I’m beginning to think this was a mistake.
I stand in front of the door, my hand raised – poised before knocking. I have a niggling feeling that this is a mistake and that I shouldn’t have accepted his last minute call.
I don’t do last minute. I’m not strapped for money and I like to take my time, carefully plan my schedule. I hate being rushed.
So why did I say yes?
Well, because it was him. And because it’s only been four weeks since last time – it got me wondering.
I tried sending him to Kyle. He said he preferred it to be me, and when I told him I wasn’t available, he offered to double the rate – like that sort of thing could work on me. I hung up.
He called again the next morning. Apologized tightly. Said he would really appreciate it if I could work him into my schedule. Any time, any place.
I was curious about his uncharacteristic, thinly-veiled desperation – and also maybe a little flattered.
And now I’m regretting it.
I check my watch: I’m already five minutes late. I could just cancel the whole thing; tell him I got caught up in something else. There are several reasons why this could go pear-shaped pretty fast.
I knock on the door, nonetheless.
He opens, looking broodier than ever. He hardly meets my eyes as I pass him.
This is not “our” suite. It’s smaller for a start; still plenty classy enough, but different and more limited in terms of space and amenities. This is what you get when you give short notice.
I stand in the small hallway, waiting for him to lead the way. There’s no lounge area to speak of, no Jacuzzi, and frankly nowhere to go but the invitingly ample bed. Unless he fancies doing it on the pompous-looking desk over there in the corner. I’m game if he is.
I’m aware that this is going to be awkward for him. He’s always been in total control of everything so far, but today we both know how he’s had to grovel to get this appointment with me. There are two ways I can play this.
One, I spare his feelings and his dignity and pretend this is business as usual – just a normal, long-standing appointment – thus doubtlessly earning major kudos and gratitude points along the way.
Or two, I milk this situation for all it’s worth, make it a living hell for him – remind him at every possible opportunity that I’m the one granting a favour here. And probably never see him again.
I’m sorely tempted to take option number three: the middle-of-the-road approach.
As he extends a hand to show me into the room, I get into his space and push him up against the wall. I can see in his reproving eyes that he knows what’s coming.
I kiss him. As long and as lusciously as a closed mouth kiss can warrant. Fifteen seconds of near perfection. Taking perverse pleasure in the fact that he lets me do it, of course. What other choice does he have?
When I release his lips, he’s flushed and his frown has a flustered quality that makes him look cutely infuriated.
“What was the rush?” I ask, a hint of teasing in my voice.
I can see he considers not answering the question. He’s obviously not someone you get to interrogate.
“I’m leaving the States for six months in two days,” he informs me stiffly. He hates my guts for making him say it, but he knows he owes it to me. The straight line of his pretty mouth is grudging.
“Ah, so this is a send-off.”
“If you will,” he concedes crisply.
And in a swift move that surprises me, he reverses the situation – pushes me back and pins me to the other side of the hallway. Kinky.
“And now that you’ve agreed to being here, for which I’m duly grateful, I’d like you to follow my rules,” he all but snarls.
Wow, longest sentence yet.
“Your wish is my command,” I promise smoothly.
“T-shirt, boots, socks. Off,” he orders.
And this is where things are going to get awkward – because I know he’s not going to like what he sees. And I don’t know how he’s going to react.
He steps back somewhat to give me enough space to undress. I level a look at him, trying to convey that he’d better brace himself for something new – and proceed to peel off my brand new black tee.
His eyes instantly zero in on the bluish hickey on my shoulder – so far, the only symptom of his distaste is the frown that chevrons his brow.
Then he notices the lonely scratch that starts on my other shoulder. With a bit of luck, he won’t…
I dutifully turn around, facing the wall, and wait for it.
There’s tense silence behind me.
This is another reason why I think coming here today was a mistake.
It’s not just one scratch. It’s dozens of parallel, angry red scratches slanting off to my sides in painful symmetry, following a pattern that leaves very little to the imagination regarding the nature of the activity that caused them.
In short, my back is gouged with fingernail marks. Courtesy of an over-enthusiastic client with issues whose number I’ve now blocked.
When anything of the sort happens, I generally wait long enough for the marks to fade away before going with another client. It can upset some.
It can excite others.
