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The Return Of The King

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He’s sneaky, but I recognize his voice – nasal Australian accent notwithstanding.

I wish he understood, though. I’m not playing hard to get: it would be utterly ridiculous for someone in my line of business.

I find his insistence amusing, mind you. I let him go on with the charade: he’s Mr Quigley, today. Can’t hold back a smile. I can picture him, the Ice King in his ivory tower, putting on a smartly faked accent to convince a whore to grant him an appointment. The perfect twenty-first century fairy tale.

It’s the third different number he’s been calling me from, too – probably borrowing the cell phones of his minions, assistants or whatever the hell they’re called these days. Does he realize the liability in this? The trail of damning evidence he’s leaving behind him in his wild-goose chase?

Why he goes to such great lengths is beyond me.

I dodge every one of his arguments; let Mr Quigley know that I’m a very busy guy, that I don’t need a new client – not even a supposedly exotic Australian dude.

After five more minutes of verbal fencing, I tell him that I’m going to hang up, and that’s when I hear him sigh.

“Jack, are you scared of me?” he finally asks in his normal voice.

The sound of my name twists my guts.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” I ask in false surprise. “How was the trip?”

“Fine. Why are you doing this?”

“I’m easily bored. Visit any place nice?”

“It was more for business than pleasure. I’d like to see you.”

“And I’d like you to see Dustin.”

“Dustin?”

“Very nice guy, very talented.”

An impatient huff. I hear him shuffle somewhat, then settle.

“What does he look like?” he asks, changing tactics.

“Colby Keller, but without the beard: you’ll love him.”

“Who’s Colby Keller?”

“Google him,” I taunt meanly. “Listen, I have to go, okay? It’s been nice talking to you.”

“Jack, wait!” he calls. I hang up.

A few hours later that night, I lie awake in bed, thinking about it. Six months have passed since our last encounter. Six months since I blocked his number – and then unblocked it a week later. Six months of wondering why he affects me like this; six months of promising myself that I’ll resume appointments with him if he ever contacts me again.

I refuse to let him get to me. I refuse to let him change anything about who I am.

I am not scared of him.

And yet, I’ve been avoiding him since he came back a week ago. Avoiding him, but still getting a perverse kick out of his ridiculous attempts at cajoling me or tricking me – and gritting my teeth at the idea of falling under his influence again.

That’s what I find disturbing with this guy. The sway, the fascination he exerts over me. He’s become a cipher I feel compelled to solve.

No idea why. I’m not his friend, I’m not his shrink, I’m not his anything. I’m the bit of cock he likes to take up the ass from time to time.

But then, I’m the bit of cock many people like to take up the ass from time to time. Well, when I say many… it’s not more than a dozen regulars – some more assiduous than others. Plus all the one-offs. And I certainly don’t feel obligated to tune in to each and every one of them to figure out what makes them tick.

So why him?

He’s good-looking but I’ve had prettier. He’s obviously loaded, but I’ve had wealthier. He’s a great lay, but I’ve had sluttier. He’s educated, but I don’t give a rat’s ass about that.

What he is, is an arrogant, secretive, manipulative, oblivious bastard who’d probably rather pay heavy ransom than smile once in a while.

And yet, I get an adrenaline rush every time I answer the phone and realize it’s his voice on the other end of the line.

Maybe it’s just the fact that I don’t know anything about him. Maybe it’s the whole mystery factor I’m responding to. I don’t usually make it a point to know every last single detail of my clients’ lives, but the regulars inevitably end up spilling some tidbits about themselves, so I do get to know a few things – like their frigging first name, for instance.

Maybe all I need to do is extort a name out of him and he’ll lose his disturbing appeal. Learning he’s a Kevin or a Dwayne would sure go a long way to killing off the myth of the Ice King.

A playful hand slowly creeps up my ribs – derailing my train of thoughts.

“Ready to go again?” I ask Liam.

“Mmm, yes please,” my client purrs invitingly.

Good to know there are still some uncomplicated guys in this world.

The next time he calls I’m just coming back from my morning run, sweaty and a little short of breath. It’s the Quigley number again: he’s so surprised when I pick up that there’s an awkward silence.

“Hello, Jack,” he eventually says. Funny how he can’t seem to stop using my name all of a sudden.

