Page 12 of A Long Con

And his tongue. Oh fuck me, his tongue. Swirling and twirling, he even plunged it into my slit—while I was ejaculating. I squeaked, I squirmed, I dug my fingers into his silken shoulders. Where did such a copious load come from? Hadn’t some other guy just hoovered me that afternoon?

When Royal hummed a sigh of contentment around my cock, the vibrations shook me to the core. I was weak in the knees. I had to force my hand on his shoulder to push him off.

He didn’t go easily. He let go my balls and gripped my dick, hungrily slurping up a few beads of jizz here and there, slithering his tongue-tip into my hole.

“God!” I shouted and pushed him away with more force.

He landed back on his heels, looking up at me like a kid proud of some sculpture. I hiked up my jeans but realized my penis looked good hanging there like that, shiny and throbbing. Panting now to allow some air back into my brain, I slid my fingers down my abdomen and over my pubic bone, the V between two fingers framing my pulsing hose.

I wanted him to admire me.

I wanted him to fucking admire me.

But I had to drag it out of him. “You like that, don’t you?” I asked darkly. “You’re really good at that. You like having a big piece of meat in your mouth.”

“I do,” he admitted happily, his own schlong visibly throbbing in the crotch of his jeans. “Especially your meat.”

“Why mine?”

He looked at my dick. “It’s long, thick, and dark. Perfectly proportioned. Muscular, like you could lift weights with it. Beautiful.”

I finally had to say it. “But I thought you weren’t gay.”

Sighing deeply, he stood. He unfurled his giant body to its full height a bit at a time, like a snake emerging from a basket, lured by a flute. Soon he seemed almost a foot taller than me, his palms on the wall above my head. His body heat engulfed me, and I knew he held all the power, not me. I was supposed to be the fucking Dom ordering him around, yet he was at least my equal.

He breathed on my forehead. “They call me the Samoan Slammer.”

“What’s that?” I whispered, longing to kiss him again. But that would betray my desires. As a Dom, I was supposed to be the unfeeling one. Not the best match for a guy with such intense cravings and inability to rein them in.

“My ring name. So, am I pink?”

“What?” It was hard to think, as he’d clamped his thighs around one of mine, his erection fit to bust.

“My aura or whatever. When you saw me, did you see pink?”

“Oh. Ah, no. I saw green. A sort of mint, jade green.”

“What does that mean?”

We both jumped when there came a rustling from the front door. I froze against the wall like a burglar in a spotlight, and Royal leaped back as if prepared to do battle.

“So I got those new switch plates you wanted,” some guy yelled as he surfed through the glossy magazines in the foyer.

Royal looked at me, mouthing, “Switch plates?”

Oh. Fuck. Cloud.

He was bringing me over some light switch plates he’d mentioned were stashed in his dad’s garage.

Fast as windy flames, I stuffed my cock and balls back into the fabric, making a loose tent of my black and white T-shirt. I only wore black and white—I had no associations with those colors at all and seeing them didn’t distract me.

“You good?” I asked Royal.

He shrugged, so I shouted to Cloud, “In my bedroom!” Which sounded even worse than it was.

“Heyyy,” said Cloud, overly happy for no apparent reason. One thing you had to say about him, he was perpetually euphoric. Or stoned. “Here’s your switch plates.”

His messy red hair was parted down the middle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him consider a different hairstyle. He managed to find baggy jean bell bottoms and was clad in one of those striped Baja hoodies that hippies wear. Come to think of it, I guess Cloud was a hippie. I was pretty sure he had a Grateful Dead T-shirt under that hoodie.