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Part 29: Brian

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Justin calls a few seconds after the driver shuts the door on the Benz.

“I’m half an hour out,” I say, in lieu of hello.

“Sounds good,” he says, then pauses. Uh-oh. “You sound weird. Is everything okay?”

Jesus, this kid. I consider the two honest answers available to me, and, in a decision that would be entirely unsurprising to anyone who’s ever met me, choose the one that’s easier and a lot more fun, if also a lot less relevant.

“I haven’t had sex in four days, of course I sound weird. My ball feels like a honeydew melon.”

Justin makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a laugh, which does not help the situation in my pants. At all.

“No guys to fuck in Toronto? That’s disappointing,” he says, voice slightly strangled.

“More like plenty of guys to fuck, but Gus begged me to stay in the guest room at Mel and Linds’s.”

Justin snorts. “And you didn’t bring back any tricks? We’ve screwed in much more outrageous places.”

He’s right, but Honest Answer #2 (don’t worry, we’ll get there eventually) meant that I was trying very hard not to piss off any of the Peterson-Marcuses any more than I absolutely had to. Because of the aforementioned pants situation, I don’t tell him that. Instead, I say, “Tell me you don’t have plans tonight, because I was dreaming about your ass every day I was gone and if I don’t have you soon I think I might fully dissociate.”

Justin whimpers again, and I weigh the pros and cons of rubbing one off in the car. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and hangs up.

Five minutes later, I get a text from him. It’s a photo of his lubed, stretched asshole, shiny and dripping. I nearly bite through my tongue.

Another text pops up (like some other things). don’t keep me waiting.

you fucking tease I write back, massaging my aching dick through my pants and willing there to be no traffic on 495.


Justin isn’t in the living room when I get home, so I toss my jacket on the couch and undo my belt as I walk towards the bedroom. I open the door, and- “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Hi, honey,” Justin says, smirking. He’s put the charcoal silk sheets on the bed, and he’s stretched out on them, naked, stroking his big, gorgeous dick, which is flushed and standing tall. “Have a good flight?”

I don’t especially feel like answering - or doing anything other than eating him alive, really - so I just pounce on him, kissing him rough and hot while he tears at what’s left of my clothes.

He shoves his face into my neck and breathes in, enough that I can feel it in the hand I have on his back. “Sorry,” I murmur, right next to his ear. “Didn’t get the chance to shower this morning.”

Justin moans, low and hungry, and dips his head to lick a long stripe up my chest. When he comes back up, his eyes are glazed and dilated. “I can tell,” he breathes, biting at my neck, the hinge of my jaw. “You’re fucking delicious.”

I knee his legs apart, and he gasps and wraps them around my waist, panting and clawing at my back. God, I want to hear him beg for it, so I let my smile sharpen into something a little more vicious, and he fucking sobs my name.

“Ruin me,” he’s whimpering, “fucking make me yours, Brian, please, I need it.” Fuck, he’s so hot, all spread out for me, and if I didn’t have superhuman powers of control I’d be shooting buckets all over his perfect taut stomach right now.

We haven’t played this game in a while, but I want to make him come screaming until he’s just a limp pile of limbs on the bed, and it’s the best way I know to get there, so I lean down so I can whisper into his ear. “Hands and knees,” I tell him, and he audibly gulps, dick jumping in my hand, and turns over.

I open the toy drawer to get out my favorite pair of padded shackles. “Safeword?”

He turns his head and puts a hand on my neck, kisses me, soft and sweet. “Trombone.”

I kiss him again, bumping our noses together, and he smiles before letting me chain him facedown to the headboard. I plaster my body over his, feeling the warmth of his body against my chest, desperate need for release momentarily stilled. Then I murmur, “Count,” into his ear, and he whimpers agreement, and it’s fucking on, a beautiful pink blush spreading over his shoulders as he wriggles and strains against the cuffs.

I land one palm right in the middle of his left asscheek, and he moans. I wait. “One.” There we go. Smack. “Two,” Justin gasps.

“Out of practice, are we?” I say. Smack.

“Three,” he says, twisting his head around to look at me. “And fuck you.”

I grin. “Only if you’re good.”

He flips me the bird with both cuffed hands.

Smack. “Oh, fuck yeah,” he groans. “F-four.”

By the time he gets to twelve, Justin’s biting a pillow, shaking and moaning incoherently in between slaps, cock dripping onto the sheets. I decide to make it a baker’s dozen and call it a day, because I really need to take the edge off soon before I embarrass myself.

“Don’t come,” I tell him, and he howls through clenched teeth as I land the last slap on the now-pink skin of his ass.

I put on a condom and slick myself up, and then I try not to lose my mind as I sink into him, hot, tight, quivering underneath me. He’s trying his hardest to hold off, I can see it in his trembling clenched fists, but when I start nudging his prostate, rolling my hips in the rhythm that drives him nuts, he groans long and low and comes, untouched, shuddering and contracting around my overtaxed dick, and that’s it, I’m coming too, coming my fucking brains out, moaning and gasping and thrusting desperately faster as he whines pitifully into the pillow.

I unlock the cuffs and gather him into my arms, kiss his nose, his temples, rub his wrists. He looks up at me and smiles, obscenely satisfied.


I smile back. “Yeah.”

He slides a hand down my chest and curls his fingers around my dick. “How long until you can go again?”

I tip him back onto the bed and push my tongue into his mouth, eating up the decadent needy sounds he’s making. “Depends.”


“How fast do you think you can get me hard?”

He grins, somehow evil and adorable at the same time, and bites my ear. “I’m going to blow your fucking mind,” he purrs, and I settle back and let him work his magic, no doubt in my mind that he’s right.


When we’re finally done, I collapse onto Justin’s heaving chest, listening to his pounding heartbeat gradually slow while he strokes my hair.

“So,” he says. “What’s really bothering you?”

I can’t help being impressed. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“You of all people should know that by now.”

I sigh. “Apparently someone came to Gus’s school to give the drugs-and-alcohol talk.”

Justin grins. “Don’t tell me they’re teaching about the evils of poppers now.”

“I wouldn’t know, because all Gus would talk about were the evils of cigarettes.”

Justin rolls us onto our sides, and I scoot up so we’re eye-to-eye. “Oh,” he says, sympathetic, like he knows what I’m about to say.

“He knows I smoke - who doesn’t? - and eventually it led to a tearful breakdown where he explained that he’s terrified I’m going to get lung cancer and die.”

I reach up to rub a spot on my temple that’s starting to ache, and Justin puts a hand over mine, warm fingers gently pressing into my skin.

“That must have been hard.”

“The worst thing is,” I say, “he’s right to be worried, much as I’ve always tried to deny it.”


“I’m getting too old to be putting quite this much shit into my body, Sunshine. We both know that.”

He frowns. “So-”

“So I’m going to quit.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Justin kisses my hand as I bring it back off my head. “I’ll do it with you.”

Fuck. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to do it,” he says, eyes all fiery and intense, which means there’s no stopping him. “Just one of our many addictions, right? Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Your optimism is inspiring.”


“Not in the slightest. Just give me one of those pillows you’re hogging over there and we’ll call it a deal.”

He gives me a pillow - actually, he hits me in the face with it, but pedantry is for boring people - and we seal the pact with a kiss. I have a strong feeling that that’ll be the conclusion to the fun part of this process, but who am I to tell?