Lance Oliver Jordan 2

"I don't think I'm gay, sir" says my chickenshit secretary as he places coffee on my desk.


I pretend not to hear him. It has been over two months since his grand declaration that I was a "bullying bastard". I'd figured he'd chosen permanent celibacy over admitting he liked getting his ass fucked. He's barely looked at me since then, though he about hyperventilates whenever I come close. This is the first time he's addressed me without some sort of business-related prompt. He can give his own damn self a pat on the back. I won't reward him for rediscovering his own balls.

The kid keeps talking; either he knows I'm half listening or he's dumber than I think he is. "I thought about it, and the first crush I ever had was a woman, and I never stared at guys in locker rooms, and even through college I never even wanted to experiment with another man. I'd never even kissed a guy before that incident. I mean, not that we kissed, but nothing even like that."

"Incident," he says. Does he realize what he's telling me? I'm not a new citizen in Gayland. I don't mistake every second glance as a sign that someone is either judging my lifestyle or wants my body. My secretary had been staring at me through lust-colored goggles. I turned him.

I know the kid hates my ego, so he should realize when he's inflating it.

Yammer, yammer. "I'm just saying, I guess, that what," he leans in a little and lowers his voice, "happened that night," he straightens up, "was an aberration likely brought on by inebriation and the environment, and I just want—"

"Jordan," I snap. "I'm not your priest and I'm not your mentor. Say something relevant to work or find a large sock to shove in that diarrhoetic maw."

He flushes so red that for a brief moment he looks like a cherry tomato in a suit. I didn't need to be so mean, but it's fun to see him reining in his thoughts, squashing his temper, and returning to business mode. Plus, I admit that I've been waiting for the opportunity to use the phrase "diarrhoetic maw" in conversation for a couple of days. I am a shameless opportunist.

Lance Oliver Jordan clears his throat. "My apologies, sir. May I speak to you after work, then?"

I look up, caught off guard. "Pardon?"

"After work, sir, about, well, some things." He fidgets.

Narrowing my eyes, I put my pen down and lean back in my chair. "'Some things.' You should already know that I have a meeting at four, and we'll likely run late."

"Yes, sir."

"And you want to wait around and whine to me after that."

Balls fixed firmly in place, he replies, "Respectfully, sir, I wouldn't call it 'whining,' but there are some things I'd like to discuss with you privately."

"'Some things.'"

My secretary lifts his chin a little. "Yes, sir."

I shake my head. "I refuse to stay at the office after hours if I can work from home."

Those big brown cow eyes flick to the side. "In that case, sir, would it be too much trouble if I were to stop by this evening?" Jordan asks.

The first word that comes to mind is a loud WHAT!? I'm not the type whose jaw drops at every surprise, but I've no doubt that shock registers on my face. Is the moron offering to be a booty call after all that shit about aberrations and environment?

Apparently not. Jordan backtracks; the balls shrink and the chickenshit returns. "Or, erm, I suppose that would be too much of an inconvenience, I guess; ah, you'd be eating by then, and I, of course, wouldn't dare be so, er, impudent as to impose myself on your home," he stammers with small waves of his hands.

For being so into alternative exercise, like the company gym's rock climbing wall, my secretary has fucking dainty hands. I'd bet my paycheck that he gets regular manicures. I do remember them being smooth.

"—dinner," Jordan finishes.

I realize that I had zoned out. "That's fine," I reply, or at least think I'm replying in a relevant fashion.

"Really?" Jordan brightens, then looks concerned, and then like a nervous Chihuahua again. To what did I just fucking agree? "Then, is there a restaurant that you prefer?"

"For what, Jordan?" I'm growing frustrated.

My secretary wrings his dainty hands. "For dinner, sir."

Is he asking me out on a date? I don't want to date the little bitch, but I'll buy him one dinner if that means getting a better shot at fucking him again.

"Basil Spice," I say. I'm in the mood for Thai and it's not a particularly romantic nor expensive setting. The kid shouldn't be too uncomfortable when he realizes what's going on in the middle of picking at his jasmine rice. "If you want to bitch at me, be there by seven-thirty. No later."

Lance Oliver Jordan looks so relieved I briefly wonder if he wet himself. "Thank you so much, sir. I won't be late."