“Oh hello, Mr Quigley. I was just thinking of you.” Not true. “How about next Friday night, 8 pm?”

“Uhm… yes,” he says hesitantly. “I mean, sure. Friday night at 8.” He’s deeply perplexed, but his voice is much more assured and businesslike when he adds, “I’ll let you know where, as soon as I have accommodation booked.”

“Have you had unprotected sex since last time?”

“Uh, no. In fact, I haven’t…”

“Right. See you on Friday, then,” I interrupt him before he can tell me he hasn’t had any in six fucking months.

I hang up.

It’s his name I want to know, for crying out loud. Not the fact that he’s got a bad case of blue balls.

As it turns out, and despite the rather short notice, he manages to get “our” suite.

I knock on the door; I’m ready to dish out the subtle ribbing he’s amply deserved. Except my snark vanishes as soon as he opens the door. For a second, I stand tongue-tied and a little stumped by the transformation that seems to have occurred.

He looks… well, “younger” would be the simplest way of putting it. His hair is cut shorter, and his face seems leaner, smoother. The studious chevron is still etched on his brow, and his eyes haven’t changed – they’re as steel blue as ever – but they’re alight with something new. Like he found the Holy Grail or the Fountain of Youth on his travels abroad.

I forget the sarcastic intro I’d prepared on the elevator ride, and he lets me in. His lips are just as sinful as they ever were.

I close the door while he goes to the bar to pour two glasses of bourbon. Looks like someone found his manners again. He hands me my drink – making sure that our fingers don’t touch in the process.

But I have different priorities. I put my glass down and crowd him back against the counter: chest to chest, groin to groin. He doesn’t protest, so I hold him by the waist and lean in.

Our lips make contact. A peaceful kiss, all things considered – or maybe peacemaking, I should say. He kisses me willingly, going as far as slipping a quick tongue between my lips a couple of times. This is enemy territory for him, but he’s definitely trying to be amenable.

No tweed in sight tonight; he’s only wearing a smart, ecru long-sleeved t-shirt and designer gunmetal cargo pants – even the choice of clothes seems to spell younger and more daring. My arms snake up and around his back: his body feels harder than I remembered. What the hell happened to him?

Not that I’m complaining.

Before he tires of the kiss, I abandon his mouth to nibble a hot damp trail along his jaw and down his neck. The skin of his throat is sweet and I recognize the scent of his body wash.

“Suck my cock,” he orders low and rough. “Use your hands.” There it is: the familiar jolt of lust every time I hear his filthy orders spoken in that careful, velvet voice. He’s treading lightly tonight, testing the waters to see if I’ll still take commands from him. But that part of our deal hasn’t changed; in fact, no part of our deal has changed in any way. I’ve just been resisting him – and as I get on my knees in front of him, I can’t seem to remember why I’ve been so unreasonably childish.

He fists my tee-shirt silently. I know. Off.

Then I undo his pants, and that’s new, too. Never had to do it before. I don’t know if I should read something into it and, to be honest, my brain would like to switch off now. An initiative my cock encourages wholeheartedly.

I push his pants out of the way down his thighs. Then I slowly close my fist around his erection, and my other hand goes to his balls. Again, a new experience: warm and downy and just a little damp from anticipation – they fit, perfect and snug in the palm of my hand.

I look up at him. He’s leaning back against the bar, his elbows on the countertop. The cold blue eyes that pin me down are a little hungry and his expression is closed off in tense watchfulness. He licks his lips and his cock twitches in my fist as I hold his scrutiny. My cock twitches in interested sympathy, but he doesn’t know that.

I level my best smouldering look at him as I take his cock in my mouth. He can’t resist the overload of visual and tactile sensations – he closes his eyes, clenches his fists and lets out a strained exhale. I go down hard on him, devouring him, working my tongue relentlessly along his shaft, stroking his balls obscenely.

He doesn’t last long and I’m not surprised: even if I doubted my skills at giving head – which I don’t – six months is a helluva long time to spend with the limited solace of your own hand.

He comes in long hard spurts, with a heartfelt grunt and an, “ahhh goddd, yesss!”, his hips snapping forward in reflex, pushing his rigid, orgasmic cock deeper into my mouth.

