Look Closer: No Safe Words Here 1-4 out of 5. Boxed Set (8 page)

I wanted to put these few hours of alone time with Tom to extremely good use.

That’s when I saw Mrs. Sherwood’s black silk and lace stockings hanging from the smooth brass handle of one of her vanity’s drawers.  I suddenly had a very kinky, kind of disturbing idea.

I jumped off the bed and snatched the silk and lace stockings from where they hung.

*****

Tom grunted as I tied the second of his wrists to one of the brass slats of the bed…the bed he and his wife slept in every night.

I made sure the stalking were tied with care, pulling them tight enough that he would probably lose circulation to his hands—but it wasn’t those appendages I was worried about blood-flow to.

He was on his back, with me astride, my thighs straddling on either side of his hips.  His cock was already sheathed in a condom and generously slathered with lube.  At the moment it was rubbing distractingly against my ass, sliding up into my crack, back and forth over my tender sphincter.

I had decided against binding his legs—I wanted him to have traction, a range of motion so he’d be able to run the gambit of necessary hip thrust angles…and I wanted him to be able to pile drive his cock up into me.  That was probably one of my all time favorite feelings, ever: having Tom jackhammer his manhood up into my clenching guts.

I looked down on him and smiled.  He looked confused, yet excruciatingly horny.  Guess Susan Sarandon’s character was right in
Bull Durham
: a guy will let you do anything to them if they think it’s foreplay.

Which, fortunately, it was.

I pushed back a few times, making his hard cock bend back with the weight of my ass.  He groaned, and I suddenly felt all breathless.  It was time to get this party started.

I brought my hips forward, leaned back and guided his twitching prick up into my well lubricated hole.  I had that moment of feeling impaled all the way through to my eyeballs…and my guts had to stretch like hell to accommodate him, but I pushed back and sat down hard until my ass cheeks were flush the flesh of his crotch.

I moaned in ecstatic agony, and shook my head as I saw stars floating before my eyes.  My heart was hammering away in my chest, and I gasped to try to pull some air into my burning lungs.

I could see Tom’s arms flex, his powerful guns pulling hard on the silken restraints.  I knew exactly what he wanted to do.  He wanted to put his big hands on my pecks, rub my nipples until they were hard—which they already were—and then pinch them as hard as he could.

He always got me to yelp, which pissed me off as much as it turned me on, and then my asshole would clamp shut as he battered himself up into me.  A few dozen pain-filled thrusts and my hole would open up for him like the Grande Fucking Cannon.

But his hands were tied…literally.  So it was my turn to have the fun.

I placed my hands on his bulging pecks.  He had fantastic chest musculature—thick, cut, and perfectly proportioned…and perfectly balanced.  Most guys were bigger on one side or the other, but not Tom.  Mr. Sherwood prided himself on being perfectly symmetrical, in every way…

Except his cock pulled to the left, just a little.  But that was a rather fun physical eccentricity.

I rubbed my thumbs ardently against the perfect little nubs of his nipples, and they hardened under my touch.  I smiled as I took each nipple between thumb and forefinger and squeezed as hard as I could.

“Arrrrrg!”  Tom growled, and his hips slammed on up into me, causing a hell of a sharp pain as the tip of his cock crashed against where my asshole ended.

“Shiiit!”  I howled, and my ass clenched tight around his drilling piston. 

In control or not, he was still making me feel exactly as he wanted me to.  Full to bursting with his magnificent cock.

And with that thought my shit-chute opened up wide, and his well lubed cock started making lewd, wet suctioning sounds as he pummeled the depths me. 

But then I pushed down hard with my fists against his meaty pecks, and pushed my ass back to change the motion from an up and down fucking, to a back and forth slip slide.

Tom’s back arched as I humped my hips against him, back and forth, using all my hundred and eighty pounds to keep him still and flat against the mattress.  My cock must have been oozing pre-cum, because I suddenly felt my hard dick grinding, slippery and wet, against the washboard of his beyond-six-pack abs.

