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The Birthday Present

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It’s a beautiful day.

I wish it were a crappy, miserable, rainy day but it’s actually a clear, crisp, sunny day and I’m taking my time, walking leisurely to the appointment of doom with the Ice King.

Walking to the same hotel as usual. When I told him he should be more careful, he agreed to book another suite and move forward the time of our appointment.

Still the same fucking hotel, though, moron.

That’s why I stopped being a bodyguard: civilians have zero sense of self-preservation and most of my former employers weren’t worth taking a bullet for.


It soon won’t be my problem anymore.

My decision is made.

I’m calling it quits, putting an end to it. And not just to seeing him: I’m retiring. Again. Or maybe taking a long sabbatical – don’t really know yet. One thing is for sure: I need a break. Need to step down for a while. Take a breather. Stuff’s been happening lately. Stuff I’m not comfortable with. Stuff that means I can’t do my job properly anymore – clients don’t take too kindly to their escort going soft in the middle of the performance.

I check my watch and realize I’m early, so I pick a bench in the park and just laze in the sun.

The worst thing is knowing that there’s nothing wrong with me, physically speaking. I’m fit as a fiddle and I can perform just fine; it’s just that… I seem to need some sort of additional incentive these days.

I need…

Okay, I need to think of him while I fuck other clients.

I’m not proud of it, and I’m not happy about it anymore than my clients would be if they knew. It’s not that I can’t get it up for other men. I do get it up. I still get the right testosterone buzz and the right adrenaline rush. It’s just that when it wears off… I get bored – bored soft.

And I know this sort of thing happens to every guy in the business – and we all have our ‘emergency procedures’, our coping strategies. But it’s been happening more and more often lately. If the clients do or say something marginally off-putting, or if I start to focus on the way they look or the way they breathe for too long… I tend to lose the mood, so to speak.

And the only thing that gets me back on track is thinking about him.

Thinking about my Ice King.

About the way he moves, the way he moans, the way he impales himself on my cock – with such mindless pleasure.

Then I’m saved from embarrassment and I can fuck them with new energy while they scream their heads off and come like freight trains – and then I come like… like… like I’m dying inside and my orgasm is my last breath. It’s a bitter climax and I’m left broken and loathing myself.

I guess I should have a more selfish, a more prosaic, approach to it, but the truth is I’m mortified. Ashamed of myself for failing them, for fooling them – and for using him.

But then I’ve been using him for quite a while now. He features in too many of my jerk off fantasies – I might as well have “Property of Daniel Jackson” tattooed on my dick. It’s been so easy to conjure up visions of him to whack off to after a shit day. His body and his filthy voice filling my mind so readily as I pump my cock luxuriously.

Just thinking about it…

I shift on the seat, just to ease the new strain in my snug jeans.

Sitting on a nearby bench in the late afternoon sun, a gaggle of students start looking my way, exchanging not-too-subtle stage whispers about how hot I look – kids, these days. I suppose I should be happily wallowing in these young women’s attention, but they only make me feel old.

I really don’t need that today.

I’ve briefly wondered if age has anything to do with my little performance issues, but soon came to the conclusion it hasn’t. I perform just fine when it’s only me, Rosey Palm and X-rated visions of him. The trouble starts when you bring in the rest of my clientele.

It happened twice last week. And twice the week before. The first time I thought I was just having a bad day. Then it happened again, and again and again. With alarming regularity. I’m not stupid. I can buy a clue as well as the next guy – especially when my own body is the one hitting me with it squarely in the nuts. Doesn’t mean I have to be delighted at the prospect of taking a time out. Doesn’t mean I have to be overjoyed at the idea of never seeing him again.

I know I have to stay away from him. And I know I can’t seem to bring myself to do that. I’ve already tried. I blocked his number once, but I was incapable of keeping that good resolution for long. He found a way to contact me and I ended up running back to him like a bitch in heat.

But this is different.

Because my little obsession has come to a point where I can’t work properly – can’t be who I’ve been for the past six years.

And I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose who I am. I love who I am. I’m at a point in my life where I’ve managed to come to terms with most of the shit in my past, where I’ve found an exciting occupation that I’m skilled for: a job that keeps me from boredom and that doesn’t involve risking my life or doing distasteful things in the name of my country.

If I don’t do something drastic I’m not only going to lose all this but also ruin whatever good memories I could still retain of it. Hence the second retirement thing. Or extended sabbatical thing. I’m taking a break from him, from this second life I’ve built for myself and that he’s somehow managed to poison for me. I’m going to wait until the dust settles and I’m thinking clearly again.

