If you haven't read part 21, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.Independence Day is a three-day-weekend, but Brandon doesn't go home. I'd like to say that he stays with me, since I volunteered to earn holiday pay at the coffee shop on Monday. It's late at night and there is a commercial for the movie Secretary. A woman crawls down a hallway with a letter in her mouth. I snort.
"It's not a bad movie," Brandon mumbles, eyes on the television. I'm sitting close to him because I let him sit down first. Our knees are touching.
I glance at him. "You've seen it?"
"It's not bad," he repeats, a little defensively. "It's more of a romance, but in kind of an artsy way. Not bad."
I am silent for a moment, contemplating every remotely sexual interaction that I've had with him. I realize that I'm the one who initiates. I kissed him first. I kissed him second. I was the one who first took his hand when we watched television together, who fell asleep on him when it got late, and who hugged him when he said something sweet. He had touched me, kissed me in return, but only after I had done so first. Any contact he initiated was in a teasing, playful way, as though daring me to go further.
I open a door. "So it's the art people telling you to free your mind and spank your partner."
Thankfully, he laughs. "Kind of. I mean, the main characters both have issues. It's a lot of them trying to figure out what works. Like, what's okay for them for each other. They're each other's catharsis." He looks at me, finally. "That makes no fucking sense."
"No, I understand." I put my arm on the back of the couch and touch his head. "It's not something that's easy to talk about," I said, nodding toward the screen.
"Yeah, I mean, what is it like, to really give someone else control?" Brandon asks me, his tone too casual.
I steal a glance at him before answering. He's staring up at the ceiling, not looking at me, but his whole body is tense.
"I'm not the best source," I said honestly. "I think I’d prefer to have some control, and so that ruined my whole experience."
"Yeah, I remember you said it wasn't for you."
I'm surprised that he remembers what I barely recall saying. All of the sudden I'm aware that he's never done anything like this before, not even playful games. This is why we haven't had sex yet, I realize. Brandon had to have been nervous about his curiosity when I constantly bemoaned my sexual experiences. I think of the sub I saw at Mr. Hale's party who antagonized his dom because he knew what was coming and welcomed it. Perhaps that was propaedeutic to this conversation.
"There was one time when Mr. Hale decided to show a bunch of his friends that it was possible to make someone orgasm without ever touching his penis."
Brandon raised an eyebrow. "Did it work?"
"Yes." He had already proven himself with the gigolo. I had been the next step to prove it wasn't a fluke.
Brandon turns his head to me and asks, "Why are you telling me this?"Because you're afraid to want it. "It was the only time I ever had no control over what was happening to me," I tell him, wanting to help him understand. "It was embarrassing, and he had to handcuff my hands behind me, and get a couple of guys to hold me down so I couldn't hump the table, but I reached orgasm without my dick being touched. I think that's the only time I've ever not had any control over my own—" Everything that I can think of sounds weak and saccharine. "—you know, whatever," I finish feebly.
I can tell that Brandon is intrigued because his breathing speeds up a little even as he laughs at my wry tone.
"That's not awkward at all, you telling me your domineering ex could make you do the impossible."
I brush the hair away from his ear and watch gooseflesh appear on his cheeks. "I'm not inclined to repeat the experience. But other men were lined up, waiting." Brandon turns his eyes back to the television. In profile his lashes look impossibly long, almost childish. "I also watched a sub bite his boyfriend's hand."
"Er." Brandon is uncomfortable. I shift, putting my thigh fully against his.
"I remember wondering why the hell he would do anything to get his face smacked," I murmured, still stroking my fingers through his hair. "Then he absolutely smirked at me when he got dragged off into the kitchen and fucked."
"Smirked, say you, good sir?" Brandon smiles. "Smirked."
"Yes," I retort, tugging his ear.
"But I learned a lesson: bite a man's hand and he will bone you."
Brandon laughs. "You're an idiot."
"It would be easier to show you than to tell you," I say. Suddenly I'm nervous, too, because I know that I'm going to have to initiate everything that we do. I said I wanted control; now I had it and little idea what to do with it.