It only takes one little thing to set them off. If a client starts “branding” me in any way (say, with a hickey), it inevitably sets off others who also want to apply their mark – each wanting to outdo their predecessor. I’m pretty sure some would piss on me if given half the opportunity.
And while cat scratches from a waif of a prima donna are bearable, I’m not too impatient to see what the 6-foot, broad-shouldered Ice King presently tracing the marks with cool fingertips could get up to.
Thank fuck he can’t see the claw marks on my ass.
I slowly turn to face him again.
His cold gaze has turned positively polar; his face, though, remains a careful study in detached interest.
“Mating with wild cats?” He cocks his head to the side cynically.
“More like indulging cougars.” Though she was technically younger than me.
The term isn’t lost on him – neither is the gender. There’s something resembling disgust brewing in his eyes.
Come on, your highness: you do realize what I do for a living, right?
“Crouch,” he tells me.
“Don’t kneel. Crouch,” he elaborates, smooth and cold as a blade. A hand is on my chest, keeping my back firmly against the wall.
A shiver of lust runs through me as I slide down the wall into a crouch in front of him. His filthy mind never ceases to amaze me.
My eyes are now on a level with his groin. He unbuttons his black chinos and frees his erection with his right hand – the heel of the left hand presses on my forehead, grinding the back of my head into the wall.
His rock hard thighs pin my shoulders back as he brings his hips closer to my face and I’m too mesmerized by the sight to remember how to breathe. I part my lips around the glistening head. He gives an experimental thrust and grunts in satisfaction as his cock slides perfectly inside me.
His hands brace on the wall high above my head – and he starts to fuck my mouth with sweet abandon. I have no other word for it, but the term doesn’t do justice to the purity of it.
Slow, sensual undulations of his hips that drive his cock into me over and over again. A thing of beauty. The penetration is deep, masterful and yet considerate – making it easy for me to ride the onslaught.
I’m pinned to the wall, defenceless under the barrage of sensations. His cock is impossibly full and rigid over my tongue – already leaking pre-come. The smell of him is everywhere around me.
He growls in pleasure as I manage to grab the back of one thigh and encourage him along. I can feel my fingernails going white and painful under the strain of my grip. I’m going overboard again. Moaning. I want him to come like a freight train.
And he does, with a deep, guttural, “ahhh yesss,” that almost pushes me over the edge. His release fills my mouth and I’m flying with the pleasure of it.
He stays a long moment like that, his forearms braced on the wall, his thighs heavy against my shoulders – breathing hard. I’m not surprised: that was fucking intense. I let his softening cock slip out of me. I have this crazy urge to purr my contentment.
I look up at him. His pale blue eyes are unfocussed and he seems adrift in a drugged haze. He’s riding a wave of endorphins and he’s beautiful.
He meets my gaze and I suddenly see him. The real him. The one who has been consistently eluding me ever since that first cry of stunned pleasure, a little over three months ago.
He’s looking down at me. Lost. Almost in pain. I don’t know what to do.
I break eye contact. Stroke his thigh gently.
It’s none of my business; I’m just here to make sure he gets his rocks off.
He releases me. Disappears into the bathroom, as usual.
I stay crouched for a while, my knees protesting when I finally stand up; I distract myself with the pins and needles sensation that paralyses my calves and feet.
When I finally make my way to the bed and sit, I realize I’m numb with exhaustion.
This is the final reason why I shouldn’t be here. His last minute call required me to reschedule a few things, forego a few others. Like sleep.
I try to rub the tiredness out of my face. I pour myself a glass of water from the nightstand and drain it in one go, hoping it’ll cool me down and wake me up a little. I’m feeling strangely brittle and it worries me: you seldom make the right decisions when you’re exhausted.
Also, I hope he doesn’t want anything vigorous because I’m not sure I can deliver.
He takes a little longer than usual in the bathroom. When he comes out, a soft towel hugging his ass, he looks utterly composed – the cold, sky blue of his eyes inhumanly perfect. Forsaking the bathroom break, I get to my feet, reach for him; he lets me wrap one arm around his back and brush a finger over his cheek. I kiss him.
He pulls back instinctively, blinking, but I insist and press my mouth to his. I slip my tongue between his lips and he moans in objection, his jaw and shoulders tensing up. I suddenly understand: he can vaguely taste himself and it revolts him.