I watch the sun slink a little lower on the horizon and get up from the bench. Walk past the students. Throw them a smile and hear their flirty giggles. I try to take comfort in their harmless appreciation, but I still feel defeated.

When I finally knock on the door of the room, he’s quick to open. The familiar knot of excitement and fear tightens in my belly – I obfuscate by smiling confidently as I enter the suite. Which is when I realize he’s looking infinitely tense and serious – the steel blue eyes as cold as they ever were.

Oh goody, and here was me expecting a birthday cake.

The suite is plush and expensive as always, but subtle details and discreet touches make it differ from our usual one. The couch is bigger to start with – indecently so. The colour scheme is warmer and the lounge area and the bar occupy places of choice in the layout: this place is definitely not as work-oriented as the other suites we’ve been to.

I take off my leather jacket as he goes to serve us our ritual drinks. He’s a little dressed up today: smart casual black suit and a crisp white shirt. Sex on legs – long, long legs. And slim hips. And I’m getting hard just checking him out. Fuck.

I already know I’ll be able to perform just fine with him – all night long if needs be.

He turns to me, hands me my glass. His fingertips leave faint traces on the costly tumbler, betraying his nervousness.

He drains his bourbon in one go. My, aren’t we thirsty.

Okay, now he’s making me jittery, too. What the hell is going on?

I take a sip to be polite, then put my glass down on the counter. Time to alleviate some of that tension he’s apparently been building up: I know just the thing to do that.

I lean into his space, cup his cheek and press my lips to his.

He tastes of cool bourbon. It’s a nice shallow kiss, an easy ice-breaker. Nothing strenuous. I don’t know why he feels so tense but one thing is sure: we really don’t need that right now. He soon starts to thaw under my lips. His tongue comes out to play and I accommodate it warmly. When he breaks the kiss to breathe, my mouth irresistibly slides down his neck and nibbles the sweet spot I know of. A gasp escapes him and his hands clench around my waist.

“Undress me,” he breathes hotly in my ear – in a way that makes every single last particle of me snap to attention.

Sir yes Sir!

I send his jacket flying behind me and hear it fall over the back of the couch. Then his classy white shirt attempts to put up a fight, in vain. When my hands finally splay over his torso, his nipples are already tight nubs under my thumbs and he sighs in tormented impatience.

And all this without my lips leaving his throat – I’m living proof that guys can multitask.

With the shirt gone, I start to take care of the pants. I crouch to make them slide over the curves of his ass, down the planes of his hips, and I’m ideally placed in the front row when his cock falls free and half erect from the expensive confines of his pants. I catch the shaft between gentle teeth in a move he clearly wasn’t expecting. It wrenches a soft huff of surprise out of him.

“No, not…” he gulps as his fingers thread into my hair. “Not today.”

I kiss his cock goodbye and get to my feet. Shame – I would’ve liked to give him one last blowjob before we parted ways.

He kisses me with strange reserve while he kicks off his shoes and steps out of his pants. He’s still displaying signs of nervousness, and I don’t get it – I don’t like not getting it.

That’s when I notice the short black silky scarf he’s holding in his left hand.


My body can’t help going a little stiff – and not in a good way – at the sight of a blindfold. I would’ve liked some warning if we were to play that sort of game. I have mild issues with blindfolds – as many ex Special Forces probably do. No biggie; just the fact that, to me, they’re not the innocent kinky toys most people consider them to be. It’s not something he could have guessed, but I wish he’d asked instead of springing the surprise on me.

“Daniel, I’m not…”

“It’s for me. Not for you,” he clarifies immediately, his voice a little breathless with nerves.

Ah, so that would explain it.

“Can you do it?” he asks more steadily, handing me the scarf. The question covers so many things I don’t know what he means exactly. But his ice blue eyes are filled with a mix of apprehension and determination, so I mustn’t fail him now.

I nod with what I hope is a reassuring quirk of the lips. I’m quietly amazed that someone like him would be ready to try this. This must be pretty huge for a guy who usually gets off on being in control.

I silently take the scarf in one hand, his chin in the other and kiss him gently. His gaze turns warm and almost grateful.

Then I tie the scarf around his head, masking his eyes. The knot is secure but not too tight: it won’t slide off, but he’ll be able to undo it if he needs to.