I don't really remember that meeting. We close at about five-thirty, I go home to shower, get my shit in order and change. I check my wallet for condoms before I leave, because my secretary will probably ride his bike, get drunk and cry about his newfound not-gayness, and then have to be carted home. And I? I will fuck Jordan's Christmas ham of an ass on the rumored ancient Murphy bed. The chickenshit deserves at least that much after holding it in for two months.

Jordan's already there when I show up. He and his fucking Parisian, ball-hugging, above-the-knee shorts are by the door shifting uncomfortably beneath that asinine vintage hat, the very one I knocked off his head the last time. The owners' daughter is hovering by him, clearly at a loss at what to do about such a sad, nervous fuck.

I don't greet him when I walk in, just talk to the girl, so he about jumps out of his pretentious-ass saddle shoes. "Is he bothering you?"

She giggles and shakes her head. "No, Mr. Bentley. This way, please."

She seats us at a table a little farther back, and I open my menu.

"You have now and between ordering and receiving each course," I say in response to my secretary's silence. "Talk."

"You look," he struggles for the right word, "nice."

It isn't an accident, kid. I put the menu down. I know what I want. "You're wearing a fucking ascot. Get to business."

Jordan's cow eyes glance at me over the top of his menu. "Of course, Mr. Bentley. Certainly. But, I haven't eaten a lot of Thai food; even when I went to Thailand I mostly just ate pad thai because that's all I could say."

I want to fucking shake him. Get to the point, boy. "You want a recommendation?"

"Uh, yes please, sir."

"No." Jordan's face falls immediately. "Reclaim whatever balls that made you start flapping your damn jaws this morning, and use them for good. Choose your own fucking meal."

His eyes drop back to the page and he lets out a weird kind of sneeze. We order soon enough. I let Jordan express his surprise when I order in Thai (does being a rough son of a bitch mean being unlearned? Fuck off), and then I watch him fucking pick at his damn fingernails for a full minute before I get irritated.

"Did you ask me to dinner to watch you stare at your crotch and flick cuticle bits on the table?" I ask.

My secretary immediately puts his hands in his lap and blushes. But there it is again, that weird sneeze, or snort, or cough that he did earlier. And he's biting his lips like he burned them. Fucking weirdo.

"Sorry, Mr. Bentley, I guess I don't know where to start anymore," Jordan says sheepishly.

I lean back in my chair and fold my arms. "Just pick up where you left off."

"Where I left off?"

"Sure," I say meanly. "About how that squirming you did on my cock—" here Jordan flushes bright red "—was an aberration because you were shitfaced and I have a fucking sexy loft."

"What I meant was that, I mean," Jordan takes a deep breath and starts again. "The Monday after, the, erm..."

"Fucking," I offer helpfully.

"Um, okay, well, I said that I didn't know if I was bi, gay or straight. Or that I had to struggle with that after being very confident in my heterosexuality for almost twenty-four years."

"And that it was my fault."

Dropping his usual formalities: "Yes."

Ah, it does me good to hear that. Good luck with your dilemma, kid.

"Well, I had blamed it on you," Jordan continues in a self-righteous tone, "but there was no way that I could rely on you to prove my own sexual orientation."

I narrow my eyes. "So you fooled around?" That's generally Gay Phase One.

That takes the wind out of his sails. He doesn't meet my eyes. "I guess. I mean, I didn't really, you know..."

"Fuck or get fucked?" I get a glimpse of those brown eyes, then he's all squirmy again like someone shoved a vibrator up his ass.

"Um, yeah, I mean, I tried other stuff, but it just never really did it for me."

"Where?"

That vibrator must have been turned on high. I don't know how the kid's staying in his seat.

"Um, do you know about Veteran's Park?"

Every gay man in this town knows about fucking Veteran's Park. The glory holes in the shit- and piss-covered toilets, the secluded areas and the patches of poison ivy—everyone knows them and everyone knows that only predators and the brand new desperate baby homos choose the park over one of the many gay bars and clubs in town. I want to choke the little chickenshit.

"Goddammit, Jordan, did you at least use fucking protection?" I grit out. Damn him to hell if he got an STD and my fuck for the night is ruined.