Then his head tilts back and he sags against the counter, softly panting, his thighs quivering in aftershock. When I’m satisfied that I’ve licked him clean, I stand and drag his pants back up, carefully tucking him in; I leave the fly open and the top button undone.

I kiss his neck while he’s still pliant and somewhat vulnerable – before the walls of Jericho go up again. I notice his skin is now damp at his hairline. Glad to see I still have it.

Once he’s regained his composure, he straightens up and leaves me for the usual shower break.

It’s like nothing’s changed, like this six-month hiatus didn’t happen: we’re taking up right where we left off.

I grab my drink on my way to the couch. Take off my boots, my socks, and down my bourbon. I get comfy, bare feet on the coffee table and let my mind wander.

Has this guy really been holding off for six months? I didn’t let him finish his sentence the other day, but I’m pretty certain that’s what he was going to imply. Half a year of not holding anyone in your arms, of not kissing anyone, of not having anything but your own hand to take the edge off. In the same period, I must’ve had around seventy appointments.

For some reason, the thought makes me uncomfortable. We really live in two very different worlds.

He walks out of the bathroom, the ritual towel hiding his nudity, and again I’m struck by the subtle changes in his physique. His body looks slimmer and harder than in my memories, and now I can also detect a faint farmer’s tan. He’s been getting a workout in the outdoors.

“The bathroom’s yours,” he says on his way to the bedroom.

Which is my cue to get my ass in gear.

When I join him in the bedroom, the place is in complete darkness. He’s facing the picture window, staring outside at the rain-swept view. He’s wrapped in a self-hug. His reflection in the glass is thoughtful; the lips are slightly pursed, as though he’s trying to make sense of why he’s here. The lights of the city are dimmed and blurred by the sheets of pouring water undulating in the wind. We can hear the drops whipping the surface of the tempered glass.

I approach quietly; he startles when I put my hands on his waist. I whisper an apology and press a kiss on his shoulder. My arms then snake around his middle without encountering any form of resistance – he leans back against me if anything. It takes me a little by surprise, but I forge on, biting a slow path up the side of his neck, my eyes never leaving his reflection in the window.

His gaze is completely turned outside, hypnotized by the dreary scene made beautiful by our high vantage point.

I kiss the sensitive spot just below his ear – I see and feel him shiver slightly.

“So where have you been these past few months?” I ask huskily.

“Europe, mostly,” he answers mechanically. His eyes stay captive to the vague and dark cityscape.

“Is that where you got a tan?” I push on, keeping my voice as unobtrusive as I can.

“No, that was Egypt.” A dreamy smile curves his lips and crinkles the corner of his colourless eyes in the reflection. The kind of expression that usually means one thing.

“Meet any nice Egyptian guy?” I’m still hoping that he didn’t remain celibate for six non-fucking months. Somehow the idea freaks me out.

“I haven’t been with anyone. I lead a studious, boring life, you know,” he assures me ingenuously.

No, I don’t know. That’s part of my problem. I don’t know anything about him, and my jaded, world-weary brain has assigned him a way too mysterious brand of charm. Somehow, I think it would be easier for me to learn he’s a slut who’ll spread’em for every passing dick. Knowing that I’m possibly the only slice of sexual thrill he ever gets is...

I try to ignore the wave of unease that washes over me.

“Miss me?” I tease, concentrating on the way my denim-clad erection presses unsubtly into his terrycloth-swathed ass.

“No,” he answers a little sternly, his reproving eyes now looking into mine through the reflection. “You’re a fantasy, Jack.”

“Damn, all those years thinking I was a Libra.” I drink in the unexpected chuckle that bubbles out of him as I start to nibble his neck absently. I know exactly what he means, though – and I have no problem with that. I’d rather be treated like a sentient sex toy than be thought of as boyfriend material.

“I mean, you’re an idea, a concept,” he elaborates.

“Oh well that sounds fun.”

A stretch of rather comfortable silence settles between us, during which I stroke, kiss and suckle as much skin as I can and he arches like an indulging cat.

“Do me against the window,” he eventually instructs, his voice dark with need.

I bite my approval into his shoulder.

While he loses the towel, I tear my jeans off and get ready for him.

This is what we’re good at. Fucking. Not talking.

By the time I get into position behind him, my cock slathered in latex and lube, he’s bracing his hands on the cold glass and offering me his ass.