“Do we need a safe word?” I ask him gently, watching him cock his head to the side to listen.

“It won’t be necessary,” he says. “No still means no.” Then he adds, “…but thank you for offering.”

I kiss him again. Wrap my arms around him, and just kiss him. He needs time to adjust to his remaining senses, so I take it easy, let my hands drift over his naked body with light tender strokes. He’ll let me know when he’s ready.

Something strange seems to happen, though; it’s like I’ve not only blindfolded but also tied up and gagged the stern control freak in him – and someone else is left at the wheel. Someone else who might just be the real him, in fact.

As my hands roam over his skin, he melts against me and deepens the kiss of his own accord. His tongue delves into my mouth with a new, slow, sensual thoroughness that curls my toes and hardens my cock beyond comfort. The bastard can kiss.

Christ. He can kiss and then some.

His hands grow bold and slip under the hem of my long-sleeved t-shirt, sliding across my flanks to the small of my back. His fingers get restless, riding up my back then around to my front again. His touch becomes exploratory, inquisitive – sinful fire ignites everywhere his fingers brush over my skin. He tortures my nipples and lightly rakes his fingernails down my chest. I’m not even breathing anymore. I’m not risking it. If I breathe, I’m going to make sounds that I cannot make.

The silky material of the blindfold brushes against my face, a constant reminder of my position in this game. And he’s still kissing me like he’s made a profession of it. I feel like my chest is going to split open with the pressure of burning empty lungs and a madly pounding heart.

Relief comes when he breaks the kiss – an unexpected reprieve that I’m in dire need of.

“Please,” he murmurs against my mouth, almost reverently. “Take it off.” Meaning my t-shirt.

I promptly get rid of the offending article of clothing. The half-smile he gives me in response doesn’t look too self-assured and he quickly hides it in my neck, kissing me, licking me and biting me with disarming dedication.

Then he kneels in front of me.

His hands feel their way over my waist, undo my belt and pop the buttons of my jeans – while I experience some sort of coronary in slow-motion. The lack of blood and oxygen in my brain must be reaching new levels because I only actually understand what he’s trying to do when his careful hands start to slide inside the jeans to help my stiff cock out of them.

I look down at him and I know it’s a beautiful sight. He’s on his knees, the deep black of the blindfold enhancing the rest of his features, setting off his expressive mouth. But God, it’s a blindfold.

I can’t receive a blowjob from a kneeling man in a blindfold. That’s not the mental image I want of my last time with him.

Which is when I start to backpedal.

“No, wait, wait,” I rasp in a voice I don’t recognize as I clasp his wrists. “Wait. Not like that.”

He freezes and I read tension again in the pinched flat line of his lips.

“Stand up, sweetheart,” I croon as gently as I can. I don’t want to mess this up for him. If he wants to blow me I’m definitely not going to stop him, but I’d like it to be an equally enjoyable experience for everyone involved. “Let’s just go somewhere more comfortable.”

I quickly scan the suite and find the ample couch.

I take him by his hands – which feels strange and very intimate – and lead him to the couch. He goes with it, reassured by my compliance but fighting down the nervousness at being delayed if the serious set of his mouth is any indication.

I sit on the couch and he follows suit. Then I kiss him, slow and sure, to let him know we’re back in business.

All yours now.

And he soon takes control of the kiss and of the situation with meek authority – he pushes me back to lie down on the couch.

And with that, he proceeds to make me lose what’s left of my mind.

The sight of him is probably something that will haunt my wet dreams for decades to come. He crawls over me, insinuating his knees between my thighs; his hands braced either side of me. The blindfold is a black sinful streak across his beautiful face, and I love the liberating effect it seems to have on him – he kisses me without restraint. All sinuous, loving tongue and tender, caressing lips.

My arms are full of a beautiful, naked man intent on kissing the soul out of me in the slowest, most sensual way ever – and I think I’d gladly die like this.

A hand comes to settle on my chest, fingertips slowly tweaking my nipples again. Then his mouth leaves mine and the exploration begins in earnest. His lips brush softly over my throat, drag wetly along my collarbone, setting on fire every inch of skin they land on.

His tongue gets in on the action and my brain dissolves into mush. He licks my right nipple once, twice. A third time, to make sure. I grit my teeth to keep in a moan – and fail miserably when his obscene lips latch onto it with undisguised relish. My pitiful moan, in turn, only spurs him on to give a fair bit of attention to the left nipple which gets laved and sucked to within an inch of its life.