Fucking idiot's eyes widen to saucer size and he waves his smooth little hands at me. "No, no, no, I didn't do anything, but that's the only place I'd heard of that—"

"You couldn't just Google 'gay bar'? Or even fucking ask me, I'd point you to some twink club where they serve fruity drinks and play house music, and you could find other party gays to fucking blow you in the bathroom because they pass out condoms like candy. As long as you avoid motherfucking Veteran's Park. Jesus H. Kennedy, Jordan."

"No!" This time he yaps at me. "For the love of all that is holy, Cash, would you fucking let me finish a sentence?" Jordan looks around self-conciously and lowers his voice. "And quit yelling at me. We're in a restaurant."

Our food shows up now. I take the opportunity to cool down by being nice to our waitress and indulging in some quality Thai cuisine. I will not strangle my halfwit secretary during dinner. He needs to be alive and squealing during the ass-reaming to follow.

Lance Oliver Jordan takes a breath and a drink of water, laces his fingers together, and leans forward. "I appreciate your concern, really, and I know it was a stupid decision. At the time I was too ashamed of myself to go anywhere I might see someone I knew." He spreads his hands. "I mean, how do I explain that I'm there because my boss was bored with his usual sex friends. And that I got confused because, um, because I, you know, climaxed." He ends in a whisper.

How fucking quaint. "You mean that you came while screaming your boss's name?"

Jordan points a fork full of noodles at me. "See, this is why I didn't have the stones to come to you earlier," he says quietly through his teeth, "because of your fucking presumptuous HR forms and your smug attitude, as though I couldn't help but want to have sex with you because you're just so fucking gorgeous."

He's blushing the whole time, even when he's trying to insult me. Cute.

Another deep breath, another gulp of water, and he re-laces his fingers. "I went to Veteran's Park, and I walked around for a bit with condoms in my pocket, like an idiot." I snort, and his mouth twitches a little bit. "Yeah, I know. I just wanted to see what was going on. And it was pretty off-putting."

"So I've heard."

"Then I tried the porn route, but the music, or the cameraman talking, or the trite acting just got to me."

What the fuck else had he expected? I shake my head. "Put it on mute and play some Lovage or some shit in the background." He clearly hadn't run across classic Cadinot.

"That album is ridiculously expensive now, so, no. And nevertheless," Jordan finishes, "I don't think I'm really gay."

How is that the end of this story? The fucker's so gay he might as well have "Hungry Asshole" tattooed on his forehead. I'm about to remind him that he's into me, and the last time I scratched myself my balls were still there. Instead, I fill my mouth with food. If I get his panties in a wad now they'll never come off.

"Are you sure it's not because every guy looks like an idiot giving head?" I suggest. "You sure you like pussy better than cock?

"I think so. Perhaps. I don't know."

What a chickenshit. "Why did you need to tell me this?" I ask. "I don't give a shit if you're gay or not."

"Well, you're the only gay guy I know, and I'm still wrestling with this," he says quickly. "This is kind of a big deal for my life."

I can't be the only gay he knows, not with his liberal arts education, but I shrug. "Fine. Here's my take: You'd been checking me out since you started working. You didn't do anything you didn't want to do, and I didn't force you to because it's both illegal and that's not my style. You liked having a cock up your ass. A lot." I spread my hands. "And I think you left before I got up because you were embarrassed to have been fucked by me, not because you were ashamed of what you did." Were I a less confident man I would have taken it as an insult, to be truthful. It's times like now I'm glad to be a cocky bastard.

"Okay, that wasn't exactly what I was going for." Jordan looks at me, then down at the table. "Or, I guess it kind of was. I'm in a bit of a quandary," he says, looking away. "I just...I don't know anymore."

He's talking about the cock-in-ass part. I push my plate aside and resist the urge to pat my belly contentedly. Just enough to power me up for a long night of fucking all the hetero out of Lance Oliver Jordan. "What, either you ask me to fuck you again, or break down and order a dildo off the internet?"

Jordan chokes on his noodles so hard there's no doubt I hit the nail on the head. I start to laugh.

"Stop it," he mutters, wiping his chin.

I laugh harder. What a sad, self-denying fucker.

"Shut up," Jordan hisses, and he throws his napkin at my head. "Just be grateful that you ranked above a plastic penis."