His reaction annoys me so I persist. I push into him, deepen the kiss – chase his tongue. It’s not dirty, for fuck’s sake: it’s just him!
As soon as I stop forcing him, he stops resisting, so I change tack.
“Try it,” I whisper against his lips, hoping that gentleness will convince him. And amazingly enough, it works. Curiosity gets the better of him – a simple stroke of his tentative tongue into my mouth. That’s all I’m asking for.
We break apart. He gulps a little conspicuously; the serious frown is back. He turns his back on me, takes off the towel and kneels on the bed – giving his usual instructions in the same ritual words. I take off my jeans.
Condom, lube – I get ready for him.
There’s a pause. He’s not on all fours yet; his head is tilted forward, self-searchingly. With slow deliberation, he places his hands behind his back.
“Take my arms and hold them back,” he instructs in a quiet, low voice. “I’ll tell you when you can come.”
My guts sink at the requests. Not regarding the ban he’s putting on my orgasm again, but because of the sort of position he has in mind.
It’s a brutal position he’s asking for. It’s not the romantic holding-hands version. It’s the rape-mimicking, arms-constraining version. The kind of submissive posture that leaves you totally at the mercy of your top.
I could hurt him if I’m not careful.
And the sad truth is I don’t want to have to be careful; I wish he’d asked for just about anything other than that. It’s too much to ask from me given the state I’m in. I’d like an uncomplicated fuck; a good old pounding that leaves him drenched in sweat and sated. Something simple that doesn’t require me to be so watchful of his wellbeing. I’m too tired, and I’m beginning to think my head is obviously, seriously messed up when it comes to him – otherwise he wouldn’t be able to spread my emotions all over the place the way he does.
I feel unfairly cornered and slightly claustrophobic, and that never bodes well.
But I’m a professional, and he’s my client. I’ll give him what he asks for. Just wish my body wasn’t so well trained. Or that his body wasn’t so desirable. Where’s erectile dysfunction when you need it?
I kneel behind him, stroke an asscheek with the back of my fingers – watch goose bumps run across his skin. I touch his left wrist and gently close my hand around it. The pulse is racing, the hot flow of blood jumping beneath my thumb. I kiss his shoulder.
“Lean on one hand, first,” I murmur in his ear.
He complies, while I keep his wrist in my grasp. He widens his stance and leans forward, the move slowly making his soft, wet opening accessible to me. My cock is soon poised there, about to breach him.
I take a breath and slowly enter him, my free hand on his hip. Thrust into him a couple of times. He gasps – a sound filled with anticipation, almost impatience. This is really what he wants.
I tighten my grip on his wrist and start to pull. His body arches back a little until he locks his shoulders. The tension I’m applying is transferred to his whole frame – I sink in deep. Another slow pull and I sink in even deeper. He moans in wonder.
But he wants more, so he rears up and offers me his right arm too. I grab him by the forearm and lean back a little to balance his weight: my cock buries impossibly deeper. We’re now locked in a tense equilibrium, our arms almost describing an ellipse – the calm before the storm.
Every time I’m going to yank him back, he’s going to impale himself on me. The sensations are going to be quick and sharp – violent, in many ways.
But it’s what he’s asked for.
So it’s what I provide. I’m doing it my way, though. The yanking is as smooth as I can make it. The penetration is intense but not painfully abrupt. However, he soon understands how to get leverage through his taut body; he’s all but lunging forward to force me to rear back to preserve our balance – making me tug harder on his arms.
He ambushes me into giving him much harsher thrusts, and howls his satisfaction.
He bears it, he likes it… Who am I kidding, he craves it – even though my cock is impaling him with ever-increasing viciousness. The only reassuring thought is that, with the fevered pace he’s setting, he’s not going to last long.
Already his thighs are quivering and his breath is short. And my body is not far behind, my balls aching with the need for release and my cock virtually bruising with the intensity of it – I hope I can hold off until he allows my orgasm.
The wave slams into him first, stealing his educated, velvet voice and replacing it with a raw, animal cry. He starts coming, his body shuddering with the force of it.
“Come for me, Jack,” he begs in a strained rasp.