I’d like to say I can remain stoic under the onslaught. I’d like to say I’ve already been the recipient of such pleasurable ministrations – which I probably have. I’d like to say that the seasoned pro that I am is immune to it all. But this is him, and I’m defenceless against the intensity of his touch.

He’s never touched me like this; I never even suspected he’d want to touch me like this – and now that it’s happening I’m utterly toast.


Fucking dead in the water.

And we’re nowhere near the main event yet. If I’m squirming and sobbing like a girl when he licks my nipples, I don’t want to know what I’ll be doing when he gets his knowing mouth around my dick.

My fingers caress his hair as he moves lower down my chest, over my abs, licking a stripe here, nipping a bite there – trailing a burning path until he gets rid of my jeans and his mouth stops suspended about an inch over the head of my cock.

I can feel his warm breath ghosting over too-sensitive skin. I brace myself for the inevitable cataclysm of contact.

God, but it’s so gentle when it comes. So gentle and so annihilating.

He takes me in his mouth very carefully, like one tastes a strange exotic fruit. His tongue laps curiously at my already leaking slit, and I feel a shock of breath brush over my cock and my lower belly. My heart does a sickening backflip as I realize this is new for him: he’s never had another man in his mouth like this before and I curse him for making me his first.

It means I have to take care of him, have to hold in check the overwhelming urge to thrust and push my cock deeper into his throat.

It also means that I have to let him know how it makes me feel – which is by far the most dangerous thing.

Because he’s good at it, damn him. He’s a quick study and he’s already picked up a lot of the things I did to him, and he’s reproducing them with fair success, which means he soon has me writhing under his tongue and making sounds I’d rather not dwell on. And he uses his hands – his strong clever hands – to add to the torture.

When I sense the familiar electric tingles gathering at the base of my spine and spreading to my balls I try to warn him. Give him a chance to back off before he gets more than what he might be comfortable with. But he’s stubborn and simply redoubles his efforts until my orgasm hits me like a rogue wave.

For a couple of brilliant seconds, I’m dying a thousand wonderful deaths all rolled into one amazing explosion. I’m pouring myself into his mouth with an ecstatic groan and I know it’s a little too much for him, but he’s being brave and swallowing as much as he can, letting the rest of it dribble out of his mouth and down my shaft.

God, if he could see himself, looking so fucking debauched, so fucking beautiful – so fucking ruining me for other men.

He’s panting, flushed and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Come here,” I tell him roughly, grabbing at his shoulders and pulling him up to lie on top of me.

His weight and his heat feel good, crushing me into the couch. He’s all hard muscles and broad male frame as he kisses me, giving me a taste of myself. His erection digs into my groin, naturally sliding into place next to my spent cock, so I press my hands onto his ass and cant my hips, encouraging him to rub himself off on me. He moans hungrily when he understands what I’m suggesting.

“Come on me,” I breathe against his sticky lips – the growl my filthy words drag out of his throat gives me shivers.

It’s all it takes: a few experimental thrusts and he finds the right friction, the right angle. I hold him through it, kneading his bunching ass as he lays into me with every muscle in his body. His mouth devours me, fierce and desperate, until he suddenly breaks away on a whimper, throws his head back – his whole being tense to breaking point. He roars his pleasure as his cock pulses out ribbons of scalding liquid heat over my chest and stomach for what feels like a small wonderful eternity.

Then he collapses on top of me – a sated, blissed-out ton of bricks.

“Jesus Fuck!” I wheeze.

“Sorry,” he slurs tiredly, trying to brace noodly arms on either side of me.

“Hey, s’okay. Don’t move.” I quickly tighten my arms around his back before he manages to go anywhere. He settles down, but changes position so that he’s more tucked into my right side, straddling my right thigh, with one arm hooked under my right shoulder.

I pull the blindfold off. He doesn’t protest but keeps his eyes carefully shut.

He soon nods off with his head on my shoulder.

It’s comfortable. Peaceful. Perfect.

My very own tenth circle of hell.

It just isn’t fair. Not when I’d finally decided to give him up. When I’d finally managed to find my cojones, make the right decision and bail out like I should’ve done months ago.

No matter how good the sex is with him. No matter how perfect he feels in my arms, against my chest or under my lips. He is not for me. He can’t be anything other than a passing client.

Because he’s killing me. Slowly, but surely and effectively. Killing me.

