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“Mr. Rayne. How was your night?”
I swallow, tugging on my swollen balls. “Fine.”
“I can hear the rumble in your voice. You’re hard now, aren’t you?”
I grit my teeth and suck a breath in through my nose. “I can’t go in a church like this.”
“You can—and you will—if you want to keep your job. It’s not just any church, it’s my church. I’d like to bring you to your knees while you’re there.”
My hand cups my thick, slick tip. I rub my thumb over the little slit there, sending sparks of light dancing behind my closed eyes. “I can hardly walk.”
“Toss back a few shots before you get into your car. Your place is well-stocked.”
“When I drink, I want to fuck.”
“I want you to want to fuck, so that sounds perfect.”
“Every time it rubs there…” I can’t bring myself to say it.
“Every time it hits you there, you’re leaking. You don’t like that?”
My face heats up, and my throat tightens. I swallow, but I can’t get my voice steady. “I can’t do that all day.”
“I think you can. But you’re not staying all day. I’m giving you a pass home at four.”
I inhale and clench around the fucking toy. “If you turn it on…someone will notice, Luke.”
“That’s the hard part. Get it? You might want to mention food poisoning. A migraine. Something that would make you sweat and rush for the men’s room.”
“I can’t do it.” I stroke myself. Jesus, my erection’s never felt this thick. “Just come over. Let’s fuck now.”
“I’ve got a busy morning. I’ll come through the atrium on my way upstairs. I’ll be on the phone, but when you hear my voice, I want you to turn around and get something out of a toolbox. Bend over.”
“Luke—”
The line goes dead.* * *I brought some snug tighties for the work—in case he got too close and I got hard—and a size-too-small pair of boxer briefs for the same reason. I tuck my painful hard-on into the briefs, then step slowly into the boxers. Trouble is, my dick’s in overdrive, my balls swollen and tender and my cockhead constantly slick.
The plug is thick enough to stretch me, and it’s deep enough that if I move in certain ways, it grazes my p-spot. I’ve sort of worked out what movements lead to that, but sometimes they can’t be avoided. Like leaning down to pull up boxer-briefs…or ducking into a car.
My phone, on the shelf, vibrates just then. I step over to it, gritting my molars as I try to grab it without moving my legs. There’s a text: Hi V, check your porch! Your order has arrived! –DC
“Fuckk.”
Moving down the stairs has me doubled over by the time I reach the bottom, hard as steel with my damn balls so full, they feel stuffed into my briefs.
I clench around the plug and get a deep breath. As I walk toward the door, I try to think of something to deflate my dick. A cemetery. Spiders. Those commercials with sad puppies in cages. Fucking hell, man. I’m still mostly hard, my cock tucked against my abs as I step outside and scoop up a small package with sweaty hands.
I rip it open in the foyer. Discreet Couriers, the label says. Something pale, and in translucent packaging.
I tear it open and check out the tag. Support briefs…with waterproof lining.
“Fucking hell.” I sort of laugh. I’m like two wrong moves from blowing on myself. I decide to swap out what I’m wearing right here in the foyer and walk slowly to the kitchen for some sort of breakfast.
I’m hoping the briefs will be uncomfortable enough to help me deflate, but they feel sort of like spandex. They’re a little tight, holding my hard cock up against my abs, pressing my balls against my taint. I feel around back, and I realize that the absorbent padding is back there too. Good. Might help hide the outline of the plug’s base.
I pull the boxer-briefs on over them, take a second to tuck myself in, and move slowly toward the kitchen.
I get out some grapes and put them on the counter. Then I realize… “Fuck.” I better go food-free today. Might even help my dick go down a little faster.
I climb up the stairs slowly, stopping twice to groan when the plug hits me just right. Back in my room, I have to lean down to go through my bag again. The plug makes my knees shake like crazy. I don’t want to come now with the underwear on, so I grit my teeth and try to focus on clothes.
I’ve got my old, ripped black jeans. They’re a little loose. I put them on and button them, and oh fuck! The plug’s pressed deeper by the seam of the pants. It feels…so good.
I throw on a thin T-shirt and look through my bag for the old, paint-stained plaid button-up I packed in case I got cold in the atrium. It’s not big, but long enough to cover my backside.