Oh, I'm grateful. I'm grateful to his delicate pride and sensitivity that he allowed himself to finally make good on that two-month-old offer to fuck whenever he wanted. My sex life has been devoid of perfect bubble ass within that time. There has been ass and plenty of it, but sweet creamy firm ass like the one my secretary sports, that has been sorely lacking.

The time between then and when I have Jordan back in my apartment isn't worth recalling in detail. Since I'm getting nookie later I pay for dinner, which makes the kid all jittery and irritated. I do notice he didn't ride his bike.

Lance Oliver Jordan fidgets the whole way to my place, especially on the elevator. I'd bet my balls he's remembering what happened the last time he rode it. I keep my hands in my pockets, but not a small smile off my face. Bastard that I am, it feels damn good to have this prickly prude of a secretary come crawling to me for a good dicking.

We step off the elevator. I throw my keys on the counter and kick off my shoes. "Take your shoes off," I order. He does, but then stands there shifting his weight from foot to foot while I unbutton my shirt.

"What?" I ask impatiently.

"Can we..." he starts timidly. His ears are bright pink.

I drape my shirt over a chair. "Get on with it, Jordan."

"We didn't—" my secretary takes a shaky breath, "it just, last time everything just kind of happened really fast."

That's the best kind of sex, in my opinion. Hard and fast, and then I go to sleep. "Okay." I unbuckle my belt.

Jordan mumbles so softly I have to lean in to catch what he's saying. "Can we go slower this time?"

"What, do you want to savor the experience?" I agreed to fuck Mr. I-Don't-Think-I'm-Gay. That was it.

He wrings his hands. "Just think of it as showing me another way to have sex," he suggests quickly. "I mean, you didn't even kiss me last time, and I didn't know what I was supposed to do..." The moron can't finish a damn thought.

So he wants to make out first? I shake my head, but hold out my hand. Kid wants to experiment a little; I'll be the guinea pig. "C'mere, sugar," I drawl.

Jordan scowls, but puts his hand in mine and lets me pull him over to the couch. I sit him down so that one of his thighs is draped over mine.

"Okay," he breathes. "But if I—"

"Shut up," I say, and kiss him.

When our lips first touch he makes a little noise, a soft "Mm." For once I know how he feels. Even though I'm much more into the parts of sex that feature dicks in holes than the kissing and caressing, this is pretty nice. Jordan's lips are soft, not like a woman's, but smooth and full. I have to admit he's good at this. He starts with quick, close-mouthed kisses, running a hand over my chest all the while. When he finally opens his mouth my tongue darts in, running over his, chasing him when he pulls back a little. I start to massage the inside of Jordan's thigh, edging up to his crotch. He sits back.

"Hey."

I keep an exasperated huff in check. "What is it, Jordan?"

He furrows his brows. "Would you please not call me by my last name now?"

I roll my eyes, but I can't hold back a smile. I can see how that'd be a turn-off for someone with a permanent case of mental blue balls. "My bad. What is it, Lance?"

He gives me a penetrating look. "Could you please go more slowly, or just be nicer to me?" he asks.

I pull my hand away from his groin. "Why?"

Jordan, or Lance Oliver, gets so flustered I think he's going to cry for a second. "Well, it's because, I just, I don't think that...Not every gay guy, or bisexual guy, I guess, is going to try to get into my pants immediately," he sputters insistently. "I mean, like taking a little more time to let me get comfortable before going for my zipper. Or even just kissing for a bit and then trying something more the next time."

I don't know what expression is on my face, but it must be something between disbelief and disgust because my secretary actually flaps his little gay hands in frustration. "Haven't you ever tried just going on a date? One that doesn't have to end in sex?"

"Boring." I pull his shirt out of his shorts. "You wanted cock. You can have it."

"Ah, dammit," Lance growls, more to himself than at me, and gets up. "You know what? This was a bad idea. I'm going home."

Ah, dammit, indeed; my evening entertainment is trying to run away. I grab his hand. "Wait, wait, come here."

Lance pulls his hand away. "Nope." He doesn't look at me. "I already felt like an idiot for sleeping with my boss once. I don't need that shame again."

This is turning into a real obstacle between my penis and his asshole. Still, it's not my first time at the gay rodeo. Jordan's a type, and all types have certain buttons. I just have to push them in the right combination and he'll put out like a vending machine.

