I didn’t think Brian liked to cook. After all, in the several months, I’ve known him, Brian hasn’t cooked a single thing. Sure, he makes lots of protein shakes and sandwiches (some of them with very bizarre combinations – hello, who eats peanut butter with avocados?) but I’m not sure Brian even knows how to use the stove-top burners let alone the oven. So I’m rather surprised and confused when I walk through the door and find Brian peeling a ginger root.

Holy shit! I think. Is Brian making a stir-fry? Sushi? No, definitely not sushi. I have a feeling he wouldn’t come within ten feet of raw fish. I’m not quite sure why I think that, but I’m nonetheless convinced it's true.

“Ah, Sunshine,” he says, sounding pleased. “Just in time.”

I narrow my eyes. Just in time for what? He probably wants me to take things from there. Apparently peeling one root of ginger is the extent to which he’s willing to go to make a meal. Now it’ll be up to me to do everything else. Lazy bastard.

“Now, now, why the suspicious look?” he says. “You claim I haven’t taught you everything I know about fucking. Well, let’s remedy the situation. Go to the bedroom and strip. I’ll be right there.”

“Are we going to have a naked food fight?” I ask excitedly. “Because if we are, I’d prefer whipped cream and strawberries over stir-fry.”

He gives me a bored expression. “Do you really need a lesson in food fucking? It’s not rocket science. Squirt some custard up your ass, and voila! You’re a cream puff.”

“Gross,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t knock it before you’ve tried it. Dribble some chocolate sauce down your crack and make it a chocolate éclair. Or use vanilla ice cream, and you’re a profiterole. Yum yum.”

He’s totally high. It’s the only explanation. Either that or he’s got a mad sugar craving.

“So, if we’re not going to cover ourselves in food, what’s with the ginger?” I ask, dropping my backpack on the floor.

He holds up the peeled root and admires it as though it’s the Hope Diamond, turning it about and scrutinizing it closely.

“Perfect,” he exclaims. “Now why aren't you already naked and on the bed?”

I’m suddenly a bit . . . anxious. There aren’t a lot of things one can do with a root vegetable, right? Right?

I climb the stairs slowly and take off my uniform, taking the time to fold it neatly. Yes, it’s true. I’m buying time. While I do it, Brian climbs the stairs ginger root in hand with a smile that can only be described as wicked. He places it on the bedside table, then pulls off his t-shirt and strips off his jeans. No underwear, of course. His cock is already hard. He’s definitely planning something, but what? He crawls onto the bed like a panther – intent and deadly – his eyes locked on mine.

“Lie back,” he says. “And spread your legs.”

I do as he says, and he positions himself between my thighs, lying on his stomach, his face level with my dick, which, despite my trepidation, is stiff and twitching. He licks a long, slow stripe from the base to the tip, his eyes never leaving mine.

“What we’re about to do, Mr. Taylor, is an activity called ‘figging,’ and don’t ask me why it’s called that because we’re not going to use a fig, we’re going to use this.” He reaches for the ginger and holds it up so I don’t have to lift my head off the pillow to see its pale flesh, blue in the bedroom light.

“Uhm,” I say. “How . . . ?” Honestly, I’m perplexed. The root is smaller than Brian’s dick and much smaller than the dildo he introduced me to last week.

“Patience, young grasshopper, patience,” he says. “First, we need to get you to relax. Remember what I told you about closing your eyes and concentrating on your breath. In, out. Slow and steady. Don't tense your body. Don’t focus on your dick. Just breathe.”

This is familiar. We’ve been practicing how to delay coming for weeks. At first, I sucked at it, but I’m getting better. The reward makes it well worth the struggle. A delayed orgasm is a thousand times better than one that takes a mere minute or two. The slow build-up is mind-blowing, almost better than the orgasm itself. Needless to say, Brian is really good at holding back. At first, it freaked me out because I thought he wasn’t coming quickly because I sucked at giving blowjobs, but he assured me that wasn’t the case. In fact, he’d told me he was actually pretty impressed with my fumbling attempts. Innate instinct, he’d called it. Sunshine, you were born to suck cock. Anyway, after I got over being freaked out, I realized he was holding back. Sometimes he held back for so long my jaw started aching in which case he backed me off and finished himself with long, slow strokes that gradually grew faster until his hand froze and he came all over his stomach with a beatific moan.

How long can you do that? I’d asked in awe the first time.

As long as I want, he’d replied. I’m in complete control.

I find it hard to imagine what that’s like. I can only control myself for a couple of minutes. He’s able to control himself indefinitely. Given how hot it obviously gets him, I’m super jealous. But he always assures me I’ll be as good at it as he is someday . . . as long as I keep practicing, which, quite honestly, is not exactly a hardship.

My mind returns to the here and now. He’s altering the pressure of his tongue from firm strokes to barely touching. I squeeze my eyes shut. One inhale, one exhale, one inhale, one exhale. He’s purposely avoiding the tip of my dick because he knows I’ll come immediately if he starts sucking on it. I’m sweating, the beads prickling at my hairline. My hands clutch the sheet beneath me.

