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Yeah, I did lots of “self-massaging” this weekend, pretending it was his hands.
Self-massaging with a happy ending, every time.
I glance over at the dividing window between my driver Ian and I. It’s shut. There’s still thirty minutes before we arrive.
That’s thirty minutes of relief I’m gonna need right now.
I sink into my seat and bring my hands to the button of my pants. With a flick and then a little pull, my pants are opened and my bulging underwear, revealed. Just that little act gives me such needed relief today, I sigh with pleasure.
My hand slides up the inside of my thigh, closer, closer.
It reaches the prized destination. Squeeze.
“Mmm,” I moan.
A minute or two of pure, firm, unrelenting rubbing ensues. My cock is fast to respond, pushing against the thin fabric of my boxer briefs and tenting them with desperation.
What the hell is it about this Trevor kid? One thought of him, and my cock turns into a marble column. I keep seeing the look on his face, over and over, when I finally got his shirt off and made him sigh into a kiss. He was like food in my hands, and all I needed to do was lap him right up.
I pull my cock out and start to stroke. Up every inch, down every inch. Even dry, my hand runs smoothly enough to bring me so much satisfaction that within seconds, my breaths grow short.
I went back to that damned nightclub Saturday and Sunday. He wasn’t there either night, and I waited for hours.
Keep stroking me, I tell Trevor, pretending my hand is his. Do it nice and slow. Make me want it. Make me fuckin’ crazy.
I was approached endlessly both nights. Women. Men. Boys. Girls. Everyone from one dim wall of the thumping nightclub to the other. And every single one of them got shot down.
I was convinced he would walk through that door looking for me. I was certain of it. There’s no way he felt nothing that night. I cast thunder through that boy, and I could see it in his lit-up eyes.
He wanted me.
And now that I’ve had a taste, I want more. Not just any pretty guy in a club is going to do it for me.
I’m getting close, I warn imaginary Trevor. You’re going so slow, it’s torturing me. I’m close and you won’t put me over the edge. Speed up.
Trevor looks down at me, his eyes darkened with a sexy mean streak.
Oh, I see. Now you think you’re the one in charge. Such a stubborn boy …
That stubbornness is what turned me on and frustrated me at the same time. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met at a club before. This Trevor kid, he has a mind of his own. He questions the world. Even his eyes poured with self-awareness and yearning.
Maybe I see him as a challenge. Maybe I’m ready to put my thumb on him, squish down his self-important attitude, and watch with amusement as he tries to fight to resist me.
Jerk me faster. Jerk me harder. I need to come. I have to come.
Trevor smirks down at me, stroking me so slowly that I tense and flex every muscle in my body, desperate for him to take me over the edge.
“We’ve arrived, sir.”
The sound of Ian’s voice jerks me out of my fantasy so hard, I sucker punch myself in the face with the back of my wrist.
“Thank you, Ian,” I state while unceremoniously stuffing my tender, stiff cock back into its ruthless, microfiber confines. I close my eyes as the racing of my heart subsides, cursing Trevor for trapping me so expertly in this position. If he wasn’t so cute and doe eyed, I’d think he planned this whole evil scheme on me.
Because now, I am going to have to go to that club every damned night this week, torturing myself until I see his face again. And this time, I won’t let him run away.
9
Trevor is working. Hard.
The atmosphere in the office is so different, I hardly recognize it from last week. Even the non-interns are acting stiff and wary, like they’re anticipating a great, scary thing to happen. The front receptionist’s smile looks pasted on, a mask. Even the sound of the wizards typing at the cubicles is reluctant, like they’re afraid to disturb someone’s nap. The break room is spotless, free of any stray Tupperware containers or crumpled-up napkins.
I spend my first few hours organizing folders, as per my cold, rigid supervisor Rebekah’s orders. She seems utterly unchanged, assigning each of us our tasks and then disappearing to her office to “take a call” every five minutes.
When it’s noon and I’m taking a quick fifteen in the break room, there’s still been no sign of Mr. Gage. Three employees are gathered at the counter by the fridge whispering to each other. I pick up a few of their words as I eat one half of the peanut butter and honey sandwich I’d made myself at Elijah’s.