I get up and put a hand on his arm. "Hey, I'm sorry."

Those big brown eyes meet mine. "I bet that tastes sour."

"Bitter as hell, but there you have it." I step in and he doesn't move. "I know what you want but I'm fucking around, and that's wrong. I don't mean to make fun of you." Lies. All lies.

Lance turns and crosses his arms. He's clearly irritated, but he's facing me.

"Just forget it," he snaps. "I'll Google a twink bar, go have some fruity drinks and find a party gay to blow me in the bathroom. You can fuck yourself."

"Lance Oliver," I say firmly, putting my hands on his hips and shaking him a little. "Don't do that. It's not safe, and you won't feel any better for sleeping with a stranger than with me." That last bit might not be true, but he doesn't know any better. "Plus, some nervous kid could hurt you unintentionally. Or he could have a fake ID and you'd be committing statutory rape. Or he could have whisky dick. Or just a disgustingly weird penis. Or a diaper fetish."

Trying hard not to smile, Jordan bites his lips. Gotcha, you puffy-assed little bastard. "I doubt anyone would bring adult diapers to a club."

"You don't know that. The perv could be wearing it under his low-rise skinny jeans. Some twink with an emo haircut and ironic eighties glasses is just waiting to get you home, shit his pants, and make you clean it up." I pull him towards me a little, but he only budges half a step. Fine. "Clubs are always hit or miss. I'm a sure thing."

"There's nothing sure about you," Lance Oliver retorts.

Which gives me an damned irresistible air of danger, sucker. You are the mouse to my viper "You can be sure that I'm clean," I tell him, "that I'm experienced enough to be careful with you, and that it won't affect your position at the office."

Jordan glances to the side, then back at me. "That isn't enough."

I step closer so that our thighs nearly touch. "Okay, well then let me remind you that you liked it enough last time to make up lame excuses so you could try it again. I'll make sure you're enjoying everything that's going on. I give a damn whether or not sex with me feels good to you." Because I have a reputation to uphold and I can't stand crybabies. "Plus, I'm over eighteen, I haven't had so much as a beer tonight, and you already know what my penis looks like."

My secretary narrows his eyes, but he's not so aggravated anymore. "Do you have a diaper fetish?"

I kiss him and watch his eyes close even though he doesn't reciprocate. "I wait until the third date for that."

Jordan shakes his head, then scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm going to regret this."

I grin. "Not the way I fuck, you won't."

While unbuttoning his shirt I back my totally gay secretary into the bedroom. Jordan is kissing me like he's trying to resuscitate a drowning victim, probably because he's so nervous that his whole body is shaking. Plus, he's probably trying to distract himself from how I'm pushing his shirt over his shoulders, or how his dick is rubbing against mine through our clothes. He does at least take off his own belt, but then his hands go north again. Chickenshit.

I shove his shorts down over that magnificent ass and grab two handfuls, kneading the muscle there as I pull our hips together. Jordan bites my lip, at my chin, and nips down my neck. He squirms against me like a cat, both uncomfortable and aroused; the poor kid still doesn't know what do to with himself. I tug on his nipples to get his attention and he inhales sharply. Music to my ears.

"How do you want this to go?" I ask.

It's like Lance is looking at me through fuck-colored glasses. God, but he wants me. "What?"

"This is your show tonight, so you tell me what you want," I say, running my hands back down to his ass. "Plenty of foreplay, straight suck and fuck, multiple rounds, on your back, on your side, on your—"

"Okay, okay, I get it," he interrupts. "Just, be normal. Like how other, nicer guys do it. I want to not have to think about these things."

"Well, if you want me to lick your ass again then no kissing after that," I tell him frankly.

He recoils. "Gross."

I shrug. "Adults need to talk about this kind of shit."

"Is that why you didn't kiss me, last time?" Lance asks, looking away nonchalantly. Dumb kid. That must have really bothered the little pussy, given that he won't fucking let it go.

"Not really, but I'll make up for it."

"Okay."

He barely gets the word out before I pull him back to me. Sure I'll make up for it, so I can wind him up so much that he'll ride my cock like it's a Vespa and there's a farmer's market on the horizon.