Brandon takes a deep breath. "Show me? What?"
"Here," I say, grasping locks of his rich brown hair, "it starts with the way you're touched." He watches the TV as I rise and settle over him, bracing my hand on the back of the couch and placing each thigh on the outside of his. His eyes close slightly.
I place my mouth near his jaw, centimeters away from kissing his neck. "We only have three points of contact right now," I explain, tugging a little at his hair for emphasis, "but you are trapped. I know it, and you know it."
"Okay," he breathes. "Right."
"But at the same time, you're not," I continue. "You could shove me off. Instead, you leave your hands at your sides because you know I want them there."
Brandon almost nods, still staring straight ahead. I think he's afraid to move.
Placing my other hand on the back of the couch, I lean to pin Brandon's gaze with mine. "You have options right now," I inform him. "You could snap at me and see what happens. You could lie limp like a rag doll. You could try to kiss me."
He drops his eyes, blushing. "I don't—"
"You don't talk," I interrupt, "unless I ask you a question or you want me too really, really, stop."
Brandon's mouth closes with an audible snap.
"You do what I tell you."
He nods, seemingly fixated by an infomercial on the television. Reaching over to the side table I grab the remote and switch it off. There will be no distractions.
"Unbutton your jeans."
He does so, jumping slightly when I place one hand on his belly. Brandon drops his hands back at his sides when his pants are unfastened and I turn my hand, sliding it fingertips-first into the opening. I don't look away from his face. Brandon closes his eyes as soon as I pull on the waistband of his boxers. I dip my fingers inside, past the curls.
My heart will beat from my chest any moment.
"Nice," I say genuinely. I have held many a shaft in my day, but Brandon's proportions are near perfection. He turns red again, leaning his head on the back of the couch. My hands tremble as I stroke him. I'm terrified of doing something wrong or taking this too far. What if he decides that it's not what he wants at all? Brandon's hands are curled into fists, but the rest of his body is relaxed. I've never been trusted this much to take charge.
A thick, weighty kind of lust swims through my body. It is frightening to be in such complete control, yet there's something about it that inflames and excites. I know that I could go too far, but the thought of leading Brandon down paths he has gazed at with longing but never dared to tread...I decide that whatever tone he wants our physical relationship to take, I'll give it to him. If he wants to be teased, I'll tease him. If he wants to be bound, I'll tie him up.
It's the first time that I've ever been grateful for my sexual education.
Lifting the hem of Brandon's shirt, I press it to his mouth. "Bite down," I instruct. He does.
Brandon's stomach is ridged and firm, but the whipcord muscles are evidence that his strength doesn't come from the gym. Keeping one hand on his cock I push his shirt up to his collarbone, exposing rosy pink nipples. I brace my hand on his hip and bend my head to nuzzle the center of his chest; the shallow valley between the muscles there is smooth. I scrape it with my teeth, listening to Brandon's sharp inhalation.
Trailing my tongue to a nipple I flick it gently, then hold it between my teeth. Brandon holds his breath. I bite down.
The sound comes from his throat helplessly. I pull with my teeth, liking the way his body follows me. I know it hurts. When I let go Brandon falls back against the couch, his cock leaking furiously in my hand. I stroke him gently while I blow over the tortured nipple.
Brandon swallows then exhales through a mouthful of t-shirt. "Oh, god."
That has me hard and tenting my gym shorts. I could make him suck me; I'd tell him to wrap his pretty pout around my cock and he'd do it. I could watch him try to not reach down and touch himself and rub his legs together in a poor attempt at self-stimulation.
I almost do it, but seeing Brandon's flushed cheeks and parted lips stops me. Right now my task is to teach him about vulnerability, not servitude. He trusts me to bring him satisfaction, to give him fulfillment.
I choose to leave the other pink nub bereft, a small torture in itself, as I slide off the couch. Settling between Brandon's legs, I give him a tap on the ass.
"Lift," I say firmly.
