuck, Brian.”

 

 

 

“Sorry,” he groans as he collapses half on top of you half beside you.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

Brian, of course, immediately lights up after it’s over because the nicotine helps him philosophize about the experience, the tip of his thumb resting on his nose, “That…will be what kills me.”

 

 

 

“It better not be unless I go at the same time. “

 

 

 

“If I’m any good, you should.” He looks over at you, notes that you’re laying on your stomach and asks, “You’re really sore, aren’t you?”

 

 

 

“Yeah, but in a good way.”

 

 

 

He rolls, puts his cigarette out and then rolls back, moving so he’s right beside you; he puts his hand on the back of your head, “Can I help?”

 

 

 

You smile, “As long as you don’t fuck with my hair.”

 

 

 

“C’mere,” he says, and you roll onto your side, your head resting against his chest. His hand travels down your back and rests where the real damage was done. “That last couple of hours we just spent together…?” he says letting it hang in the air.

 

 

 

 

“Yeah?”

 

 

 

“That’s why I love you.”

 

 

 

“You’re hard again.”

 

 

 

“Okay, that’s also why my dick loves you.”

 

 

 

Your hand pays a welcome visit between his legs. “I’m listening.”

 

 

 

“The more you trust me; the more I feel that; the farther I want to take you,” he says and then he kisses your forehead.

 

 

 

“And now my dick is listening, too.”

 

 

 

“I’m not joking.”

 

 

 

“I know you’re not.”

 

 

 

You then embark on a very protracted make-out session to further exemplify that point.

 

 

 

“I want you to take me there,” you tell him; he raises his eyebrows as if he doesn’t quite believe you. You clarify your point, “But only if you kidnap me, tie me up, blindfold me, torture me, and threaten me within an inch of my life on the way.”

 

 

 

“Well, I’m glad we cleared that up.”

 

 

 

“Yeah, me too.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

BRIAN’S POV

 

 

 

Although you’re both completely exhausted from the evening’s romp, there’s an odd energy in the air that’s swirling above the two of you. He’s in your arms like he always is, but there’s something different…

 

 

 

He’s being way too affectionate for a man that’s about to zonk out, and he hasn’t shut up for twenty-five minutes, so you decide that it might be worth it to actually listen to what he’s saying…. You put your hand on his face and before you can even say anything, he pushes it back down, relocating it to his ass where it’s been hanging out. He catches the curious expression on your face and immediately shuts up and flips in your arms so he’s facing away from you. You’re not exactly sure how, but you interrupted a moment you didn’t know you were having with him.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

At first, you plan to apologize for whatever you did, but you don’t because that’s not what he wants. He preempts it in his sweet, hungry way, pressing back against you, relinquishing a soft, needy moan as you push back inside him. You listen to his breathing, make yourself feel it, watch his hands on the sheets because that’s how you know what he wants…

 

 

 

And he’s not interested in sweet nothings or cuddle time.

 

 

 

At all.

 

 

 

“You need to take it easy,” you tell the back of his neck, “You’re going to be so fucking sore tomorrow.”

 

 

 

He reaches back for you, and at the end of a very intimate kiss says, “You have no idea how sore I want to be.”

 

 

 

There’s no daylight between you as you sink even deeper inside him; “I want to know,” you breathe as your hand clears away the hair on the back of his neck.

 

 

 

“You do?”

 

 

 

“Yes, I do,” you reaffirm, “And preferably sooner rather than later…or I will hold you down and fuck it out of you...”

 

 

 

“Do it,” he dares you.

 

 

 

“Tell me.”

 

 

 

You watch his finger trace an imaginary design on the sheet in front of his face as you listen to him, “You know the other night, actually it was like a couple of weeks ago, when you came home from work, and I was in the kitchen trying to figure out what to make for dinner?”

 

 

 

“Yeah.”

 

 

 

“And I told you how you looked so fucking hot in that suit, and you said we should just go out because we had nothing decent to eat in the house?”

 

 

 

“Yeah.”

 

 

 

“And I went upstairs to change so I would look at least half as good as you?”

 

 

 

“Yeah.”

 

 

 

And then he turns his head a little so he can see you, “You should’ve followed me.” Your dick finds the playful tone in his voice intriguing, “Oh?” He turns away from you again, content to keep the rest to himself so you have to prompt him, “Is there more to this story?”

 

 

 

“There could’ve been if you hadn’t been so interested in listening to that fugly guy, what’s-his-name, blather on about NAFTA and CAFTA.” (You roll your eyes because he’s tried to have CNBC, just that particular channel, removed from your cable service twice. When the cable company told him they’d have to remove the entire tier which would include all of the gay and home improvement channels, which—lets face it, are the same thing—he backed off. Furthermore, when you tried to sit down and explain to him how much of your money is in mutual and sovereign funds, and why watching those fugly guys is like either having your balls licked or cut off depending on the day, his response was, “Well, would they still love you if they knew you only had one left like I do?” The only answer you had for that left him smiling from ear to ear.)

 

 

 

“Kindly leave those geezers out of our bed,” you admonish him, and he apologizes, so you continue, “You wanted me to follow you?” There’s a beat of silence and then his hand is on your hand, and there’s a quiet negotiation going on between his legs because he wants to jerk off while he talks about this, but you won’t allow it, so your hand stays where it is; he moans in distress. “Go on,” you urge him. “I’m following you…”

 

 

 

“Well, I mean… It’s just, I suck you off every morning....” and the end of his sentence hangs abandoned in the air.

 

 

 

……

 

 

 

Before he wouldn’t shut up, but now that you’re on the right subject, he clams up.