He’s everything I love in a man. He’s smart, strong and sensual, and he can kiss the sanity out of me. And his ass is the most perfect place on earth. And he’s mine. He became mine the second I fucked him bareback and came up his ass.

The second I kissed him.

Maybe the second I laid eyes on him.

And I can’t have him, can’t be with him. The very notion is ridiculous – I don’t even know him.

I don’t know the kind of guy he is out of the sack. I don’t know what he values. I don’t know if he has crap tastes, if he prefers tea or coffee, if he’s more horse-racing or hockey. I don’t know how he fills his days, how he speaks to his employees. I don’t know if I’d still like him in the cold light of day.

All I know is that the sex is spectacular and the strange brand of playful competitiveness between us is addictive.

That’s not enough to build any sort of relationship. Especially not when it all started as a priced encounter.

And really, it’s hopeless. I’m aware of how he sees me. I have no existence: I’m a fantasy, as he once put it. A kind of sex Sherpa at best. A sentient sextoy at worst.

It’s all good, though. All in the book of rules. Should make it easier for me, in a sense.

What I can’t wrap my head around is the fact that I’m even thinking about all this. That I’m thinking about a virtual stranger – a guy who pays me to fuck him – in terms of relationship. Just how warped and pathetic is that?

“On a scale of one to ten?” a low raspy voice mumbles against my chest – catching me completely by surprise and sending my heart into a sickening spin.


“The blowjob,” he croaks. “On a scale of one to ten?”

Jesus Fucking Christ, for a second there I thought I’d actually spilled my guts out loud. I quickly rally, though: my secret is still safe.

“Forty-two, I believe,” I reply airily.

He gives a soft snort.

“You’re either very polite or you’re not getting enough blowjobs.”

“You’re paying me,” I point out, attempting humour.

“True,” he comments lightly.

There’s an awkward pause that stretches for a little too long as my thumbs stroke his back idly, and he buries his nose in my collarbone.

“So the real question is: would you tell me if I were bad at sex?” he then asks slyly.

“I would.” If only to bring him down a peg or two. But my problem is that he is good in bed. Or rather, we’re good. I don’t think anyone can be good all by themselves: it takes two to tango and all that. “By the way, if you really want to know: you’re loud, demanding and you snore.”

He chuckles at that.

“I have allergies,” he confesses, like that’s somehow shameful.

And it’s the weirdest thing, this conversation. It’s so mundane, so awfully domestic. He’s warm and easy and… and smiling in my arms, for crying out loud. The distance, the arrogance, the cold control – they’re all gone. The Ice King is nowhere in sight and I’m left all alone with Daniel.

“Sure, allergies. That’s what they all say,” I go with it – it’s so good and so rare to be with the real him.

His right hand leaves my shoulder and slides over my chest, slow and a little tentative. The fingertips move gently, almost dreamily over my skin, playing quietly with the mostly silver hair. A new phase of his exploration.

“What is it like, being… or going with all these men and women?” he asks guilelessly. “Don’t you get bored? Tired?”

“Tired I sometimes get, but never bored.” Or more accurately, I didn’t used to get bored. “S’why I picked this job.” Shut up, Jack. Shut. Up. Now.

“But you can never be yourself, can you? You’re always performing for an audience, always acting a part.” His voice is low and calm and just a little wistful – like he’s somewhat sorry for me.

“Sure, but we’re all doing that in a way, don’t you think? The only difference is I’m being paid for it.”

“I guess.” There’s an admission here that goes way beyond his noncommittal words. Methinks the Ice King knows exactly what I’m talking about: he’s also playing a part. Probably been playing it most of his adult life. “Do escorts have boyfriends, or girlfriends?” he muses.

“Some do.” And that’s as far as I’m going to go with this particular topic. I am not discussing my non-existent lovelife with him.

He remains silent, certainly pondering the lonely plight of sex workers.

Meanwhile, dried come is pulling at my skin and I try to scratch a couple of teasing itches down my stomach as inconspicuously as possible – but he notices, of course.

“You want to shower first?” he offers easily.

“No, you go ahead.”

“Okay. I’ll be quick,” he promises.

He then untangles his legs from mine, braces himself on the couch and gets off of me. His hair is ruffled, his mouth a soft, curvy line – his eyes are diligently closed. Come is smeared all over his belly in a pattern that inversely matches the one on my stomach. He goes to the bathroom, staggering a little. The shower soon goes on.

I shudder from the sudden cold that seems to swamp my body.

I feel strangely numb and need to shake myself out of it.