The shock of hearing my name is so complete that my orgasm explodes out of me – making me roar in sheer tortured bliss. In reflex, my arms snap him back forcefully onto me one last time, wrenching a keening gasp out of him. It feels like I’m filling that condom with burning lava.
How did he manage to play me like that?
I’ve never heard him say my name. Whether it be during phone calls or our appointments together, he’s never ever called me by my name. Knowing him, he’s probably kept it unsaid all this time to be able to use it to maximum effect – like just now. Fucking manipulative bastard.
I don’t even know his name.
All I have is the stupid alias he gave me the first time he called me. The contact signature on my cell phone for his number reads “Ice King”. That’s all he is to me: a nickname.
I feel inexplicably betrayed.
I slowly release him from my death grip, one arm at a time so he doesn’t collapse face first on the bed. Then I pull out of him, holding the rubber in place. He sprawls lasciviously on his front onto the mattress, while I dispose of the condom and retreat to the bathroom on shaky legs for a quick wash at the sink.
I’m utterly wiped out but, as usual, I clean him up briefly – he’s already asleep. Then I crash behind him.
Then I’m dead to the world.
I’m alone in bed when I wake up, feeling disturbingly disoriented. A sheet has been thrown over me: I’m covered up to my waist. Crap. I realize I forgot to put my jeans back on, which means his highness felt in danger of getting an eyeful and had to take action.
I check the time: I’ve been out for two hours.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I roll onto my back. I rub my face with both hands – need to get up, pronto.
This whole thing was one massive mistake. I should always follow my instincts.
I need to get my shit together and fuck the hell out of here fast. This guy has been increasingly slipping under my defences and getting to me in a way that has all my alarms going off like crazy. It’s high time I listened to the frigging klaxon blaring.
A sound draws my attention to the desk at the other end of the room. He’s sitting there, fully dressed, typing something on his Smartphone. In the dimmed ambient lights, the glow from the screen reflects over his serious face, frowning in concentration.
He notices me and stands up and comes to the foot of the bed.
“You’re tired,” he notes.
I feel like throwing back a savage, “ya think?” but keep my big mouth shut.
“I’m sorry,” he goes on in his soft, articulate voice. “I realize you went out of your way to accede to my request at such short notice. I really appreciate it.”
He sounds so polite, so adequate. So coldly in control.
I acknowledge what he’s just said with a look and sit up.
He stands there waiting, his hands hidden in the smart pockets of his expensive black chinos. He doesn’t seem to grasp that if I get up he’ll see what he’s pointedly – and repeatedly – told me he doesn’t want to see. Namely, my affronting nudity.
I clear my throat obtrusively and fidget with the sheet as I shift to sit on the edge of the bed.
He doesn’t move, his eyes are on me but a little unfocussed – not really seeing me. My jeans are behind him, thrown carelessly over the back of an elegant chair.
“Could you pass me my jeans, please?” I end up asking, hoping he’ll hear the implicit message.
“Oh,” he says, snapping out of it. “Sure.” He takes them and holds them awkwardly like these are the first pair of pants he’s ever had in his hands. He gives them to me.
I place them over my lap and look up at him expectantly. How fucking oblivious can he be?
Then he gets it, and retreats to the picture windows to stare absently at the view.
I get dressed. Slink into the bathroom. Put my head under the shower head to let the cold water bring me to an appropriate level of functioning. Pick up the cash.
He’s doubled the usual amount like he said he would. Like I thought I’d made it clear I didn’t give a rat’s ass about. It only serves to irritate me further.
He follows me to the door on my way out. Stands there, with the same, usual aloofness in the blue of his eyes, in the curve of his mouth, in the set of his shoulders. Yet, tonight there’s also a strange, unwilling expectancy about him.
I realize he’s waiting for his goodbye kiss. If I wasn’t so damn close to flipping out I’d find this fucking hilarious.
Oh well. I lean in and kiss him. The cruel irony is that his lips have never felt so soft or tasted so good. As we break apart, he seems about to say something.
I wait him out for the end of that question. But he shakes his head slightly.
“Never mind,” he says with a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you,” he adds simply.
“My pleasure,” I reply, out of habit.
I give him a tight little smile and leave.
The ride down in the elevator feels short, but it gives me more than enough time to block Ice King’s number on my cell phone.
***End of Chapter 3***