 

 

 

“You know,” you inform him, “I’ve never actually come from a bedtime story, and you have a unique opportunity to make that happen.” And then you remind him as only you can that you are fucking him right then, and he laughs a little, “Okay.”

 

 

 

“So you were saying, you suck me off every morning…”

 

 

 

His voice is so low, the way he talks when he’s really serious about something, the way he talks when he’s not looking at you, and yet there’s also an odd hit of hope of it, something that never mixes in with it in normal circumstances. It fascinates you as you listen, “Do you know why I suck you off every morning?” And suddenly you feel like you’re in very dangerous territory, swimming with very hot sharks, but come on, they’re still sharks, so you don’t say anything at first, and, of course, that doesn’t sit well with him. “Hello?”

 

 

 

“I’m not answering that question,” you tell him.

 

 

 

“Why not?”

 

 

 

“Because that’s a minefield covered with daisies.”

 

 

 

“It is not, Brian,” he protests.

 

 

 

You decide to play dumb, “Okay, then no, I don’t know.”

 

 

 

“Because it’s something that you expect from me because we both know that no matter how our morning starts out, that your cock will be in my mouth at some point before you leave for work.”

 

 

 

“I’m not going to make it much longer if you keep saying shit like that, just fyi.”

 

 

 

He pushes back to make it worse, and you bite his shoulder where you were kissing it, and his body is warm and damp, the way it always is when he’s about to come. “Keep going,” you tell him.

 

 

 

“Well, there’s more to it than that, really….”

 

 

 

“Hmm.”

 

 

 

His words become farther apart as he gets to the real truth, “I fantasize about it every day the minute you leave.”

 

 

 

“About what?”

 

 

 

You stop moving so you can hear him; he’s speaking like you’re in a crowded movie theater or something like it’s not allowed, “It’s the way I feel when I have to suck you off…. I don’t want that feeling to go away. Ever.” And then he reaches back and the look on his face is so unguarded, so sacrificial that it overtakes you for a few seconds. “I want you to kiss me,” he says, “Please.”

 

 

 

And you do a lot more than that.

 

 

 

He fills in the details as you push him onto his stomach, “You come home from work, and we talk about the stuff we always talk about, but while that’s going on, you’re directing me upstairs, and our conversation is interrupted because you’re undressing me or I’m undressing for you, and no matter what we’re doing or have to do, you make me bend over for you first—“

 

 

 

You interrupt him because you fear you’ll come before he does, “Do you promise to hate every minute of it?”

 

 

 

“Yes, god, yes, I swear.”

 

 

 

“To beg me to stop?”

 

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

You slide your fingers through his hair and then make a fist, lifting his head off the pillow, “To fight me when it hurts?”

 

 

 

“Fuck me.”

 

 

 

You lift it higher, “Answer me.”

 

 

 

“I’ll do anything you want.”

 

 

 

“You little pistol.”

 

 

 

“Fuck me.”

 

 

 

You release his hair so you don’t snap his head off and then fuck him while the image of him begrudgingly bending over for you day after day after day flashes in front of your face, and it’s not until you come inside his owned little ass that you realize that you’ll be lucky to stretch your workday until noon for the rest of your life.

 

 

 

And he’s smiling like a fool underneath you, and then you hear him say, “Brian,” in protest, and you realize he didn’t come, and you feel infused with a renewed energy to torture the fuck out of him, but he’s exhausted and rightfully so, so you free him from your weight, roll him over, and lay on top of him, telling his pretty little face to relax and his legs to stay wide open so you can suck him off.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

And the following day, Friday, your morning blow job becomes an even more splendid event. He comes into your office at seven fifteen like he always does, telling you that you need to get moving or you’ll be late, and you stop checking your email, voicemail and close your briefcase, and then stand up and lean back against your desk and let him molest you—all standard operating procedure--until the kiss that normally begins his descent down your torso somehow ends with his pants on the floor next to his knees and him coming all over your desk drawers as you pour everything you have down his throat. “I didn’t hit your pants,” he says, wiping his mouth is no longer obstructed.

 

 

 

“Taylor,” you admonish him when he stands up and puts you back together like he always does. “You’ve sucked me off so many times that you can jerk off while you’re doing it, huh?”

 

 

 

“With my hands tied behind my back.”

 

 

 

“Don’t give me any ideas.”

 

 

 

“Go to work,” he says, “I love you.”

 

 

 

“Yeah, uh…there’s a huge part of me that doesn’t want to.”

 

 

 

“I know which part that is,” he says with a smile.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

You jerk off the minute you get to the office.

 

 

 

In the car.

 

 

 

Pretending that you’re on the phone if anyone walks by.

 

 

 

All day long, every time anyone says, “Thank you,” you hear, “Spank you,” and then you look down at your right hand in fear that maybe you acted on it without realizing it. You pack up and leave at three o’clock because you can’t fucking stand it anymore.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

He’s surprised when you get home, sitting in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal and still in his pajamas. At first, he has the standard, What the hell are you doing home so early?, look on his face that he’s had for years, and then his brain clicks to the next image like he’s looking through a Viewmaster, and he sort of smiles.

 

 

 

“You’re still in your pajamas?” you ask.

 

 

 

He gets up and sits his bowl in the sink, “I can’t concentrate.” He takes your briefcase out of your hand, something that you just now realize he does every day and sits it in the closest kitchen chair, and returns to where he was. “What’s your excuse?” he says.

 

 

 

“I don’t wear pajamas.”

 

 

 

He stares at you the way he always stares at you when he wants you to kiss him, closing his eyes the second you put your hand on his face, and you kiss him—on the forehead—and say, very quietly, “Go get in the shower please.”