I’m close and he knows it when he tells me to take a deep, deep breath and hold it. I follow his instruction and fill my lungs with as much air as possible . . .

. . . which quickly escapes with a yelp as something cool and stinging enters my ass.

“Ow ow OW!” I screech! “OOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!”

He snorts with amusement and then quickly swallows my dick, taking all of it down his throat and sucking loudly. I usually revel in the filthy sounds he makes, but not now. My ass is burning like a motherfucker. I can't concentrate on anything else.

“Brian!” I squeak.

His only response is to take me deeper, swallowing around the tip of my dick, his throat slick with viscous saliva. I whimper, caught between intense pleasure and searing discomfort. Not pain, exactly, but definitely discomfort. Almost pain. A stinging inside me making me fully aware of every nerve down there. My ass squeezes reflexively and the sensation intensifies. I can't stay still; there's just way too much of everything. I squirm and buck. He takes it all. The man simply does not have a gag reflex. I grab his hair and tug - it's not something I'd ever do in any other situation, but I can't help it. I can't help any of the moves I'm making, writhing, burning with sensation, balanced on the edge tears. I shift my focus to my dick and then to the slow, very slow tightening of my stomach muscles, the tingling heaviness in my balls that grows and grows and grows until it overwhelms the sting . . .

. . . and I come with an agonized sob because, shit! I’ve never felt anything like this before. Never even imagined it. Sure I’d imagined a dick up my ass and could guess what it would feel like, but this . . . this is something new altogether. Something amazing and scary. Can someone pass-out from figging? What about actually die?

Before I can catch my breath, he pulls the ginger out of my ass and replaces it with his finger. He’s still swallowing around my cock, and the intensity of the experience is slowly receding, receding, receding . . . and then it's gone. But not the memory. It remains technicolor vivid -as intense as the sensation itself had been.

“Jesus. Fuck,” I rasp when he pulls his mouth off my dick and lifts his head to grin evilly at me. Quickly, he sits up and rolls me over. I hear him open the drawer of his bedside table, and then he hauls my hips off the mattress. He’s using that cooling lube he has when he glides into my ass, and it feels amazing. Refreshing, actually. Like sucking on a mint . . . or something like that. You know what I mean. I sigh into the pillow and relax, letting him fuck me the way he wants without pushing back. I can hear him breathing, shallow and fast. Shallower and faster than usual. I grin. I’m pretty sure I know where that ginger root is.

His thrusts quicken and deepen and each one is accompanied by a whimpered grunt. His fingertips dig painfully into the flesh of my hips. He’s not just fucking me now, he’s pounding me, but still, he holds his orgasm back. How long can he take it? How long does he want to?

“Oh fuck,” he groans. “That fucking kills.” He laughs breathlessly. "God, I fucking love this."

I laugh. He’s so weird. He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back.

“Fuck,” he says again. “Okay, that’s it.”

He thrusts hard one last time and freezes chanting a litany of “fuck fuck fuck fuck” as he comes. Then he pulls out abruptly, and I roll onto my back. He reaches behind him to pull the ginger out of his ass. He holds it up and glares at it.

“Little fucker,” he says.

I laugh, and he looks at me with a big shit-eating grin.

“So,” he says. “That’s figging. I hope you got the hang of it because there will be an exam . . .”

“Not now!” I squeak in alarm, and he laughs.

“No, even I am not that cruel,” he says. “Besides, my asshole is a friggin’ ring of fire. It would take a butt plug the size of a fire hydrant for me to feel anything back there. Get up and get me an ice cube, will you? And hurry up. Chop chop. Jesus fucking Christ that burns.”

I go to the fridge, all the way feeling intensely aware of my asshole. I’ll probably be aware of it for hours . . . days maybe. Little fucker, indeed. I crack an ice cube out of the tray and return to the bedroom. As soon as I hand it to him, he reaches around and presses it against his asshole with a grateful sigh. It sounds like he’s just dived into a cool pool during the heart of a heatwave.

“Now that,” he says. “Was kinky. Not the kinkiest thing in the world, mind you, but definitely not mainstream. The only thing that's kinkier would be if we cut off a sliver and put it in our dicks. But that really hurts. As in S and M shit.”

I cringe. To be honest, the prospect doesn't even sound fun. I’m not sure whether I actually want it, but I ask him anyway.

“When are you going to teach me the other kinky stuff?” I’m both wildly excited and rather nervous about the prospect. After all, our activities have been progressing in a pretty straight line of what-the-fuckness. It’s hard to imagine what might be left to try.

He looks at me. There’s water trickling down between his legs from the melting ice cube. I long to lick it up. He looks like he’s weighing the pros and cons of something.

“We’ll see,” he replies. “It’s pretty advanced stuff.”

I puff out my chest and try to look tough. “I trust you,” I said.

He quickly looks away. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I know,” he says. “That’s not the question. The question is whether I do.”

He reaches out to me and pulls me close. We’re on our knees. He traces my lips with what’s left of the ice cube, his eyes never leaving mine.

“But we’ll find out,” he whispers and then kisses me before I can reply.