The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

5. Your First Order

5

YOUR FIRST ORDER

Rafe

I swivel in my leather chair, surveying my office as I fashion a reply to Gunnar’s throwdown on Instagram. The walls feature framed designs and awards alongside black and white images of my hometown—the River Thames, Cecil Court, Notting Hill. London is scarcely a village, but it’s part of who I am.

I’m a visual man, and I briefly picture Gunnar strutting into my office and stalking to my desk. The filthy images that flicker in my imagination spur me on, and I hit reply on his post.

Rafe: Thanks for the design tip. I do wonder one thing though.

Gunnar: I’m listening.

Rafe: If I could just move that sticker around a bit. Imagine how the rooster might look in other... areas.

Gunnar: Ah, well, if you ask nicely, I might be able to help you with that. But I’d like to ask you a question in return.

Rafe: Such as?

Gunnar: Where do you want the rooster, exactly?

In my mouth. In my hand. Against my cock. Deep and far down my throat. But I won’t say that publicly. In fact, this cock-and-rooster game has already veered into terrain too dangerous for public media.

Still, I take one more risk, tapping a final comment.

Rafe: I have some ideas . . .

The post is at the threshold of “too risqué for social media.” While I peddle sexy underwear, the world doesn’t need to witness my flirtations. And I would like to take this flirtation a lot further.

Gunnar must recognize the invitation because a few seconds later, my DMs light up.

Gunnar: I wonder if your ideas might match mine.

Rafe: Hard to say unless you tell me yours.

Gunnar: I could tell you or I could show you.

Dear God, this man is going to give me more erections than should be legal. At my desk, I stroke the outline of my cock. How far am I going to take this? My dick thumps against my pants, and there’s my answer—as far as I possibly can. I was ready to take Gunnar home from the club. I’m sure as hell going to indulge right fucking now.

This is my game. My rules.

Rafe: Show me your look without a sticker.

I suspect—no, I know from the way he danced with me that he likes taking orders. It’s clear in the way he rubbed against my cock and in the way he texts.

A few minutes later, my phone pings with a DM. An image. It takes a few seconds to load, and when it does, I groan so loudly, it’s obscene.

Gunnar has sent a new close-up photo of those tight red briefs. He’s in his... is that his car? My temperature spikes. He’s parked, and he’s in the driver’s seat of a sports car. Jeans on, unzipped, bulge tenting the front of those red briefs, and he’s pushed the waistband down to give me a mouth-watering peek at the head of his cock under the waistband.

That’s all. Just an enticing, tantalizing view of the tip of his dick.

Gunnar is the biggest, sexiest, dirtiest flirt around.

I entered this game with an innuendo, albeit a quite overt one. Do I want to indulge in a risqué online tryst? Trysts are exactly the sort of distraction that can steal my focus from what matters. But I crave more of this game.

From the safety of my office, with the door locked, I take out my cock, run my hand down my hard shaft, and give it a tug. I pick up once more the fantasy image of Gunnar in my office, and now he’s kneeling underneath my desk, staring at me with heat in his eyes, licking those lush lips as he asks what I want.

I tell him to open his mouth, take me deep, let me fuck his throat hard.

And he drops his jaw. He does exactly as I say, without hesitation.

One more stroke, then I squeeze the base of my cock and zip up my trousers. I’m not going to jack off at work. That’s out of bounds. But I know exactly what I want. And what he wants.

I’ll give him an order.

I type out a text but schedule it to send in an hour. Delayed gratification is part of the thrill of this game.