Brandon raises his hips enough for me to pull his jeans and boxers to his ankles, leaving him lightly fettered as I push his knees outward. His pink shaft is standing at full attention, curving hard against his tight belly. I watch as a bead of white liquid forms at the tip of the slit, grows, then slides in a pearly trail down the flared head to his ridged stomach.
The words are out of my mouth before I think about them: "That's beautiful." A flush creeps over my face, but I mean it. This side of Brandon—pink cheeks, brow slightly furrowed in concentration, upper lip curled slightly to reveal white teeth, legs spread wantonly to reveal a rigid member—is a facet that was mine. We are breaking ground together, and I could claim it as my own. I want to mark him all over, to leave hickeys and teeth imprints and make him remember my touch no matter what he did.
I lean forward and licked the wet spot on his stomach, savoring Brandon's rich taste. Then, sitting back on my heels I pull Brandon's hard shaft away from his stomach. I kiss the tip, holding the smooth head lightly between my lips, and suck gently. I run my fingertips up and down the smooth tapering column, tracing the veins and ridges. From the corner of my eye I notice Brandon raise his hand, likely to stroke my hair.
Taking aim at the space between cock and thigh, I flick him hard. Brandon inhales sharply and his thighs twitch, muscles bunching. He drops his hand with a whimper.
My instinct is to apologize and tell him that I didn't intend to cause him pain. I could, but another pearl of precum emerges under my tongue. I lick it off, swirling my tongue greedily around the tip, and remain silent. My own cock is straining for attention, but I can't seem to tear myself away from Brandon's intoxicating scent, the heady taste. I nibble my way down to his low-hanging sack.
Still teasing the cockhead with my thumb, I buried my nose in Brandon's curls, running my tongue over the balls underneath. I take one into my mouth, sucking gently, then the other. The only sounds are Brandon's heavy panting and the wet smack when I pull off his balls. I suck harder one at a time, working Brandon's shaft with my hand. The musky smell is a heady aphrodisiac, and I'm going to lick him all over until I've found its source.
I scrape over his balls with my teeth. Brandon sucks in air through his teeth, releasing a short, "Ah!" and his cock twitches. I smile. I'm going to drive him crazy, and he can't do a thing about it.
I scrape my teeth over him again, but this time I pinch the skin between my teeth. Brandon's legs are so tense he's shaking. I stroke his thigh with one hand and stroke his cock with the other. I bite down a little harder. Will he like it? Will he stop me? I tug a little, stretching the sac, flicking my tongue furiously over the delicate skin. The pace of his exhalations increases then grows irregular.
He's going to come.
I slap his stomach and his eyes fly open. "Not yet."
His brows furrow pleadingly and his mouth opens, but he nods silently.
The amount of trust that Brandon places in me is staggering and arousing all at once. I have his balls in my teeth, and he leaves his hands at his sides. I can't remember when last I was so hard, so aroused simply because the man whom I was servicing relied on me completely. It is as though each nerve ending is a cation ready to spark and fissure my skin at any moment.
Slowly I taste my way up his cock, running my tongue and teeth over his skin. I spend a moment on the sensitive part just underneath the head, nipping it and tonguing the crease of the glans. Brandon is trembling with the effort to remain motionless, his stomach muscles are bunching and his chest heaves with every breath.
Finally I take his cock into my mouth, savoring the taste of the emissions that cover the head and drip down the shaft. I watch Brandon's hands, clenching and unclenching on the couch as he fights the urge to grasp my head. I could bob my head faster the way I know he wants me to, but I keep my pace leisurely, swirling my tongue over the flared crown and pausing to scrape my teeth just behind the head.
At a pace that I know to be torturous I slide my lips down the shaft of that beautiful cock, down until my nose and lips are pressed to Brandon's pubic hair. His breath catches in his throat and I pull back just as slowly. I take a deep breath and repeat the action while working my tongue on the underside. I tease him for a little bit; I know he's ready to come, but I'm not finished playing with him yet. I love how smooth the skin is against my lips, the spongy quality of the crown, the taste and smell and size of his cock. I could do this forever, but he can't. Concentration is evident in his clenched fists, the wrinkle between his brow, and the way he pulls at the cloth trapped between his teeth.
