Page 36 of Wood

For a second I think that’s going to be the wrong thing to say. His jaw sets, and behind him I see the barman set down his cloth, moving towards me. I tense, ready to shift if the guy starts swinging.

“Oh, an’ yer a right pretty one, ain’t ye,” he cackles. “Feckin’ American, too. I bet yer a fag ta’ boot, take it up the arse for some rich man.” He’s working himself up and I shift my feet off of the bar stool’s rung and onto the floor.

A hand lands on the young guy’s shoulder, an older man from somewhere deeper in the pub, gray stubble, the kind of grip that comes from decades of hauling nets or crates or something heavier than a golf bag. “Come on now, Seamus. Leave the man his pint. He’s not disrespecting anyone.”

Seamus shrugs him off, but he goes, grumbling, back to his own stool, back to his own audience of nobody, mumbling about feckin’ golf and Americans.

I don’t finish my pint fast, and I don’t finish it slow either. Just steady. I go back to my search on my phone. As I step away to head out, the barman gives me a look that’s half apology, half something else… respect, maybe, or just relief nobody’s cleaning blood off his floor tonight.

Making my way back to the cottage, I check as I turn the corner, relieved to see the street empty. I didn’t really think Seamus would follow me, but one can’t be sure. I breathe a little easier as I unlock the door.

I let myself through and notice the lights are on. Ben must already be back. Hanging my dripping coat on the rack, I toe off my wet boots and check the small living room. It’s empty, as is the kitchen, so I walk quietly to the bedroom.

And stop, frozen, at the door.

Ben is laying back on the pillows, naked, stroking his glistening cock in a slow, leisurely way that lets me know he has just gotten started, waiting for me, and my breath stalls in my throat, my eyes locked to his.

“Stop.” He commands. “Stay there.”

I’m frozen in place at his words.

The overhead light is off. Only the bedside lamp is on, shining a golden glow on his skin, highlighting his sculpted body. That six-pack that I envy and love to run my tongue over. Those rippling deltoids and legs. My cock is suddenly achingly hard. He strokes himself, looking at me for so many seconds. I try not to fidget.

“Take your clothes off,” he says in a low rumble, still stroking his cock ever so slowly.

My clothes have never come off so fast in my life, shirt flung I don’t know where, shoes and jeans and underwear and socks in a pile at my feet. Then I stand. Waiting.

He looks me over as I stand. Sweat trickles down my back in spite of being absolutely naked. Do I please him?

“Come closer, enough that I can touch you, but do not touch me yet. Do not touch yourself.”

I hurry forward, stopping less than a foot away. I’m leaking pre-cum and it drips down my cock and onto my feet, but I don’t touch it. He said not to.

He reaches out a hand and flicks his thumb over my tip, swiping the pre-cum then pressing it to my lips. I shudder. “Lick.”

My mouth opens, and he wipes his thumb on my tongue.

“Suck.”

I whimper and suck his thumb in, stroking it with my tongue as my cheeks hollow and more pre-cum drips down my shaft. This is such delicious torture. I taste the lube he was using and my juice and just Ben.

He pulls his thumb from my mouth abruptly with a soft pop, and I’m left standing with my mouth open. Panting. I want to beg, but I know it won’t change what he has planned.

He shifts over on the bed and pats the mattress next to him. “Face down, ass up.”

Oh god.

I crawl onto the bed, into the center of the mattress, and get on my hands and knees, then lower my face, resting my forehead on my fists. He tilts my head up and shuffles forward until his cock is touching my lips, his thighs bracketing my arms.

“Lick.”

Salty pre-cum on my mouth, I lap at him, laving the head of his cock, tasting the lube he used before and his own delicious essence. I want to suck but he said “Lick”, so I lick. Swirling my tongue around the head, flicking his frenulum, into his slit until he hisses and pulls away, shuffling back. He presses his hand on the back of my head, pushing me back down, and I rest my forehead on my fists and try not to squirm, to whimper. I’m not sure I succeed.

Now he is behind me, his hands on my ass, spreading me open for him. I’m not prepared for his tongue on my hole, and jump then moan as he licks me from balls then up to circle around me. He pulls my cock back almost painfully and kicks my knees further apart, then strokes my shaft. I hear the snick of a bottle top, then cold lube trickles down my crack onto my cock, and he strokes my shaft as he taps a finger on my hole.

His beard brushes my inner thighs as he leans in and fucks my hole with his tongue, and I’m a whining mess. I’m begging and I finally register what I’m saying and want to sob because yes, please, please, please fuck me. I need you inside me, please, Ben.

He kisses my ass, one cheek then the other as his finger lightly circles my hole and I press back, trying to force his finger inside me. When he finally sinks that finger in, I scream, partly in pleasure, partly in relief.