As soon as I press against his opening, I feel something wrong.

“You’re not prepared enough,” I tell him, trying not to sound too baffled. I don’t know what the hell he was doing in that bathroom but he’s barely slick and not at all ready for me.

“It’ll be alright,” he promises, giving minute shimmies of the hips, making my cock rub invitingly over his hole – his too tight and insufficiently wet hole.

“No, it won’t.” It’ll be uncomfortable and unpleasant at best – painful at worst. And I don’t do pain. He knows that. We discussed it the first time I agreed to meet him. And I know he doesn’t like pain. No matter how harsh, rough and in control he wants to sound, he needs reciprocated pleasure, the same way I do.

He tenses, brimming with impatience.

“I’m telling you to do it,” he insists, an edge of arrogance creeping into his tone.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not into pain and neither are you.”

“You have no idea what I’m into, and I’m not paying you to decide this sort of thing for me,” he snarls. His eyes turn deadly in the reflection.

Okay. For the sake of your ass, I’m going to forget I ever heard that, your highness.

But the damage is done – he gets it. Probably saw the flash of anger I felt clouding my features. Realizes the obnoxiousness of what he’s just said – just because it’s true, doesn’t make it any less distasteful. And now he’s withdrawing behind his high walls in consequence, battening down the hatches and sealing me off.

He’s going to leave, the little fucker.

I pull his body against mine and wrap him in a full hug, one arm along his collarbone, the other secured tight around his waist. He resists, his whole frame going rigid in my arms – but he’s going nowhere.

“Please, I don’t want to fight,” I appeal to him quietly. “Hear me out,” I coax with infinite care.

Something strange. My chest constricts and my voice fills with a warmth and affection I didn’t know I still had.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I whisper in his ear, “I want you badly, but you really need to be well prepared otherwise it’s going to hurt like a bitch.” My words seem to reach him – he’s gone incredibly still. I brush my lips over his shoulder. “You have to understand, if it’s really been six months, we need the lube.”

No answer – but he melts a little in my embrace.

“I’ll do you against the window, on the desk, in the shower; anywhere and any way you want. Just let me do it right.”

“I am prepared,” he persists, though he sounds more defensive than miffed.

“You are prepared, but not for what I have here for you, sweetheart,” I tease gently, pressing the head of my cock against him for proof.

His indulgent snort makes me breathe a little more easily.

“Braggart,” he accuses mildly.

“Huge cock, here. Very happy to see you,” I purr flirtatiously. I see him smile in the reflection. “Do you want me to do it for you?”

“No,” he says, immediately clamping his hands on my forearms to stop me from moving. “No, I’ll do it.” I can feel he’s a little put out at the idea of returning to the bathroom to stretch and stuff more lube up his ass. I can see how unalluring that could be; there’s a reason why this sort of thing is usually foreplay – it’s a much better experience when it’s interactive.

An insane – and obscenely unwise – idea pops up in my lust-addled, blood-deprived brain.

“Wait.” I hold him to my chest. “How do you feel about rimming?” I ask, breathing hot, moist air into his ear.

He freezes instantly in my arms.

“Rimming?” he chokes. I see him blinking furiously in the dark window. “Isn’t that… uh…?” My educated Ice King seems at a loss for words.

“It’s as safe as kissing, if that’s what you’re asking. And no, it’s not gross: you’ve just had a shower,” I point out, starting to gently rock us from side to side. “It’ll be enough to get you open and ready. Tempted?” I quirk a dirty smile before suckling his earlobe.

He is tempted.

Very much so, if the erection currently reaching for the window is anything to go by.

“Should I take this as a yes?” I smirk, keeping up the oscillating movement. I slowly fist his cock and give it a few luscious strokes – smearing pre-come over the head with my thumb.

I lock gazes with him, then very deliberately bring my thumb to my mouth – and lick it.

He lets out a little gasp and closes his eyes for a second.

“Try it,” I murmur in his ear. “Try it with me.”

I hear him attempt to control his breathing – his pulse is racing.

“Okay, do it,” he whispers.

“Okay,” I echo. I turn his head to the side and kiss him hard on the lips – feel the beginning of a moan rise in his throat.