 

 

 

His eyes open and they’re almost twinkling.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

He thinks you’re going to join him, but you don’t, and you catch him looking for you from your vantage point in the corner of your bedroom where you’re sitting in your very comfortable chair watching Closing Bell on CNBC. He closes the door while he dries his hair so as not to disturb you, a gesture you find remarkably charming. When he opens the door, you ignore him so he gets dressed—in clean pajamas—and then he walks over to you, and you open your arms, so he sits in your lap. “It’s almost over,” you say. He whispers, ”Okay”, in your ear. You turn off the television when they cut to the last commercial, set the remote aside and then enjoy the smile that forms on his face as your fingers play with the waistband of his pants. “So how’s the market today?” he asks, “Up or down?”

 

 

 

“Oh, definitely up,” you reply, “Almost as if it’s snorted Viagra.”

 

 

 

“I can relate to that.”

 

 

 

You pull his face to yours, open your mouth, and get off on the slow, sweet melting kiss that evolves between you because it’s always been such a truth serum in your relationship. You can learn everything you want to know about Justin by kissing him; you can taste the trust, the desire, the simmering enthusiasm…. You can feel his limits when the kiss depends, limits he doesn’t even fully understand. You don’t have to look at him when it’s over to confirm your findings, but you usually do because it’s impossible not to because he’s almost always smiling in that way he does that makes him so fuckingly irresistible.

 

 

 

“So, let’s get this over with,” you say, nodding toward the bed, and his eyes give away his prescribed anxiety about the situation. You push him a little so he’ll get up and out of the comfortable confines of your lap, and the uber-vulnerable look on his face is enough to make you snatch him back but you don’t; you sit there with your legs crossed, with your hands resting on the arms of the chair…

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

JUSTIN’S POV

 

 

 

You feel like his eyes are penetrating your skin as you walk toward your bed; the high you feel begins almost instantly. You try to regulate it, but it’s almost impossible. Brian shifts in the chair behind you, and you can feel the blood racing beneath your skin. Your back is to him because that’s what he wants to see. And so he begins, “So today was rough, huh?”

 

 

 

“Hard,” you say, and he laughs for a second. You smile a little.

 

 

 

“Because you’ve been anticipating this all day?” Your throat constricts, and you realize how long it’s been since the mere sound of his voice has done that to you. “Yeah.”

 

 

 

“How many times did you jerk off?”

 

 

 

You have to tell him the truth, “I’m not really sure.”

 

 

 

He laughs a little because he knows you really don’t know; he knows you too well. “And how many of those orgasms happened without a plug in your ass?”

 

 

 

“Very few.”

 

 

 

“Hmm.” You wrap your hand around the bedpost to steady yourself, your eyes focusing on the intricate but faint pattern in your bedspread. You lean forward and rest your forehead on your hand and close your eyes. Brian gets up. Once he’s right behind you, he wraps himself around you, folds you into a cocoon, everything becomes warm and dark and tangibly nefarious. His intentions become a welcome and foregone conclusion as his hands slip inside your pants and pull them down right below your ass. “You know,” he says, his voice almost more steam than sound, “…all I could think about at work today was coming home to you…and watching you want this—“

 

 

 

His hands feel like free-wheeling ecstasy sliding across your skin. “I want more…,” you say; it slips out.

 

 

 

“More?”

 

 

 

“I want you to destroy me,” you whisper.

 

 

 

“Is that right?”

 

 

 

You don’t say another thing because you don’t have to; he understands; you can tell by the increased pressure in his fingertips, the slight change in the tone of his voice…

 

 

 

“Well, lucky for you that’s the special tonight.”

 

 

 

He moans in a way that lets you know his eyes are closed; he touches you in a way that lets you know that he already knows what your body wants long before your mind decides to tell him, and as he starts talking again, you start to float; he might as well be lifting you up off the floor. “I want to take you too far tonight,” he says, his voice soft and low, right behind your ear. “I want you to come when you don’t want to, and I want you to beg for relief when you’re not going to get any.”

 

 

 

“Brian.”

 

 

 

“And I want to fuck you when you’re too red and raw and sore to stand it.” His hand is right between your legs so when your knees start to buckle, he pulls you right back up. “So do you want to be a good boy for me tonight?” he asks you, his voice laced with filthy expectations.

 

 

 

“Please.”

 

 

 

“I hope you mean that,” he says, his words becoming farther and farther away as he bends down to help you step out of your pants. His mouth stops on the way back up, tasting the target.

 

 

 

 

 

 

BRIAN’S POV

 

 

 

The bed frame has become a crutch for him, and he gladly let's go when you pull his hands off the pole and turn him around in your arms. There’s no gravity left in his world without you; he leans against your body as your hands travel lower, migrating to the site of your next endeavor. There’s something about him in that moment, something so viciously tender that it begins to steer the evening’s activities. Your touch softens; your voice lowers; you feel his body relying on yours even more. “It’s been a long time since you knew you were going to be spanked when I came from work, hasn’t it?” you ask him, his head laying against your chest. His body coils around yours as he responds making you feel more and more like a snake charmer. His answer is given after a very long kiss, “It’s been forever and a million days.”

 

 

 

“But you knew today, right? That’s why you couldn’t concentrate?”

 

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

“Then why weren’t you ready for me?”

 

 

 

……

 

……

 

 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it.

 

 

 

“’Sorry’ is not an answer.”

 

 

 

He tries again; his voice attracting anxiety like a magnet, “Because I didn’t know what time. You came home early.”

 

 

 

You attempt to clarify the situation, “So your contention is that if I’d walked in the door at five thirty, the situation would’ve been different?”