His gut scrunched and flexed, making each stroke of my cock across his belly all the more scintillating.

Jesus Fucking Christ this felt good!

I slipped into a rhythm and humped and pumped myself back and forth onto and off of that big, fat, pulsing cock.  I knew he was close—his eyes were clamped closed, and his jaw muscles stood out as he clenched his jaw.  He was fighting not to cum. 

That was good, because I wanted to cum first for once.  Tom always made sure I drenched the sheets with my creamy climax, but he always seemed to shoot first.  That and that he almost never got any of my spunk on him.  Last night when he licked up my splooge from his palm I about keeled over in shock.

But I wanted to mark him as mine.  I wanted to cum all over him, drench his flesh in my jizz, and made sure that he’d have to shower to get the scent of me off him.

Just that thought, and the way his cock seemed to jerk and harden like a freaking flag pole, and I felt my nuts jerk, my asshole twitch, and then spurt after ropey spurt of my seed shot from my piss slit, first pooling in the ridges of his fine tuned abdominals, and then sloshing over the sides of where his love handles would be—that is, if he had such a thing on his body—and the final shots jetting up to splash against the smooth flesh and bulging muscles of his chest.

For a dangerous heartbeat I looked down on him, not moving a muscle, watching his chest rise and fall rapidly as he gasped his arousal.

My god, the man looked good covered in my shiny jizz.

I reached forward and kneaded my sperm into the flesh of his chest.  I felt his lungs laboring to catch up with him, and his heart thumping against the palm of my hand.  And just as his hips rose to start pummeling my guts once more with his achingly hard erection, I clasped my hand around the base of his throat and squeezed.

Not hard enough to cut off his air supply and asphyxiate him…nowhere even close…but with enough pressure that I could feel every labored breath he drew into his lovely lungs.

And yes, god dam it, Tom Sherwood was the loveliest, most beautiful man I had ever met…

And a sad sinking feeling squirmed up into my chest.  A knowledge, dark and true and brutal, that no matter how many times I was with Tom, or how many times we said we loved each other, he would never be completely mine.

He was hiding too well.  And the town of Tempe needed him too much to risk coming out publically.

I watched breathlessly as Tom came, his hips thrusting madly up into me as he filled the condom stuffed deep up my ass.

I slid bonelessly sideways off his lap, his cock sliding out roughly from my well worn butt.  I fell over on my back, my arm crossed over his, and I groaned, sated and heartbroken.

He would never truly be mine…

He rolled over, his torso pinning me on my back as he slowly kissed me, our lips parting and caressing, our tongues rubbing and searching.  When he pulled back from the kiss, I was even more breathless than when I’d shot my load, and he had this possessive, wolf-like grin on his face.

He hadn’t gotten the memo: he considered me his, body and soul.

It was a pretty lie.

Chapter Eleven

Michael

I knelt by my bedroom window, lost in shadows, and watched my neighbor ass fuck the boy I was in love with.  It sucked, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.  I hated Tom Sherwood because he got to have sex with Marcus Wilkes more often than I got to jack off…but I was hard, and I’d been jacking myself off to the sight of them screwing their brains out for the last hour.

I’d shot my load against the robin’s egg blue semi-gloss that had adorned my room since I was twelve.

Shit, what I was feeling right then was a dichotomy of lethal emotions.

It might have helped if I’d ever dated before, had ever kissed another boy, or had ever even gotten to first, second or third base.  But I was as virgin as virgin got.  Capital “V” virgin.  And with the way I was hiding what I was, and that I wanted the best friend I’d ever had to be my boyfriend…well, I wasn’t changing that whole virgin thing any time soon.

I blame it on Cynthia Hyatt, who worked at Shaw and Locke Jewelers when I was nine years old.  I was in the store with my mother—she was picking up her engagement ring from being cleaned earlier that week. Cynthia was an old friend of mom’s, and they were chatting for at least ten minutes when the woman saw that I was zoned out and staring like a zombie at a cluster of topaz and diamond rings.