I retrieve a few tissues from my jacket and clean myself up summarily. Then I remember to put my jeans back on.

He comes out soon enough; I try not to notice the small towel valiantly clinging to his waist and not doing much to protect his modesty. It’s my turn to have a go in the shower, and I make it as quick as I can.

He’s bent over, turning down the sheets when I join him in the bedroom. The towel riding up the back of his thighs gives me a tantalizing view of what he has to offer. I find it even sexier than if he were buck naked.

I forget all pretence at suave dignity as I pounce on him and fold him in an embrace that squeezes a stunned gasp out of him. The gasp turns into a soft groan as I kiss his neck voluptuously.

“What’s next?” I ask, between two bites of his sweet skin.

“I don’t know,” he rasps breathlessly. “You tell me, birthday boy.”

That brings me up short. So I was right: he knew all along today’s my birthday.

“You’re aware how stalkerish that makes you sound, right?”

“What? Knowing today’s your birthday?” he turns his head to me and raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “I didn’t go looking for the information: it was mentioned on your blood test results.”


Way to go, Jack.

How fucking stupid can you get? I thought I’d redacted the thing carefully. I really need to get away from him: he’s obviously affecting my IQ. I would never have made such a rookie mistake a couple of years ago.

“Still didn’t need to schedule our appointment for today,” I mumble against his shoulder.

“Am I keeping you from going on some hot date?”

“Maybe,” I bite into his flesh and his breath hitches. “Where’s my cake?”

“No cake,” he murmurs.


“Of sorts. Tonight, I’m letting you decide,” he explains, his words a little slurred now that I’ve resumed my ministrations. “Once that blindfold is on, you can do whatever you want to me. Within my physical abilities, of course,” he adds, a mischievous grin somewhere in the back of his voice.

I’m so stumped I can’t even reply anything to that.

He hands me the black scarf over his shoulder. I take it reluctantly and turn him around in my arms.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask him seriously.

“Wouldn’t you like to be in control for once?” His pale blue eyes delve into mine with an intensity that gives me shivers.

“I could hurt you, or do something you really don’t like.”

“I trust you,” he says without missing a beat. He didn’t even stop to consider my words and the threat they held. He lifts his chin a little – brazen and impatient.

I slowly apply the blindfold to his eyes and tie it.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” I then whisper in his ear before kissing the sensitive spot just below it.

I illustrate my point by yanking the towel unceremoniously off his ass.

He smiles as goose bumps rise over his skin. Uh-huh, looks like we’re getting off on the display of authority and alpha-maleness. And I can do that: giving orders is what I was paid for in my previous life.

“Lie on the bed,” I tell him. And he does so obediently, all long legs and slim hips.

“How do you want me?” he asks, the husky quality of his voice sending a lustful thrill down my spine. Jesus, is it possible to die from a lust overdose?

“On your back,” I instruct him.

Face to face. That’s how I want him. How I’ve always wanted him. I want to see his face as I slowly push my cock inside him. I want to see the sensations ripple over his features as I thrust into him over and over. In a perfect world, I’d like to look into his eyes as I fuck him. But for now, I want to be able to kiss him, drag my lips over his chin, sink my teeth into his chest – while I do him long and good.

Want him to know I’m the one doing him, and not some anonymous cock taking him from behind. And I suspect that’s why he uses this blindfold: so he doesn’t have to see me. He needs me to remain nothing more than a faceless fantasy.

He sprawls on his back, hands knitting under his head nonchalantly: his knees are bent, his feet flat on the mattress. He’s smiling – a taunting quirk of the lips.

“Something funny?” I purr dangerously as I kick my jeans off and grab the lube.

“I was hoping for something a little more original than the missionary position,” he scoffs.

I wedge myself between his thighs, then lean over him – my balls coming to rest deliciously over his, my cock falling over his. He chokes a gasp at the feel of it all.

“You’ll get back to me on this once we’re done,” I tell him.

I stay suspended over him in silence for a long minute, listening to his increasingly self-conscious breathing. The smirk dissolves off his face as I let the closeness and the intensity of the position sink in.

Then I brush my mouth over his. Very slowly, because he can’t see me approach. It’s a closed mouth kiss, a tender caress – a promise that I won’t hurt him, that he can trust me. His position changes: he opens up to me, his hips shifting and his thighs cradling me. His arms come around my shoulders, his fingers sink into my hair. We’re ready to go.