 

 

 

“Yes,” he says, oddly relieved.

 

 

 

“Justin?”

 

 

 

“What?”

 

 

 

“You may be a very hot piece of ass, but you’re a lousy liar.”

 

 

 

“I’m not lying.”

 

 

 

“Okay, correction: a hot piece of ass that’s about to get a lot hotter.”

 

 

 

“Stop it, Brian.”

 

 

 

“You can turn around and bend over now; we’re done talking.”

 

 

 

“No,” he protests, and his rhetorical resistance begins.

 

 

 

You abandon him, pulling your belt out of your pants, coiling it and setting it on the nightstand, watching him stand there while you undress, and when you’re finished, you sit down on the edge of your bed with an open posture, reach out and pull him closer to you, your knee now in between him and the bed; he’ll be bending over that as well. His thighs rest against your leg. “I vote to cut the bullshit,” you say, stroking him while he stands there, his cock beading in your hand. His hand rests heavy on your shoulder, holding him up. You ask him again, “Why weren’t you ready for me?”

 

 

 

“Because….” His answer is half-hearted because he’s distracted—by the attention you’re paying to his dick and even more so by the activity of your other hand; he’s watching you open the top drawer of your nightstand, take things out, and set them on the bed beside him. He sees something he didn’t know you had.

 

 

 

“Because why?” you ask him even though you know he’s not listening.

 

 

 

“I thought you said we were done talking.”

 

 

 

“We’re about to be done with everything, Justin. You’re wasting my time.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

He’s so hard just standing there in front of you that an elephant could use his dick as a diving board, and he wouldn’t even notice. He pinches your shoulder when he knows he’s going to come, reaches down and stops your hand. “Good boy,” you say quietly, your hand on the back of his leg urging him forward. You lean down beside him as he lies on your bed. “There’s a difference between spanked and being punished, right?" you ask him.

 

 

 

“Yes,” he says, his eyes locked on yours.

 

 

 

“And what’s the difference?”

 

 

 

“Being punished happens no matter what.”

 

 

 

“Now see, that’s what I love about you,” you remind him after you kiss him, “You can take the boy out of the dungeon, but never the dungeon out of the boy.”

 

 

 

He moans when you put your hand between his legs, but again his eyes move to your other hand which is inches away from his face. “I want your bottom to burn tonight,” you tell him, “So we’re going to track your progress.”

 

 

 

“Don’t,” he says when you shake the glass thermometer down.

 

 

 

“And I want you to start from zero,” you tell him as you flip open a tube of lube and hand it to him, “Hold this, please.” The second he touches it and realizes that it’s freezing cold, he begins to clue in on what you mean about being punished--his feet can’t reach the floor; his upper body is lying almost flat on the bedspread; his ass is trapped. He has no leverage; you own him. “Squeeze,” you tell him, your hand waiting above the tube and he won’t, so you do it for him, ignoring his recalcitrance, coating your finger. You stick the thermometer head down in the opening of the tube for later. He drops the tube and turns his head, refusing to look at you anymore. “If I were you, I wouldn’t make this any worse,” you warn him as you spread him apart and tease him with your finger, and he fights you at first, but when he feels how quickly everything heats up, he changes his tune, turns his head back around and says, “Don’t,” again, very quietly, over and over, and you shake your head, telling him to hold still as you push the thermometer inside him. “You better hold onto it,” you tell him, “Drop it and it’s a whole new day, trust me.”

 

 

 

It’s one of the most intense times he’s ever spent over your knee, afraid to move and charged with the task of deciding when the temperature reads at least ninety-eight point six when you remove it. “Check it, please,” he says when he’s had enough the first time. He’s off by less a degree. He gets the pleasure of your ice cold fingers inside him; you get the pleasure of watching him fuck them until they’re gone, replaced by the thermometer again, pushed so that it’s barely visible. You reach underneath him and encircle the base of his dick with your thumb and index finger, squeezing until you get a reaction out of him.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

JUSTIN’S POV

 

 

 

He holds you, locks you where he wants you and spanks you again, even harder this time. Your heart’s pounding between your legs as the heat starts to radiate up your torso, a wicked echo timing itself to Brian’s hand until he stops because he hears you, “Check it again, please.”

 

 

 

“Much, much better,” he says as he slides the rod out, his hell-fire hot hand pushing you off of his lap and onto the bed. You feel the pressure of his hands pushing your legs apart and then the weight of his body on your lower back, his words whispered at the base of your spine, “Don’t think I’m done with you.”

 

 

 

“Please,” you beg him, with one hand curling around the edge of the bed and the other reaching back, pushing his head lower. The second he starts to move, your hand follows.

 

 

 

“I like that,” he says, kissing the tips of your fingers as you try to hold yourself open for him. He pushes your hand out of the way and then gifts you with his tongue, a warm soft paradise. His hands fan out to your inner thighs, holding you back as you try to come toward his face, and then he’s on top of you, smelling like you, kissing you, tracing your hairline with his finger. “I hope you feel as sore as you look,” he says, his mouth wet on the back of your neck.

 

 

 

“I do.”

 

 

 

“This is what you want? Every day when I come from work?”

 

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

“To have to stop what you’re doing and pull your pants down for me?”

 

 

 

“Please.”

 

 

 

“Feel that?” he asks as he slides his cock between your cheeks.

 

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

“I’m gonna come all over you.”

 

 

 

“Fuck me.”

 

 

 

“No, all over you. I want you to feel it. I want it to stick to you, all over you.”

 

 

 

He soaks your back with the hot truth.

 

 

 

……

 

 

 

…...