The chickenshit just kisses me. Good kisses, for sure, but he's not touching my dick or his. His right hand is resting on my waistband, but he only runs his fingertips around it. He never quite takes the plunge.

Fine. The windup continues. I push him back until he sits at the edge of the bed. I drag his shorts and briefs off, and I can see that he's about to remind me that I'm supposed to be doing foreplay.

Shut up, Jordan. Instead of jumping in for a taste of cock like he expects I turn my attention to his legs. They're almost as hairless and sculpted as his ass. Jordan breathes heavily as I work my way up his left leg, nipping and sucking at the contours, leaving hickeys on the back of his knees. I can tell Jordan wants to touch himself. He keeps reaching for his dick, but always puts his hand back on the bed.

I don't touch his cock. I run my tongue from the inside of his thigh up to his navel and softly trail my fingertips up his thigh. The little bitch knows where this is going; he lies all the way down and braces one foot on the mattress to give me access. I fuck his bellybutton with my tongue and stroke my fingers over his tight pink hole. Jordan inhales and his hands come to my head, petting me like a cat. Down the other leg, just lips and teeth and tongue, listening to Jordan's breathy "oh"s when I do something he really likes. He really likes most of it.

"Okay," Jordan says desperately, tugging at my hair. "I take it back, skip the foreplay, I take it back."

You little piece of putty. "I haven't touched your cock yet," I remind him meanly, dragging my mouth up to his thigh. And goddamn he's hard.

"I know, oh god—" Jordan gasps and squints his eyes shut as I slip a finger inside him, "b-but, hah, I just need, I just..."

"What?" I ask with false innocence, biting at the tense muscles of his stomach. The way he's working his pornstar lips he'll either ask to blow me or want to get straight to the fucking, missionary style so that we can make out.

"Just come here," he says desperately. "Come here."

I crawl up on the bed while Lance scoots back to shove a pillow under his head. He pulls me forward by my thighs, fumbling at my zipper in his haste to get at the goods inside. I help him by pushing my pants and boxer briefs down low enough that I can get one leg all the way out. Jordan doesn't wait for me to finish undressing—he grabs my hips and dives onto my half-hard member, swallowing as much of it as he can before gagging. I shouldn't say anything, but I can't help myself.

"Lance Oliver Jordan, you are one cock-hungry motherfucker."

He looks up at me and furrows his brows. He'd be frowning if his lips weren't stretched around my dick. Jordan pulls off and for a second I think I've made him mad enough to walk out and leave us both with blue balls. He takes me by the shoulders and throws me on my back.

"Lance," I begin, dangerously close to apologizing for what's the goddamn truth.

Jordan's opening my bedside table—he clearly remembers where I keep the lube and condoms. He grabs a foil packet and tosses the bottle of lube at my face. "Mr. Bentley, you are an asshole," he states firmly. Then he goes for my cock again.

The suction is so strong that I have trouble focusing when Jordan swings his hips around to put his ass within easy reach. "Holy fuck," I say when he pulls off to tongue my balls. "Shit, have you been eating a lot of bananas lately? Cucumbers? Carrots?"

"Get busy," he orders, pointing at me without a backwards glance. His ears are bright pink, though; I'd bet the nut in his mouth that my little secretary has gotten acquainted with the produce aisle.

I do as commanded, nipping at his firm cheeks. Jordan has no trouble accepting two fingers straight off the bat, which makes me wonder just how well he and the mystery vegetable got to know each other. When I pull his cock back through his legs to lick the head Jordan's whole body shakes violently, but he goes back to bobbing up and down on my cock, working his hand at the base. He's leaking precum in a steady, salty drip that gets thicker every time I brush over his prostate. I hear him take a deep breath, then his mouth descends on me, hot, until I'm in his throat. Jordan swallows.

"Fuck," I moan. It can't be compared to any other experience, being in that man's mouth. Plump lips, then wet writhing tongue, and finally hot convulsing throat. Jordan rolls my balls between his fingers, gently tugging the sack to send electric jolts to my cock.

Pulling off, Lance quickly rolls a condom on my dick and turns around to straddle my stomach. He looks pleased as punch, like getting me to loose my cool for a second was his life's work. My cock brushes against his ass, and he wiggles against it, seemingly without realizing what he's doing.