I let the kiss linger and deepen a little more than I should. I want to take my own sweet time, I want to really savour this opportunity – I only have one go at this. I’ll never see him again after tonight. He doesn’t know it yet, but this is goodbye sex.

So I do take my time and kiss him, taste him, inching my way down his body with slow nibbles, relishing the soft breathy sounds he makes and the way his hands feel in my hair.

When I finally suck on his cock, his hips come off the bed and he yelps my name in surprise. I ride it out as he begs me to stop.

“Not like that,” he pants. “Please, not like that.”

I let his cock slip out of my mouth with a little pang of regret. But it doesn’t matter, there are so many other things I want to do one last time. Next, I slick my fingers and brush a wet knuckle over his opening, eliciting a deep groan and a cant of his ass for more. Looks like I’ve made a convert; I oblige by pushing two slippery fingers inside him. He’s already prepared himself thoroughly and they sink in effortlessly – my cock swells and twitches in rigid appreciation.

“Bareback?” I ask him, my voice a little too hoarse.

“Yesss,” he gasps. Then he fists the sheets and shudders helplessly when I graze his sweet spot. “Oh, you bastard,” he swears at me, baring his teeth.

“I’m getting mixed signals, here,” I note, sliding my fingers in and out of him with a flourish.

“I swear to God, if you make me come too soon, I’ll throw you out the fucking window,” he snarls. Love the desperate aggressiveness in his voice, the way his soft educated voice grates over the swear words.

“How high are we?” I ask conversationally.

“High enough that they’ll have to scrape you off the fucking sidewalk.”

I chuckle at the venom in his strained tone and I shift between his spread thighs. I cup his cheek and try to kiss it better, but he gives a warning bite on my tongue, which makes me chuckle even more.

“Have you had unprotected sex since last time?” I temporize – and I try not to hiss as I lube myself up.

“I wouldn’t agree to a bareback fuck if I had,” he mutters.

I press my cock against his hole – hear him holding his breath in anticipation.

“Been faithful to me, then,” I tease, just poising myself on the brink of breaching him.

“Wish I could say the same about you,” he snorts disparagingly. Can you believe the attitude in him?

I push ever so slightly into him, the head just sliding past the rings of muscles – and stop there, then retreat. He grits his teeth and growls his discontent.

“Have you been faithful to me?” I ask mercilessly, drinking in the way his throat works uneasily as he gulps. It’s a question that’s been searing a hole in my brain for months. An unfair question to ask, obviously – as he so kindly pointed out.

“Yess…” he hisses, his head digging into the pillow as I push into him again, “…sssonuvabitch!” This time I go all the way deep inside him. Deep where I belong.

He’s burning hot and perfectly tight. This is heaven.

My last taste of heaven, as it were.

“Am I the only one to do this to you?” I growl and bite his chin. My hand claws at his hip for added leverage.

“Yes,” he moans breathlessly. “God, yesss…” But I don’t think he’s answering me anymore. He’s lost in his own pleasure and he’s beautiful.

So I shut up and fuck him.

Long and slow at first, because he’s still adjusting to me.

And I watch him. Can’t take my eyes off him, in fact. Enjoy this view he offers me – the blindfold makes him look so indecently exposed. The way his tongue wets his lips makes my heart lurch and roll in my chest.

A harder thrust makes him moan and drape an arm over my shoulder. His hand is a little hesitant as it grabs at the nape of my neck, but it swiftly turns greedy and possessive, fingernails digging in my flesh when I lick at a nipple.

And we finally both let go of any restraint.

I give him more of my cock and he demands even more: I’m soon taking him harder and deeper than ever, and he’s still not satisfied, writhing beneath me to increase the angle, the depth, the sensations, the agony. I know what he needs, but it feels so good to be here, chest to chest in his strong arms, flush against his hot skin, that I delay it for as long as I can.

He knows there’s more, though; he’s never had more but he senses it exists within his reach, so he begs and moans and says my name and I can’t resist. I slowly rise out of his grasp and sit back on my calves – drag his ass over my knees, spread his thighs back, lean on them and penetrate him slow and deep. His head snaps back and he cries out hoarsely – “ohGODyesss!” – and his fists twist the sheets, knuckles turning white with desperation. He’s all taut body and corded strength and tormented ecstasy.

