Page 33 of A Long Con

I rummaged around in O’Bell’s bag for the weed. I had no pipe, but he had tucked some papers in next to the baggie. I tried rolling on the thriller novel while dictating the answer to Cloud. I hoped my phone didn’t type something insanely different from what I was saying, words that weren’t even in the dictionary, as it did so often.

I said, “Tell him a month. We’ll be coming home tomorrow with or without it.”

It looked as though it translated that correctly, so I hit the arrow to send.

Then there were the usual texts from New York friends that I hadn’t been answering. They knew it was difficult for me to write, so it would be no surprise to them. But I missed them. I missed Ash and our great loft with dungeon hand stocks, a spanking bench, and a leather sling hanging from the ceiling. Our friends just thought we were being artsy. Okay, I guess some of them knew we were into BDSM. Nobody ever commented on our furniture. They were too cool.

Sitting there waiting for some bad guys to come get me and toking up some couch lock sinsemilla rolled in a very haphazard way, I began to reminisce sadly. It wasn’t easy to reflect back on all I’d lost just because I’d gone to the dark side. I don’t think Ash approved of my underworld dealings. “You’re the best at what you do, naturally,” he used to say. “You sold out the last Sterling McCarthy show. You don’t need to be the Artsy Dodger. You can be yourself.”

It was pointless to mention the last Sterling McCarthy show made about five grand, while I could make five hundred grand on a fake Cy Twombly. Our monthly rent in Long Island City was three grand, so even a successful show wouldn’t get us far.

I was adept at playing roles, though, and they said I was charismatic. I survived by my only skill—my art. It wasn’t until someone tried to look up my nonexistent grandmother in Piscataway who had unearthed an amazing unseen Picasso in her attic that things went awry. My mentor Split Waterman was forced to cover for me as I made my getaway, while reminding him, “Who would prefer a bad original to a good fake?”

Split had said, “It’s the bad luck of fakes that they’re defined by what they aren’t, instead of being valued for what they are.”

Now, according to Ira Hogshead, Split was on the run from the FBI too.

Everything depended on Royal and me successfully forging new careers in Rough and Ready.

Missing Ash and thinking of Royal, I got an idea. I went to my own duffel bag and removed one of the few things I’d had time to toss in there—Royal’s furry handcuffs. He was still wearing the collar even after showering, which gave me courage. I went into the bedroom, sat on the edge of his bed where he was sprawled on his stomach, and gently tugged down the sheet.

Fuck me raw. His perfectly sculpted ass was displayed in the moonlight as a gorgeous, silvery-tan hill at night, just begging for me to touch.

So I did.

I cupped the velvety globe in my palm and ran it over the slope. I even squeezed his muscular thigh a bit. Emboldened, I clutched my own hard-on, pretending it was Royal’s hand who massaged me.

When I slid my palm back over his stupendous buoyant ass, daring to venture a couple fingertips down into his crack, he moved.

He moaned slightly just like a guy sleeping, wiggling his hips a little, maybe unconsciously rubbing his own cock against the mattress. In doing so, he parted his thighs a bit. He gave me the chance to slide my middle three fingers entirely down his crack, tickling his exposed asshole, and glide them to meet—

His unbelievable fat, long, and rigid penis.

Holy mother. It had been stuffed between his thighs before he’d rolled onto his stomach, and now it was so firm and distended I could slip my fingers down the underside to dip them into a few drops of precome.

There was absolutely nothing stopping me from diving completely face-first into his bottom, lapping at his hole, then sucking on his swollen ballsac, eventually raising his hips to plunge his colossal meat into my mouth.

The only thing stopping me was pride. Egotism, you might say.

I had built my entire persona on being a Dom, and a Dom I should continue to be. Taking another man’s dong into your mouth was not the sign of a true Dom.

I allowed myself to ponder this for a few more seconds while enjoying the slick heat of his penis, rubbing my thumb slippery with the jizz against the ridge of his glans. My mouth watered and my prick jumped.

Then he groaned again, more lucidly this time. He began to raise his torso and mutter. I had to make my move.

I was going to show him who’s boss.