Page 19 of A Long Con

They wound up in the hallway like two guys trying to get through the same doorway during an earthquake, grappling with each other in their eagerness to get to the FedEx first.

“No problem, Pothole,” insisted Royal, gripping the skinny blond guy by the shoulders. “Go back to your fireplace.”

Royal won the battle—the Battle Royal you might say—and vanished toward the front door. I knew I couldn’t climb down the ladder with that shit in my hand, so I had to replace it inside the cabinet before dismounting.

“Aha!” cried Royal in the hallway, brandishing the tube like a sword. “The great reveal!”

Indeed it fucking was. I even had plastic gloves I donned to handle the canvas, and I’d already found a few glass paperweights or doohickeys from Elaine’s china cabinet to hold down the four corners.

“Ah.” Royal didn’t breathe as I took my time unrolling the canvas.

Wow.I didn’t remember it being this good. The woman—I’d always seen it as a her—had dark outlines that suggested motion as the figure merged into itself. The pelvis thrusted as it does when descending stairs, the movement rotated clockwise. It was as though each stop-motion frame had left behind an image of itself as the woman continued on her way, the frozen sequence becoming more transparent as she walked from upper left to bottom right. The shades of tawny caramel and pineapple butterscotch were reflected in the beautiful tones of Royal’s skin and hair. People said the sense of motion was influenced by the photography of Eadweard Muybridge, who had experimented with time-lapse photography in the 19th century.

Wordlessly, Royal swiveled his head to look at me. His eyes seemed to brim over with some emotion I couldn’t detect. His emerald green aura had been changing lately, now reflecting a penny brown. Did that mean he was more down-to-earth, more honest with me? He looked back at the painting as if about to cry.

“Do you think your contact will buy it?”

Straightening up, Royal folded his hands in front of his crotch and addressed me formally. “Berkeley Moynihan. You have outdone yourself this time. Although I think Mr. Hogshead will want to know the history of it, how you obtained it.” His look became darker. “So think up something good.”

I nodded eagerly and rolled the canvas back up to insert it into the tube while Royal called Mr. Hogshead. No sense letting black mold or moths descend onto it.

Royal concluded his conversation and slid his phone into its cradle. I somehow knew what he was about to say to me.

“We got fifteen minutes.”

I wasn’t about to argue this time. In fact, to be honest, I had a bit of a plan in the back of my head. I don’t know where it came from because I’d certainly never had a scene under my mother’s roof. But now it all came together.

I had to take control. I lifted my chin. “Go get that footstool. Meet me in my bedroom.”

Royal sped off without a word.

I found the matching set of fake fur-lined handcuffs and collar inside my bureau drawer. I’d taken them on a few Grindr hookups. Ash must have noticed by now that they were gone from our loft. Maybe that was part of why he was such a baby about sending the canvas. He knew I was moving on without him.

I heard the front door close but I knew Ira Hogshead wouldn’t enter without knocking. It was probably Pothole taking crap to the rental truck. Anyway, I was so blinded by lust my goal was laser-sharp. Handcuff Royal and fuck him in the mouth.

He brought the stepstool into my bedroom and I placed it a foot from the wall. “I’m going to need you to obey me now, Mr. Palakiko.”

I was betting he had no experience with BDSM, and he just went along with me out of curiosity. I slid the duster off his mammoth bare shoulders, taking a bite out of the warm, inked skin. My hands slipped all over his shoulders, reveling in the gargantuan feel of him. He must’ve been about six four, six five. I smacked my kisses loudly to show my superiority, but I could not get at that nipple until I lifted his tank top over his head.

Ah. The scent of weed combined with motorcycle exhaust and testosterone. Royal was a hulking mass of manliness in my embrace. I bent my knees so I could run my tongue down the “sharks” of his tattoo and sip his nipple into my mouth.

He hissed in air, spearing his fingers through my hair. “Ah, that’s so good, Berkeley. You’ve made me hard already. Go ahead, nibble. Nibble on my nipple.”

Wait. Did he get the picture? I wasn’t here to service him. He couldn’t order me around. Straightening up, I tried to look down my nose at him. “Get your back against that wall.”

He did so with an amused smile. He was experienced in playing a role, I remembered. Yes indeed, his dong was straining against his jeans—and I had never seen it. Seen him come. I wanted this desperately, but I had to establish my superiority first. I buckled the wrist cuffs in front, so his hands covered his crotch. I was a bit slower in buckling on the collar. Oh man, did he look sublime in it. Would he wear a collar all day and night, like Ash had?

I murmured, “You look supremely submissive.”

“What am I submitting to?”

“Don’t question anything. I’ve done this for a long time.”

Climbing to the top rung of the stepladder, I grabbed Royal’s head and brought his face to my crotch. “Exhale like you did in the kitchen. Mouth my dick. Love me with your mouth.”

Although I’d normally not use that often-misunderstood word “love,” it seemed appropriate in reference to his mouth. I had not told Ash I loved him many times, although I was certain I did. It just wasn’t the sort of thing you sat around saying.

But Royal could love my cock with his mouth, and man, did he. With his hands cuffed, he was even more enthusiastic about gumming the underside, mouthing the glans. In fact, I felt that initial spurt of jizz so quickly, I raced to unbuckle my belt and shove his face back in there. Ah. When his tongue snaked around the trunk of my dick, my balls twitched and sent another burst of come out my slit.