I lift my head and place my lips on Brandon's abdomen, a little below the faint mark of his boxers' elastic band remains. I suck the skin into my mouth viciously, wrapping my arm around Brandon's hips when they lift involuntarily. He whimpers as I bruise the fair skin, pulling away with an audible pop.
Turning my attention back to Brandon's cock I lick the head once, twice, and then take him into my throat, swallowing when my lips touch the base.
Brandon's hips buck and a cry wrests itself from his throat. He's coming, he can't help it; his balls are tight against his cock and the shaft trembles as he spurts into my throat. I pull back, wanting a taste, swallowing and swirling my tongue over the savory, salty ejaculate that burns in my mouth. I suck as hard as I can, determined to pull every drop of cream from his body.
Only when I am sure that his climax has ended, I climb onto the couch and straddle Brandon again. There is a huge wet spot on my shorts. I grab Brandon's chin and force a kiss on him while he gasps, returning the taste he gave to me. He moans, pressing his tongue to mine.
I push my shorts past my hips, and my hard cock springs up to slap my stomach. Placing one of Brandon's hands on the aching length, I press my forehead to his neck. "Finish it," I say, unable to hide the desperation in my voice.
I'm so wound up that Brandon brings me to orgasm within a minute. His slim hand, muscular and calloused from time outdoors, slides over my shaft in lightning-sped strokes. I come on his stomach, my arms wrapped around his shoulders and pressing myself to him. It's explosive, a manus mittere of the control I've held since we've started, marking his skin in hot pearly ropes. I groan, maybe something coherent passes my lips; I can't tell. Brandon's hand is on my cock, my seed is on Brandon's stomach and his taste is in my mouth. The darkness behind my eyelids is turning white; my body is electric and pulsing to the beat of my release.
We stay there for a moment, panting. Brandon drops his head against the back of the couch. One of his hands is still squeezing my cock and the other strokes my thigh.
"Holy fuck," he laughs. "Holy, holy fuck."
I kiss the corner of his mouth. My mind is empty with the aftershocks of orgasm.
"Good night," I say blankly, kissing him once more, and stumble to my room.
My dreams are filled with Brandon, with the shy acquiescence when we began, to the nervous trust when he let me tell him what to do, the heavy-lidded lust that caused his hips to buck helplessly. My sleeping mind replays the way his stomach clenched when he came, the way his brows furrowed in concentrated ecstasy, and how he tried so hard not to speak because I had told him not to.
A small amount of guilt is inescapable when I wake the next morning. Am I doing to Brandon what had been done to me? Was he sure that he wanted this? I had left him with a mess to clean up and not a word to say thank you. Had that been too inconsiderate?
"Tuck," Brandon's sharp tone cuts through my contemplation. I look up at him, terrified that he's angry with me for using him. He takes in my expression and chuckles. "I said good morning like, four times, dude. Wake up."
I shake my head in profound relief, "Sorry."
"Can I have a bite of your toast? I have to stop by the bank before work."
I check the bag of bread. There's another two slices in there. I gesture at the plate. "Take the whole thing."
"Thanks. You can come to my birthday party."
"I'm honored," I say, then catch his wrist on its way to my breakfast. He stills as I turn his palm upwards. There are four crescent-shaped marks on his palm. Did he blame me? I shouldn't have let that happen. "I've never done that before, what we did. I'm sorry."
"Don't," Brandon says quickly.
Had he broken the skin of his other palm, too? I bend my head and touch my lips to the marks, then release his hand. "That won't happen again," I promise firmly. I'm not sure what I'm promising; it could be anything he wants as long as he doesn't get hurt.
Brandon freezes, and then hits my shoulder. "I don't give a fuck about that. If it really bothers you, give me one of those squeeze-y pressure ball grip-enhancer thingys." He grabs my toast and shoulders his bag. "Or get two. One for each hand."
I release the burning air in my lungs.
"Or maybe," Brandon pauses at the open door and wiggles his eyebrows lewdly, "we'll put those marks on your ass."
The sack of bread hits the door as he ducks out, laughing.