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“You want it, too,” he says.
He’s not wrong. “I’m not gay, either,” I tell him, just so we’re all clear. “And this is fucked up.”
“Hmph. Well…” He slips his pants down, his leaking erection springing out to slap him in the abs. Impressive.
“Pervert,” I say.
“Do it, Drew,” he says, a new urgency in his tone, bordering on desperate. “I’m not fucking around about pressing charges.”
I don’t doubt it. And you know whose voice I hear in my head—fucking Peggy’s—Well isn’t this perfect?—is exactly what she’d say if she had to come bail me out on assault charges.
“How often are you gonna want me to do this?” I ask, even as I slide my hand around his pale, slender neck.
A shudder runs through him, and his hand flies to grip his cock. The sight puts a twinge in my pants, too, much to my annoyance, but not surprise. I’ve had a few dreams since the first time I came up here, and the image of choking him with my dick woke me up in a cold sweat yesterday afternoon.
I don’t know what this is, but I do know I was lowkey excited when that tiny package arrived last night, and if that means anything… I’m choosing not to examine it too much. I have to acknowledge, judging by the fact of my presence here, that something in me needs this. If I can’t control my own fate, I can control his. It’s not a turn-on—not exactly. It feels more like a compulsion. Like an urge I can’t deny.
It’s fair to say I’ve entered the burn it all down stage of frustration and rage. Better than depression, which still gnaws at the edges of my consciousness, begging to be let back in to remind me I’m not good enough for anything but a service job that involves dog treats and pushing elevator buttons. Maybe I like feeling chosen even if it is for this one twisted purpose.
You know what? I’m desperate enough to accept that.
He groans instead of answering my question, his head falling back to rest on my thigh, offering me more of his throat to grab. “How often?” I ask again, keeping my touch relatively light to make him answer.
“Every day,” he says.
“I don’t work every day, asshole, and you can go fuck yourself if you think I’m gonna come all the way up here to watch you jerk your dick on my days off.”
“Fine, then. Whenever you’re here. Whenever I tell you to.”
I’m sorry—who’s doing the choking here? My grip tightens, because this doesn’t work if he thinks he’s the one in charge. I’m not his goddamned toy.
“You don’t make the rules, Olivier, you posh little perv. When I’m here, and you’ve got your dick in my line of sight, you call me sir. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” he croaks. “Yes, s-sir—fuuuck.”
I hit him on the back of his head because I don’t want to see his face. The view I do have is more than enough right now. Sitting back on his heels, Olivier fucks his rapidly moving fist while I gradually cut off his air supply. I keep a close eye on him, the way his skin reddens first then pales in places. But his hand moves with robotic speed, and he thrusts up into it, too. Like he’s been reduced to a mindless organism with one urge only. Not even the urge to survive. If he had that, I’d think he’d grab at my hand, attempt to peel my fingers away from his throat.
I wonder if I’d allow that. Would I stop if he needed me to stop? It’s not like I can’t feel his pulse beneath my thumb. It’s lightning quick. And it’s not like he drags this out—he’s rushing to the finish line.
“Mmmph…mmm…unh…” are the only sounds he can make, and they’re strangled by my fist.
He’s close. Trembling. I let him go, and with two more strokes and a gasping intake of air, cum shoots from his tip in thick white ropes as he groans and continues to thrust, cursing and making sounds like it hurts to come like that. Unlike last time, when I couldn’t bring myself to watch, this time, I do.
His hips rise and fall back onto his heels in smooth arcs of movement. Not insignificantly, the last minute or so has gotten me hard. My very confused erection is pressing at the strained fly of my pants. The Heir’s head is thrown back now and his purple, parted lips give me thoughts—adulterous thoughts. Wild, filthy, totally alien thoughts I can’t even be sure belong to me, but they all boil down to one stark, undeniable sensation.
Need.
Dark and depraved.
Within the next few seconds, my dick is free of my slacks, and I’m no longer standing behind The Heir.
8
OLIVIER
Suddenly I can’t breathe.
“Suck.”