"Time for phase two," he says, running his hands over my chest.

"Phase three," I correct him. Phase four or five, actually, given all the effort I've put in leading up to this point tonight. "Are you ready to get fucked?"

Jordan looks away shyly. "I can...I'll be on top," he mumbles.

I raise my eyebrows, "So bold our little angel becomes. Are you sure?"

Jordan bites his lip and nods. "If I want you to go slow," he reasons, "I need to be the one with the ability to move around."

Fine with me. I'll save my energy for deep-dicking him when his legs give out. "Hop on, cowboy," I say, and put my hands behind my head just to be an ass.

Inch by tight inch, Jordan backs up on me, and holy shit it's good. His ass is like those Chinese finger cuffs I played with as a kid, but so hot, so hot, slick from my fingers. When I'm all the way inside we both exhale. Jordan puts his hands on my chest, bracing himself as he starts sliding up again, dragging his cock and balls up my stomach, leaving a sticky trail. He rises until just the tip of my cock is in his hot hole, and then he goes down again, so, so slowly. He's scrunching his nose, curling his upper lip, and his teeth are clenched.

I won't say I'm worried, but it makes me uncomfortable.

"Jordan, is that just the face you make when your getting fucked, or are you in pain?"

He won't even look at me to respond. "I told you to quit calling me by my last name," he snaps. "And it's just my face."

"Are you sure? Because it looks like it hurts."

"Saint Agatha on a fucking pogo stick, Cash!" Lance exclaims, opening his eyes to glare at me. "I already feel like an idiot for fucking you, and you have to point out how off-putting my face is."

I wonder if I should point out that yelling at me while my cock is stuffed all the way inside him kind of adds to the ridiculousness.

"Sorry, sorry," I say, putting my hands on his hips. "I just wanted to make sure."

Lance rolls his eyes with a small smile. "Now I'm going to be all self-conscious about my sex face."

"Keep moving like that and it'll be a complete turn-on."

He laughs and leans down to kiss me, but I dig my heels into the bed and thrust into him, hard. Lance gasps against my mouth and pushes back, yearning for more cock inside him. Now I see what that face meant. It was desperation, a soul-deep need to be fucked, to be filled and to feel my length touching everything inside him. He's leaving nail marks in my chest, clutching my flesh every time he rises and falls on my cock.

My secretary rocks intently, his eyes glazed and his jaw slack. I'm running my hands over the his body; all of his muscles are tense, from the long sinews in his forearms to the tight ridges of his abs. When I flick his nipples Jordan suddenly focuses on me. He grasps my wrists tightly and forces my hands over my head.

"Stay," he growls. I let him hold my wrists together with one hand so that the other is free for his cock. He bites his lower lip in concentration, trying to match my pace. Fuck, he's sexy. He works his ass on my dick, grinding and undulating on me like a cat in heat. My blood is pounding in my veins, and that telltale tingling in my toes and fingers lets me know I'm close.

"I'm gonna come," Lance whimpers. "Cash, I'm gonna come."

"That's it," I tell him, "come for me."

He does, in quick bursts on my chest and neck, groaning through clenched teeth. Lance's whole body trembles; he looses his grip on my wrists and ends up clenching a fistful of my hair. His ass tightens like a vise, milking the cum out of my cock. My vision tunnels as I thrust into his hot center, fucking, fucking harder and harder until my insides are pouring out.

"Fuck," I groan. Every muscle, tendon, and ligament in my body is tense, jerking in time to the hot jizz shooting from the tip of my cock. "Oh my god, fuck!"

"Fuck," Lance echoes, collapsing onto my chest. His breath whooshes loudly in my ear. "Oh, shit."

Rubbing my hand over my face, I finally stretch my legs out. "Yeah."

"Yeah."

"So," I huff, trying to catch my breath, "still think you're not gay, dipshit?"

Jordan sneeze-snorts right into my ear.

"Oh, gross!" I spring up, shoving him off me to rub the violated orifice. "What the hell is wrong with you? Are you sick?"

He doesn't answer me, just lies there on the bed, face down, shoulders shaking. Did I make the pussy cry? I shove his shoulder and say, "Hey, look at me."

Turning his head just enough to regard me with one brown eye, Jordan blinks. "What?" he asks. His voice is muffed by his arm.