And I hate him for doing this to me because I can’t remember it ever being like this with anyone else before. It’s intense, gentle and devastating all at the same time, and I’m turning myself inside out to make it good for him. I want him to love it, to need it, to fucking crave it. Want him to remember this for the rest of his life as the best sex he’s ever had. I want to ruin him for other men the way he’s ruined me. I want him to hate me and love me for what I can give him – and all I can give him is this.

My cock filling him just right.

Dragging over his sweet spot relentlessly.

Giving him the kind of pleasure that makes him sob and bite his lips.

It’s all I have.

It’s all I am to him.

He comes with a long, long triumphant shout that fills the room with his amazed pleasure. Come spurts hard from his rigid cock and splatters over his skin in obscene ribbons I’d like to lick while they still retain some of his heat. Meanwhile, his ass tightens in a way that spells the end for me; I thrust hard, selfishly reaching for my corner of bliss. He’s mine, and for the last time I come inside him with a choked-back groan.

He catches me in his arms when I slump forward over his chest, spent and exhausted.

I take comfort in the feel of his heart racing mine.

Tangled limbs and ragged breathing is all we are for the next couple of minutes as a few fingers stroke my ass hypnotically.

When I finally disengage myself and roll away to lie on my back, he turns to me – I drag the sheets over my waist just as he gets rid of the blindfold. His eyes are hazy, he’s flushed, utterly boneless, and a corner of his mouth is curving up impishly.

“You win,” he tells me, a little short of breath. “I’ll never diss the missionary position ever again.”

I’d like to answer something clever. I’d like to answer something funny. But the truth is, if I open my mouth now it’ll be to tell him vile things – I’m dying here.

My fucking heart and soul are being torn to stupid little shreds because it’s beginning to dawn on me that I’ve fallen in love with a guy for the first time in my life.

And the guy doesn’t know it.

Probably cares even less.

“I win,” I echo, the sarcasm lost on him.

I try to roll out of bed but he grabs my arm.


So I stay, like the obedient lovesick puppy that I am, and his hand comes to rest on my chest, right over my heart.

And I wait.

And wait.

He thankfully catches on the fact that I’m not in the mood to talk, and respects it.

He eventually dozes off and I use the opportunity to make my escape. Take a quick shower. Grab the money – once again he’s added a zero to the normal rate and it almost makes me sick.

I’m about to leave when I stop at the door. I can’t just slip out into the night like a thief. I have to say goodbye, it’s only right, only polite.

I might have the incredible urge to eat a bullet right now but it’s not his fault after all. He’s not responsible for the way I feel about him. Or… well, not directly. He can’t help being exactly what I never realized I wanted.

“Are you leaving?”

I turn around and he’s here in his pristine bathrobe. Hair mussed, skin warm and smelling of sex. His eyes are guarded, though, and there’s a strange tension in his shoulders, like he’s fighting the need to do something with his hands, which are carefully kept out of harm’s way in the soft snowy pockets.

“Yeah. Is it okay?” I ask awkwardly, because in my haste to get the hell out of dodge, I kinda forgot that I’m supposed to be at his service for the evening – and it’s barely 8pm, fucking moron that I am.

“Sure,” he shrugs.

Needless to say his body language is screaming the contrary.

I take the two steps that separate us until I’m in his space. His trademark distant expression is slowly sliding into place. Before it’s too late, I cup his face, press my lips to his, and wind an arm around him. It’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss, but it soon turns into something a little more fevered, a little more desperate. I don’t want to investigate too closely into who starts it, who launches the assault.

All I know is that he doesn’t resist when I push him against the wall. Doesn’t complain when I yank his bathrobe open. Doesn’t object when I go down on him hungrily. He just surrenders, whispers my name and fucks my mouth like his life depends on it.

It’s fast and cheap and slutty, but it’s what makes it so good.

He coats the back of my throat with his come as his fingers tighten in my hair – a plaintive gasp on his lips.

Then I take a minute to put him back together again; straighten his bathrobe, take him in my arms, give him a closed-mouth kiss.

“Thank you for the present,” I murmur gently into his ear.

“Welcome.” His low voice is soft, drowsy and sated. That’s exactly how I want to remember it.

I open the door and walk out into the deserted hallway.

“Goodbye, Daniel,” I try to smile.

“Bye, Jack.”

He closes the door.

As if October 20th needed to stand out even more than usual in my memory: I’ve managed to associate my own fucking birthday with Daniel forever.

Tonight’s the first time he’s given a blowjob to a man.

Tonight’s the first time I’ve made love to a man.

Happy Birthday, Jack.


***End of Chapter 7***