Then I pull him into a wide stance, hands braced on the window again, and kneel behind him. I’ve only ever done this with few special clients – and only at their request. I’m not even sure he’s really, truly consenting to this. I know I can be persuasive, and I know I can influence them more often than not. I know how to look, what to say, where to touch – and I used all these tricks to get him to agree to this. What the fuck is wrong with me?!

My hands slide up the back of his thighs, helplessly. They reach his ass and grip him there possessively. He’s beautiful and I want this like I’ve never wanted it before. He’s mine – I know I’m the first to do this to him.

I pry his ass cheeks apart and dive in. Lick a wet, greedy swipe over his opening that has him yelping in amazed pleasure. He tastes of lube and latex where my cock rubbed him insistently, but beneath that I recognize the familiar scent of his body wash and the male sweetness of his own personal scent. I lick some more – want to hear that sound again. He obliges, soon mewling an added string of words that I don’t catch.

For several minutes, I lick, rub, probe, kiss and suckle the tender flesh of his hole, my tongue all but making love to him. And he arches into me, his gasps and moans becoming increasingly urgent – he’s now supple and open for me. It takes me some time to realize he’s begging me to fuck him.

With one hand I blindly feel around on the floor for the bottle of lube: as soon as I retrieve it I pour a fresh dose directly on my cock. The shock of the cold fluid only serves to make me even harder.

I get to my feet, grab him by the hips and thrust into him with little finesse and much need. He shouts his raw enjoyment. Starts rocking back in time to meet my thrusts with abandon.

He’s perfectly tight. Deliciously willing. I can see his damp palms sliding down the glass while his knuckles turn white against the rainy night.

It doesn’t take us long to get there. When we reach climax, it’s amazing – all-ravaging.

He comes in slow, powerful spasms that make his body shudder and buck in my arms – his teeth clench to bite back a scream of something he wants to keep to himself.

His muscles clamp around me and I surrender to the lethal wave of electric pleasure that rushes through me. The animal roar is probably mine. I’m freefalling to my sweet little death.

It feels like a miracle that we’re both still standing when I open my eyes. Guess we have to thank the window for that: he’s sagging against it and I’m sagging against him.

I’m utterly burnt out. Everything feels blissfully carbonized, even my emotions.

What have you done to me, your highness?

After a minute of shallow panting, I pull out and drag him to the bed, where he just slumps in a heap. I try to be quick and efficient about the cleaning process but the truth is I’m going through the motions in a haze – even after putting my head under the showerhead. I wipe the streaks of semen he left on the window – throw some water on it to remove the last remains of sticky evidence. Finally I remember to put my jeans back on before crawling onto the bed to spoon up behind him.

I’m exhausted, I’m lost and I can sense he’s not asleep.

I think I’ve done something incredibly stupid. Something a whore should never ever do.

It is possible he’s even aware of it.

I’m fucked.

And he’s not asleep.

His upper body shakes – once, twice. A third time. Brief contractions of his chest and shoulders. Then a strange, slow breath. He curls forward – away from me.

I don’t want to know.

I catch and drag the sheets over us for warmth.

I give myself one hour, tops. Then I’m out of here.

And right on cue, I wake up after fifty eight minutes of a slumber that was neither restful nor refreshing.

I get dressed, get my money, get ready to leave.

He sees me out, a pinched, sullen expression clouding his features. The wintry blue of his eyes chills me to the bone. He has something unpleasant to say to me: I can feel it.

I’m reaching for the door handle, when he finally decides to let me have it.

“Don’t call me pet names again, Jack,” he mutters, intense dislike etched in the word ‘pet’.

I guess calling him ‘sweetheart’ was pushing it. In my defence…

“I’d have used your first name, but you’ve never given it to me,” I tell him simply.

My answer hits him harder than I expected. His eyes widen slightly and his face goes a little pale.

“Daniel,” he swallows, his voice bleached of any emotion. “My name’s Daniel.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Daniel.” There’s no bitterness to my words. They’re vastly ludicrous, given that I had my tongue up his ass less than two hours ago, but as strange as it may seem… I mean them.

I cup his cheek, drop a light kiss on his lips and leave.

I punch the ground floor button on the elevator panel.

It’s not that I’m obsessed with him, it’s that I’m fucking besotted with the man.

With Daniel.

Which is a nice name.

I could shoot myself.

 

***End of Chapter 4***