I notice then that the corners of his eyes are crinkled. "Has that snort-sneeze-cough been you trying to hide laughter this whole time?" I ask.

"No." He hides his face again.

"Don't lie to me, Jordan," I warn. All I have to do is shove an arm underneath his waist and flip him over to find that yes, sir, my secretary finds something hilarious. "You've lost it," I say in wonder.

Jordan is all white teeth and giggles. "Oh, man, I got you," he laughs. "Cash Bentley, you done got played like checkers."

I make a face. "Kid, you don't even know what that means."

He sends a pillow flying at my head. "Quit calling me 'kid.' You're like, four years older than I am."

"Apparently that's the amount of time it takes to know the difference between 'not gay' and getting fucked up the ass," I comment drily.

"Well, I knew I wasn't straight after you fucked my brains out that first time," Jordan says casually, rolling to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. "I'm maybe a 2.5 on the Kinsey Scale." He's aiming for nonchalance, but blushing ruins the effect.

"Bullshit," I snort, "you're a 5 at the least. Most guys don't ride cock their first time."

Jordan shrugs and stands, stretching. "Whatever. You wouldn't have tried to get into my pants again if I'd told you that you'd turned me super queer and that I wanted to move in with you and have gaybies."

Everything in me recoils. "Please tell me that's—"

"Don't be paranoid," Jordan interrupts with a dismissive wave of one dainty hand. He skips—actually skips—his Christmas ham ass into the bathroom. "I'm just saying that I wanted to have sex with you again, and given your proclivities I presented myself as a challenge. And I got you to be nice to me."

Pfft. I follow him to clean up. "So you made a bunch of shit up to get me to get you—" I slap his ass for emphasis, "to drop trou."

"No, I didn't lie at all," Jordan protests, rubbing the red mark I left. "You heard what you wanted to hear. I only lied about..." his voice drops off in a mumble.

I turn the shower on. "About what, Jordan?"

"Hey, you lied, too!" He has to yell over the hiss of water. "You told me you didn't give a fuck!"

"I only gave a fuck about fucking that hot ass from which the rest of your body sprouts," I reply.

"Come on." Jordan perches on the sink counter top, watching me through the glass. "Why were you so mad when I told you about Veteran's Park?"

"Righteous indignation for the veterans." I open the shower door. "If you're staying any longer you might as well hop in."

Suddenly Jordan's back to the old chickenshit. He stammers, "Really? Oh, no, I can wait, I don't want to intrude, it's just—"

"Get in, Jordan."

He obeys, dragging his feet. His face is all red again. "You're really not going to kick me out tonight?" he asks when he joins me.

I roll my eyes. "I'm not that mean." For one terrifying moment I wonder if I should feed him in the morning, but quickly dismiss the idea. Fuck me if I start treating him like something he's not.

"So I could have stayed the other night, too?" He fiddles with the shampoo bottle; won't meet my eyes.

"I don't beat around bushes unless they're made of pubes," I say shortly. Jordan snorts. "Get to the part where you say what you want to say."

He blinks his big cow eyes at me for a moment, then smiles. "Nope."

Little fucker thinks he can outsmart me again since he supposedly tricked me into bed. "There may not be a next time for you to tell me," I say as I brush past him.

Jordan spits water at my back. "Sure, sure. I have some party gays to blow in a club bathroom, diaper fetishes to cater to, that sort of thing."

"Dry your hair before you get in the bed," I call over my shoulder.

Jordan hollers after me, "So...I'll probably be gone before six."

"And have your fucking alarm ringing before then? No fucking thank you," I reply.

"I need to go home, change, and get something to eat before work, though," he protests. My secretary walks out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and one wrapped around his head like a turban. What a prick—his hair is barely long enough to count as more than fuzz. "And the bus leaves at five forty-five."

"Fuck your alarms," I yawn. "I'll make you a fucking omelet and drive you home. Just turn your damn phone off, for the love of whatever mustachioed hipster god you worship."

"Deal," Jordan agrees way too quickly. He hops into bed before I can see his expression, but I'll bet he's fucking proud of himself.

"Well played, passive-aggressive chickenshit," I grumble. Maybe I should have kicked him out, after all.

"Thank you, Mr. Bentley."

I hope I have eggs.