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

The room is dark in so many ways after that.

 

 

 

“And now it’s your turn,” he says, the weight of his body disappearing. His hands grip your hips and pull you back and up your knees. He makes you put your head down, makes you watch him slick the glass dildo that lives on your side of the bed—the ones that’s bigger than he is—with arctic lube. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” he asks when he’s kneeling behind you again.

 

 

 

“Oh god, don’t, don’t…” The cold, hard pressure hurts…and then it’s gone.

 

 

 

“Fuck.”

 

 

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

 

 

Your spanking resumes; it’s doubled in intensity, and your ass is empty and cold and when you start to migrate away from him, unable to stop yourself because the cold and the hot and the dark and the pain are all mixed up, a tug of war begins. He wins every time, stopping your spanking when he has to pull you back to him; you have to watch your fingers scrape along the top of the bedspread…and he starts again.

 

 

 

And again.

 

 

 

The burn starts to spread throughout your entire body; you can feel it in your shoulders, in your shins, on the back of your neck. The bed feels like a magic carpet like it’s no longer part of the floor or the room or the house, and then you feel the cold again, and the bed hits the floor.

 

 

 

Hard.

 

 

 

The cold, hard pressure hurts…so…good.

 

 

 

And then you find yourself standing on a cliff, the one on the edge of the universe. Your hand covers your face because you don’t want to see anything but darkness as you enjoy the shame of this, of what he’s about to do to you. “You’re a good boy,” he says again as he runs his very re-slicked fingers between your cheeks again, “Aren’t you?”

 

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

“Thank you.” He rewards you by teasing you, barely pressing the cold glass tip of the dildo right where you want it, his fingers holding you open. “Come get it,” he says as he presses a little harder, “I want to watch you swallow it.” Your brain feels like it hit an ice slick; you can’t feel your legs anymore. He presses harder, “Good,” and you feel a sadistic warmth behind your eyes when you take the whole thing when the cold starts to melt away faster and faster. “You need to come for me,” he says almost sweetly, but there’s nothing sweet about it. At all.

 

 

 

There's a ferocity behind his request and the pressure he puts you under to perform for him...emotionally and physically.

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

BRIAN’S POV

 

 

 

He comes unglued when it’s over, trembling while you’re fucking him, while you’re making quick work of it because his bottom is so hot and tight, his body bucking underneath you, a reflex because he’s been in pain too long. You can’t get that sound out of your head, the one of him telling you to stop because it hurts too much, “Please, please stop, please.” Your fingers rip through his hair as you start to unload inside him.

 

 

 

He asks you for a cigarette when it's over.

 

 

 

You tell him he needs to wait a couple of minutes because you can’t remember how to smoke.

 

 

 

He draws a heart on the bedspread with his index finger.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

twenty-three minutes later

 

 

 

You wake up from some weird dream and find yourself stuck to him with a potent mixture of sweat, cum, and lust. He wakes up when you’re no longer on top of him, confused like he can’t find you. “You’re okay?” you ask him once you get him situated on your bed like he’s supposed to be, and he mumbles some affirmative answer, his body curling into yours as he floats in his half-awake/half-asleep state, which basically just means that he purrs when you touch him and snores when you don’t.

 

 

 

“You make me ache,” he says when you pull him into your arms, and you think he’s done with that sentence, but he’s not, “Like a whore.”

 

 

 

You laugh because he’s so goofy when he’s not really awake, “Well, I’m happy to inform you that at this point and time, that’s still a free service.”

 

 

 

“Thank God, because whatever deal I’m getting, I know damn well I can’t afford.”

 

 

 

…….

 

 

 

“So do you feel like you belong to me?” you ask him. He smiles as you push the hair on his forehead out of the way so your lips can take its place. “Yes,” he says, “Very much so.”

 

 

 

“But I’m going to have to prove it to you again tomorrow?” you ask.

 

 

 

“Yep, I have a very short memory.”

 

 

 

“Well, you might, but I can assure you that your ass doesn’t.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

JUSTIN’S POV

 

 

 

an hour later…

 

 

 

You awake and the television is on, but you can barely hear it; Brian is awake, sitting up in bed reading a magazine, his body leaning toward the only lamp that’s illuminated on his nightstand. He feels you move and puts it down, his reading glasses folded on top. “You can read,” you say, but he shakes his head, and you feel like you have a hundred eyes on you again, only this time they don’t expect nearly as much from you, merely that you lie still as Brian examines you, searching for damage he’s done—tangible or intangible. “Don’t move,” he whispers in your ear as you lay spent in the sheets. You feel a cool breeze as the sheets are pulled back as you’re exposed. You’d complain but it does no good. He’d say that he wants nothing blue on you but your eyes. “The ones I see are from last night,” he tells you referring to the tiny bruises on your ass, “From the paddle.”

 

 

 

“I don’t care, Sherlock Holmes. Would you please quit?”

 

 

 

He gets out of bed, vanishes into the bathroom and returns, turning off the television and the light before getting back into bed. His slippery hands rub lotion down your back and lower still. “Does this hurt?” he asks you, and when you assure him that it doesn’t—even though it does--he presses a little harder. Your world is warm and dark when Brian gets up to wash his hands in the bathroom. You watch his shadowy form come back to bed, smiling as he lays down beside you. “Feel okay?” he asks you.

 

 

 

“Much better than okay.”

 

 

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

 

 

“I feel very satisfied.”

 

 

 

He feigns shock, “I satisfied you? Where’s my trophy?”