“When were you born?” the robust red head asked.

I raised my head proudly and raddled off my birthday: “August Thirtieth.  I’m a Leo.” Just like my mom.  Mom was forged out of iron, and appreciatively referred to as a bitch to those who crossed her.

Cynthia clucked her tongue and folded her arms under her ample bosom, all the while shaking her head piteously.

“Then you’re not a Leo, Mikey.”

I fucking hated being called Mikey, by anyone—it was even spelled out in glitter on my Christmas stocking.

My mother looked down at me, disapproval clear in her expression.  “Well what the hell is he then?”

A leading question if I’d ever heard one…if not a rather good one.  Later on in my short, bitter life, I would soon figure out I was gay—not bi-sexual, or gay adjacent, nor hetero-flexible (whatever all that bullshit meant). 

I was gay gay.  I was gay to the tenth power, to the ump degree.

And I was a freaking Virgo. 

Cynthia had trotted over to the key chain display and plucked one from the horoscope section.  She daintily held it out to my mother, who took it, examined it, silently lip reading what it said to herself, before frowning and tersely shoving the blasted hunk of metal at me.

Grudgingly I took it and stared bewildered at the prim looking woman with a bouquet of wheat in her long, lovely arms.  I put my nine-year-old reading skills to the test.

Virgo the virgin.  I didn’t have to read any further.  In ten second flat I’d gone from king of beasts to a virgin with wheat.

Talk about emasculating.  And to pour salt in the wound, I’d remained a virgin all my eighteen years—and not by choice.  I wanted to get rid of this boulder noosed around my neck.  I was young and horny, and fairly well built.  I ran track, and had a lean, strong athletic build.

But I was painfully shy.  So shy I hadn’t said two words to anyone that wasn’t a teacher—or my parents—in nearly four years.  Not that anyone would notice.  I was practically invisible at Crest View High School.

But I’d had one friend.  He was a year older than me, and had for some unfathomable reason stood up for me my first day of high school, even though we’d never met.  He’d backed down a cadre of over developed football jocks that were trying to stuff me into my locker.

Ever since then everyone had gone out of their way to leave me alone—and I slowly just faded from memory, no longer existing.

But Marcus always, always said hello.  He always sat with me if he caught me alone at a table at lunch, and he didn’t just sit there, he asked questions.  Important questions.

Like whether I thought Mr. Yagger, the chemistry teacher, was secretly sniffing the chemicals in the store room: most definitely yes.  Or whether I was going to go out for the football team that year: a decidedly firm no there.  And then one day, while waiting to board the bus to go home, he sidled up beside me and asked how long I’d known I was gay?

What-The-Fuck?!?!

I was about to turn and run when he nudged me with his shoulder and told me he’d figured it out in seventh grade when Richie Corwin had mooned the gym class during kick ball.  I knew who Richie Corwin was, and agreed that the sight of his fine naked bum would turn any red blooded guy gay.  He had a really great butt.

I told him that I’d figured it out while watching
Smallville
.  I had it bad for Clark Kent…and his hunky father, played by John Snyder.  I’d even bought the complete series of
The Dukes of Hazard
just so I could see him young and shirtless, and dripping with southern sweat.

Marcus chuckled goodheartedly and chucked me in the arm.  “Older men…that’s really twisted.” And ever since then I’ve been head over heels, over the moon—hard as a fucking brick!—in love with him.  

And he hadn’t had a clue.

But then I’d been running my usual seven miles on Christmas Eve last year, and slowed down at the sounds of gasps and grunts outside the Sherwood’s two car garage.  I was moving up the alley that led behind their house, since it led to my back door as well, when I heard the groans.  I stopped, tip-toed silently to the dimly lit window of the garage door, and peered through the spotless glass.