Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“I can feel your tongue inside me. I can feel how wet it was, how it made my whole body tingle with joy … Mmm. I already miss you.”
I was rock hard. My hand was already down the front of my bed sheets, running up and down my naked body.
“Keep talkin’ to me,” I urged him. “Keep going.”
“Yeah?” His voice creaked cutely as it grew softer. “You like when I talk to you like this? All dirty and shit?”
My heart raced. My cock throbbed. “Keep going, keep going.”
Yeah, we kept going.
I got no sleep that night. And despite that, Thursday morning still found me with a big smile on my face.
I’m invulnerable this week.
Nothing can touch me.
When I pick him up Friday, he’s got a bag packed and can’t get out of that loft faster. As we drive down the causeway, I chase an instinct and take hold of his hand. He seems surprised, and then the pair of us realize how much sense it makes—him and I, me and him, holding hands, the pair of us becoming something.
Something …
“So this is the pose?” he asks me long after we’re back at my place, settled in.
“Yep.”
“You want me to …” He bites his lip, studying me. “You want me to paint you like this?”
“I know painting actual human beings isn’t really your forte,” I go on, blithely continuing to pose on the dining room table, “but I thought maybe you could stretch your comfort zone a little. Explore unexplored territory.”
He gazes down at my body.
My naked body.
“And, um … that ‘unexplored territory’ is your balls on a plate …?”
I grin.
Yes, that’s the pose: me, lying on my side on the table, naked, my upper half propped up by an elbow of one arm, with my other arm hanging off my knee, and my cock and balls resting on a plate in front of me surrounded by grapes.
“Alright, it’s a bit much,” I admit, “but just look at it as, uh … what’s that thing called where you paint fruit in a bowl or whatever …?”
“Still life …?”
“Still life, there you go. I’m your still life. Naked. My balls on a platter. It’s metaphorical or something. I know you didn’t bring your paints, but, like, maybe you can draw me first or something. You do drawings, too, right?”
He studies me for a moment, looking as if he wants to either eat me—or crack up laughing.
Then he nods. “Sure, let’s do this.” He goes over to his things, pulls out his sketchpad, sits down in a chair in front of the table, then starts to draw.
I watch his eyes as he works. I knew this would be fun, maybe even a dumb idea, but I underestimated how erotic it would be. As his eyes study every inch of me, and as I listen to the soft scrapings and shuffling of his pencil on the soft paper of his sketchpad, tiny tingles of excitement run up and down the back of my neck and head. I bite my lip as I watch him work, my heart racing.
“Hey, now,” he warns me. “If you want me to draw you, you’ve got to stay still.”
“I am.”
“Including that,” he says, pointing.
I glance down.
My cock is growing on the plate.
I blow air out of my lips. “So? I can’t control it. I like being your muse. It’s fun. It makes me feel important.”
“And feeling important gets you hard?” he teases.
I shrug. “Apparently.”
He laughs, then draws quiet, glancing at the plate.
I lift an eyebrow. “What? You stopped.”
He sets down his sketchpad, then without warning, he brings his lips to my cock and gives the head of it a kiss. It stirs without my permission. Then he licks the whole head with his tongue, before inviting it into his mouth.
I fight back a squirm. “Quin …? The hell?”
He pulls away and picks his pad back up. “I decided I want you hard for the whole drawing. Yeah,” he says with a determined nod. “Much better.”
I glance down at the plate. My cock is now rock hard. “Well, mission accomplished. Now what?”
“Now stay hard.” He goes back to drawing.
I shrug. “If you say so.” And I continue being his hard-cocked muse while he draws me with exquisite detail.
It isn’t until my cock starts to go soft that I realize the diabolically cruel reality of Quintin’s little game. He sets aside his pad once again, leans forward to give my cock a teasing little lick, then sucks on it for ten or twenty seconds until I’m rock hard again, driving me fucking wild. Then he pulls away again, at once ending my pleasure, picks up his pad, and gets right back to work.
“Dude …” I whimper.
“Hey, you’re the one who had the idea,” he says in his cute, innocent tone. “Now you’ve got to endure it until I’m finished with my art.”