 

 

 

“It’s in the freezer,” you say, and he busts out laughing.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

The next thing you know, you’re waking up and trying to get your eyes to focus on the clock on your dresser. It’s pointless; you can’t read it, so you roll over to ask Brian what time it is, but he’s not there. There’s a light on across the hall where his office is and when you call his name, he appears in your bedroom doorway wearing nothing but an old pair of navy sweat pants and holding a bowl of something in his hand. “What’s that?” you ask him.

 

 

 

“Chinese. I ordered. You want some?”

 

 

 

“Yeah and turn that fucking light off.” He disappears from the doorway, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him. He returns five minutes later with a matching bowl for you. You thank him and begin to sit up in bed, and that’s when you realize that sitting isn’t a really keen thing to be doing at the moment. You abandon that idea and stay on your stomach. “What time is it?” you ask him as you fork your vegetables.

 

 

 

“Nine thirty.”

 

 

 

“God, I’ve been asleep for awhile.”

 

 

 

“Yes, you have.”

 

 

 

You eat about half of what he brought you and hand it back to him, “I’m finished.” He sits it on the night table next to his, and then you watch as he undresses and gets back into bed with you. His hand rests on your shoulder, “I need to fuck you.”

 

 

 

You smile at him, “I hate when you beat around the bush.”

 

 

 

“Don’t say ‘bush’ when I’m hard. I just threw up in my mouth.”

 

 

 

“Well then don’t kiss me, okay?”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

BRIAN’S POV

 

 

 

When he wakes up late the following morning, a cloudy Saturday one, his ass is killing him, but he refuses to admit it. A neighbor calls and asks if you’ll come over and help her install a ceiling fan, and you go because Justin’s extremely bitchy when he’s in denial and because if you don’t go, she’ll just keep asking. When you get back it’s almost four in the afternoon; Justin’s buried in bubbles in your bathtub watching a movie.

 

 

 

“Why don’t you just admit that your butt is killing you?” you ask him as you undress so you can join him.

 

 

 

“Why don’t you just admit that you only went over there because her son is home from college, and he’s the hottest fucking thing this town’s ever seen?”

 

 

 

“Present company excluded.”

 

 

 

“Of course.”

 

 

 

“Okay, I admit it.”

 

 

 

He laughs as you slide in behind him, relaxing back against your chest. “You don’t know shit about ceiling fans anyway.” He turns off the television and tosses the remote in the water; it floats away.

 

 

 

“I can read instructions, and I’m tall. That’s all that’s really required.”

 

 

 

“Twenty bucks say she wasn’t wearing a bra, and she came on to you the entire time,” he surmises.

 

 

 

“You should’ve made it a thousand.”

 

 

 

“That stupid bitch.”

 

 

 

“She’s just lonely and horny.”

 

 

 

He smacks the water and the bubbles fly up in the air, “Hello? You’re a fag! And you have a ring on your finger. What the hell does she think I am?”

 

 

 

“A pizza boy that never left?”

 

 

 

“You don’t eat carbs!”

 

 

 

“Unless they come in thirty minutes or less.”

 

 

 

……

 

……

 

……

 

 

 

It takes awhile, but you finally get him to shut up, turn around and sit down slowly; his head rests on your shoulder once you’re deep inside him. “You don’t have to move,” you offer, “This is fine. I just want to be inside you.” He reaches up and turns off the light over your head. “It hurts, but I like it when it hurts,” he says, his arms wrapped around you, “It’s a nice reminder of what you do to me.”

 

 

 

“You say that, but I still don’t like it,” you remind him.

 

 

 

“I know, but you’re just being a woobie.”

 

 

 

“Whatever. I don’t even know what a ‘woobie’ is.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

JUSTIN’S POV

 

 

 

When you both tire of the water, you relocate to the bedroom. That’s when you realize that Brian changed the sheets on the bed before he joined you and started the fireplace, turns out he can do household chores at his own house. The day is darkening fast; his hair is cold and wet between your fingers as he blankets you. The debriefing starts, unprompted but not unexpected…

 

 

 

“Tell me,” he begins, looking down at you, his body settling between your legs. His fingers run behind your head. “I want to know everything.”

 

 

 

“You already know.”

 

 

 

He smiles; you can feel it against your neck, “Please tell me anyway.”

 

 

 

“Can we do it the other way?” you ask him, and he feels your hand slip between you, feels you press your erection against his stomach. “Please.”

 

 

 

He sighs and shakes his head at you, “I’ll come too fast.”

 

 

 

“Please.”

 

 

 

He gives in and takes the lead for the time being, “Did you like having your temperature taken?”

 

 

 

“Jesus, now I’m going to come too fast.”

 

 

 

“Answer me.”

 

 

 

“That was your answer.”

 

 

 

“Nice and tight for me,” Brian whispers in your ear as he pushes inside you.

 

 

 

“What do you want for dinner?” you ask him trying to distract yourself.

 

 

 

“I’m taking you out tonight. You don’t need to worry about that.”

 

 

 

“You are? Where are we going?”

 

 

 

“Wherever your ass wants to go.”

 

 

 

“Are you implying that my ass is hungry?” you want to know.

 

 

 

“Are you implying that it isn’t?”

 

 

 

……

 

……

 

 

You take over because you know he wants you to, and the minute you start, you can feel the pleasure bleeding out from his pores, hear it in the low moan that begins to play as a soundtrack to your words, “I’ll go insane waiting for you to come home from work each day. It’ll be murder.”

 

 

 

“Murder, huh?”

 

 

 

“Death by anticipation.”

 

 

 

“God, don’t stop…you’re ass is so snug when you’re confessing.”

 

 

 

“You do something to me that I don’t think you even understand.”

 

 

 

He stops moving and lays his head on your pillow, “Christ, I almost lost it. Tell me.” Your hands run down his back, applying pressure when he tells you to, “Scratch.” He thanks you as you loan him your fingernails, listening to you, his lips lodged behind your ear. “Ever since the first night I met you, you know how to exploit my desire without exploiting me. That’s all.” Brian’s very still for a few seconds, and then he moves, hovering above you. He comes closer because he’s going to kiss you, but you stop him for a second, “That’s how I knew you loved me.”

 

 

 

He almost smiles but he kisses you before he has time, and the rest of the fuck is intensely claustrophobic, the way you’d fuck if you were trapped under a house in three feet of crawl space and couldn’t make a sound. “I’m going to tell you a secret,” he says as he’s about to bring it home for both of you. “What?” you ask.

 

 

 

“That’s how I knew I loved you, too.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

BRIAN’S POV

 

 

 

You take him out to dinner that night. He’s quiet in the car, surfing the touch screen for a restaurant he wants, flying through menu after menu, and then he looks at you when you get to a stoplight and says, “I want someplace dark.” You make a U-turn at the light and start driving the other direction. “Where are we going?” he asks you. “Cedar Tree; don’t think you’ve been there.” He starts pulling it up on the screen, “It looks nice.” You call them and request a table for two in the back. “They must not be busy tonight,” he says, and you correct him, “No, they don’t need to be; their wine list alone could be collateral for our house.” The woman who answered the phone is holding the door open for you when you pull up, “Good evening, Mr. Kinney, Mr. Taylor.”

 

 

 

“I can’t stand it when people call me ‘Mr. Taylor,’” Justin says as you walk to your table, “It’s so pompous.” “Look around you, Justin. You’re in pompous-ville central right now.” He sits so he’s facing the restaurant; you sit so you’re facing him. You have the better view.

 

 

 

Your waitress is overly attentive; you have water; you have bread; you have wine, and you have her all in the course of ten minutes. You order, and then Justin complains because, “I hate wait-people who think they have to memorize your order instead of writing it down. They just stare at you like a deer in headlights with that psychotic look on their face because they’re trying to do word association with your order so they’ll remember it when they get to the register. That is such a load of crap. One day, they’ll just have scanners and come up and smile and scan our brains.”

 

 

 

“I think you look really hot tonight,” you say.

 

 

 

“You never listen to a damn word I say.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

Your food arrives; you eat, and the more wine he ingests, the more touchy-feely he becomes, and then out of nowhere he asks you, “The paddle we have, is it cedar?” (Clearly, as far as he’s concerned, his ass isn’t done for the evening. His hints are always so subtle.)

 

 

 

“No, it’s not cedar. Do you feel like you’re in a storage chest surrounded by mothballs when I’m spanking you with it?”

 

 

 

“Why are a moth’s balls anyone’s business anyway?”

 

 

 

“Because they’re so big?” you propose. (You’re tempted to send all the wine back at this point and request a refund as it’s clearly rancid.)

 

 

 

“Good point,” he concedes.

 

 

 

“The paddle is walnut,” you tell him.

 

 

 

“Did you buy it because it had the word ‘nut’ in it?”

 

 

 

You try really hard not to bust out laughing as you tell him the truth, “Yes.”

 

 

 

“I figured.”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

Justin tends to talk a little bit too loud (in his old age) when he’s drinking, so when he tells you he has to piss, the whole restaurant knows. You decide to follow him to the bathroom, secretly hoping that he’ll turn around halfway there and ask, ‘Why are you following me? Are we gonna fuck or something?’ You mess with your hair and fiddle with your tie, and when he’s all peed out and comes to the sink to wash his hands, you grab him and kiss him, and then he asks, “Jesus, do you want me to blow you right now?” An elderly gentleman who’s on his way to the restroom backs out immediately. Justin laughs and makes a joke about having a “wide stance.”

 

 

 

Desert is waiting at the table when you return, and this infuriates Justin because according to him he didn’t technically order desert, he merely indicated that something that the waitress suggested ‘sounded good.’ You order another bottle of wine to shut him up, and lie to Justin, “She asked if it was your birthday.”

 

 

 

“What? What did you say?” he asks you. “I said ‘no,’ but that I was going to spank you anyway.”

 

 

 

“Did you really say that?”

 

 

 

You nod your head, smile, and feed him a piece of cake. “And we’re not leaving until you finish this bottle.”

 

 

 

……

 

 

 

“Do you know that I’m a little drunk?” he asks you a few minutes later, and then he smiles the biggest smile you’ve seen all night and starts laughing.

 

 

 

“I like it when you’re a little drunk.”

 

 

 

“Tell me why and fill my glass back up,” he demands, plopping his wine glass down a little too hard on the table. You perform the second request first.

 

 

 

“Because you’re very easy when you’re drunk.”

 

 

 

“Ohmygod, that’s so stupid. I’m always easy.”

 

 

 

“And thirsty,” you point out because somehow he’s now drinking your glass of wine. “Finish your cake; I’ll be right back.”

 

 

 

You’re standing on the other side of the restaurant handing your waitress your credit card deciding it was better to go to her than to have her revisit your table in Justin’s currently deteriorating state, and right as you're signing your name, you hear him calling it, “Brian!” and you look up, and he’s holding up an empty wine glass like he’s toasting and before you can even answer him, he says, “I love you!”

 

 

 

And then the few people left in that corner of the restaurant are all staring at you, and you want to bust out laughing but figure you better answer him first, so you do. “Hey, Mr. Taylor? I love you, too!” And he cracks up like he’s never experienced anything so hilarious in his entire life, and when you return to the table to fetch him, he tells you he missed you so much, and on the way out, he tells your waitress that, “It’s okay to write things down; I worked in a diner once, and we wrote things down; you don’t have to pretend you’re a Mensa waitress.”

 

 

 

“Just ignore him,” you tell her, “It’s been a long night.”

 

 

 

“It was nice to drink your ridiculously expensive wine,” he adds. “Because we can afford it.”

 

 

 

“Now, I see why you spank him,” your waitress says. “God, he deserves it.”

 

 

 

And Justin is still talking back to her when you’re in the parking lot and no one is even listening, “He spanks me because he loves me, you—"

 

 

 

“Get in the car, Justin, or your next spanking will not come with a side of numb nuts.” You pull out of the parking lot and look over at him and he’s cracking up. “What the hell is so funny now?”

 

 

 

“You called me ‘Mr. Taylor!’”

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

Getting Justin sloshed in an establishment where people can actually hear one another speak—i.e. not Babylon—is always risky, but the payoff is worth it, and as you pull into the garage, he’s curled into a fetal position in his seat, facing you, with an expression on his face that can only be described as the way one would look if they’d been mauled by a pack of Care Bears. “You’re the hottest fucking man on the whole fucking hot fucking planet, Brian,” he says to you, and then he sighs like admitting that just sent endorphins on a fun run through his entire body. When you open his door for him, he looks up at you with this dreamy look on his face. “C’mon,” you say, and you take his hand. He leans on you as you unlock the door to the kitchen, and the door isn’t even all the way closed, and he’s all over you. “This is why I like you drunk,” you tell him as you lean against the island in the kitchen. He stands up on his tip toes and pulls you down so he can whisper in your ear, “I want to get on my knees right now.”

 

 

 

You unzip your pants as your hand slides around to the back of his head, “Make it quick.”

 

 

 

He drops with a smile on his face, and you close your eyes, one hand on his face, one hand on your dick, and you control the whole experience, pulling him back, pushing him down, teasing yourself until you can’t stand it, and then you cup the back of his head and fuck his face, so hard he pushes back, and when you're done, he’s kneeling on the floor, wiping his face; you help him up and take him to bed.

 

 

 

*^*^*^*^*^*

 

 

Years of fucking Justin when he’s under the influence have taught you to undress him last when he’s inebriated because if you don’t, he’ll be fast asleep by the time you’re ready to go so you get to undress while he lies on your bed watching The Love Boat on TVLand clutching the walnut paddle he wouldn’t stop blathering on about all the way home.

 

 

 

“Isaac and Gopher were totally doing it,” he insists when you pry the paddle out of his hands to undress him, “And the doctor was totally giving them the condom speech at every port they docked at, and they never listened. You can just tell they never listened.”

 

 

 

“That’s very insightful.”

 

 

 

“Mr. and Mrs. Howell are playing ‘shuffleboard’ on the Lido deck.”

 

 

 

“Wrong show, Sunshine.”

 

 

 

“Where’s the Skipper?”

 

 

 

“On the island.”

 

 

 

“Fantasy Island?”

 

 

 

“Gilligan’s Island. You’re way off.”

 

 

 

“This is hard.”

 

 

 

“Then let’s turn it off before it gets anymore taxing, okay?”

 

 

 

The room goes black as you slide into bed next to him. When you run your hand down his back, he hooks his leg over yours, pressing himself against you even harder. “You haven’t spanked me today,” he says, his reminder hangs in the air. You kiss him on the nose and then the mouth; he moans in response, and then you warn him, “Your ass is going to file a civil suit against you tomorrow.”

 

 

 

“I don’t care,” he says.

 

 

 

“Count to ten, okay?” you ask him, your hand poised for action on his bottom, his arms wrapped appreciatively around your neck.

 

 

 

“Okay.”

 

 

 

You smack his ass once and say, “One,” to get him started; he moans. One the second slap, he says, “One.”

 

 

 

“That was ‘two,’” you point out.

 

 

 

“Three.”

 

 

 

……

 

 

 

His hand meanders from its affectionate position around your neck to a more volatile location between his legs. You spank him again, and he says, “…One,” and you try not to laugh, taking over for him as he fades in and out. He goes back to wrapping himself around you, giving you a rather slurred order, “Tellmeyoulovemeandreallymeanitwhileyoujerkmeoff.”

 

 

 

“I love you and really mean it while you jerk me off.”

 

 

 

“God, Brian, I’mtootiredrightnow.”

 

 

 

“I know you are. Why don’t you go to sleep?” you ask him as his hips rock back and forth enjoying your grip. “I am,” he says, and indeed his upper body seems to be. After a couple of minutes of affectionate silence, the rest of him stills, but when you stop touching him because you think he’s out cold, he scolds you, ”Uh,” in his own sweet, sophisticated way, so you resume your activities, and he wakes up—sort of. ”Will…you…spank me…tomorrow?” he questions your neck.

 

 

 

“I will,” you promise him, “Roll over.”

 

 

 

“Why? You’re...gonnafuckme?”

 

 

 

“I am.”

 

 

 

……

 

 

 

“Mmm. ThisisthedesertIordered.

 

 

“I’m too…gonna…come…because…I’m…sleepy.”

 

 

 

“That’s okay.”

 

 

 

……

 

……

 

 

 

“Is is tomorrow yet?”

 

 

 

“No.”

 

 

“Whenisittomorrow?”

 

 

 

“When I put you across my lap; that’s when it’s tomorrow.”

 

 

 

……

 

…...

 

……

 

“Ilovetomorrow.”

 

 

 

“Not half as much as it loves you.”