Chapter Fourteen #2
William grunted, as I punctuated my question with hard, fast slams.
It was a bad idea, glancing back over my shoulder, but I did it anyway.
“He’s hard, watching me nail you,” I hissed at William. The memory of Flynn’s stare burned into me, as bright in my brain as the way his sweatpants were tented. Whole body tense, practically vibrating with stress or excitement.
“Oh god,” William whimpered, as I pushed myself up, off his back. Holding his shoulders down, for leverage, and the change of angle enough to shove me over the edge.
The sensation like a fist clenching inside my groin. The urge to keep hammering so strong, I almost couldn’t stop myself. Very nearly gave up on holding back; let myself crest that final point in the heat of William’s body.
I pulled away, just in time.
Stumbling a half-step back, and Flynn wide-eyed when I turned to him, attention flitting between my crotch and my grin.
“Whad’ya think, we should paint the cuck’s face?”
“But I wanted...” William started to whine.
I was already moving, though. Leaving him, ass hanging off the edge of the bed, and pulling off the condom as I crossed to where Flynn was sitting. What little of his expression I could see, practically unreadable.
“He’s been so patient, after all,” I added.
I was close, so fucking close.
He could stop me, I knew he could. We both knew he could. Reach out and shove me back, even as I straddled his legs with my spread thighs. Standing over him, my fist close to a blur.
“Seems only fair, right?” I called out, to William, and then toppled over the edge.
Across his forehead, first, and then stark white against the tight black mask. Flynn breathing hard, nostrils flaring and the cords of his neck standing out in stark relief.
“So fuckin’ messy,” I murmured, quiet enough for only us to hear.
He squirmed in the chair, suddenly. Jaw clenching, hips twisting.
I looked down, to see the bloom of wet soak through his sweatpants.
“Fuck, that’s... holy fuck...” William sounded shocked; as though I’d broken the fourth wall somehow, stepped out of the screen, or off of the stage, and into the audience. He dropped to his knees, panting hard and hand stroking desperately, and then a moment later came himself.
When I looked up again, it was to find that Flynn had been watching me all along. The regret washed over me like a freezing wave.
Hurriedly, I bent to scoop up my clothes. Seeing William’s frown, even as I bolted through the bedroom door.
I heard the footsteps, as I pulled on my clothes. Almost not daring to turn around, to see which of them it would be, as I buttoned only as much of my shirt as was necessary to keep it from flapping open.
A hand on my arm.
“You can shower.” William, still looking surprised.
I shook my head. “It’s okay, I gotta go.”
He nodded, still seeming confused. “Well... can I get your number?”
My turn to frown. “What for?”
A glance back, at the bedroom neither of us could see into now. “You’re hot. You’re a good fuck. I’d like to do this again.”
I could picture Flynn in the chair, silently glowering. “Is he gonna be up for that?” I jerked my chin.
William winked. “What he doesn’t know...”
I could feel the frown forming; forced the expression to clear. To show no judgement, just curiosity. “Is that something you guys do?”
An eye-roll. “You’ve seen how he is. Why should he care, if I’m doing it by myself.”
“So just you and me, then? And he doesn’t know you meet other guys?”
William gave an exasperated snort. “Look, if you’re not interested...”
I shrugged. “Just not in town that often, is all.” I could tell I’d annoyed him.
William reached past me, to pull open the door. “Pity. Anyway. Have a good night, then.”
It was clear dismissal. I pushed my feet into my shoes.
“Yeah, you too.”
He didn’t even reply, just closed the door.
#
The cold of the street was like a slap. Reality after the daze of their apartment.
Unruly, compared to the orchestrations of Flynn and William’s bedroom; the way I felt like a chess piece, moved around according to some arcane set of rules.
A version of the world that I was too transient in, to be worth having it explained.
All I could see was the expression in Flynn’s eyes as I stood over him, jerking myself.
Hunger and shock, and something else I’d been too horny, too caught up in the moment, to recognize fully.
My brain too flushed with the thrill of what I was doing, how I’d upended their script; as if it was merely one of the thousands of permutations of the evening that I’d imagined, not reality.
I walked quicker, wishing that I’d brought a jacket.
Knowing that I should just pull out my phone, summon a ride in one of the apps that was so useless back home and so ubiquitous here.
Only the thought of seeing a message from Flynn on the screen as I went to unlock it - or, equally terrifying, there being no message at all - kept me striding down the sidewalk.
He’d be angry, even if he was turned on.
Some deep, instinctive part of me knew that.
Not just because I’d dared careen off the rails of their performance, but because I knew his secret motivation in it.
The rigidity of his self-imposed control, stability amid the runaway uncertainty of the rest of his life.
The guilt hit me like ice water. So shocking, I almost stumbled over my feet. Glanced around myself, embarrassed, hoping nobody had seen me come so close to tripping. Relieved, a moment later, that such concern - such interest - wasn’t a part of life in the city.
Which just left me with my sudden shame.
I’d not been thinking about Flynn, not really, when I’d stood astride his lap.
Only my uncontrollable desire for him, my desperate attempt to reshape the evening, make it so that the man I was performing for was more involved than merely unblinking eyes across the room.
Selfish, even as I told myself he wanted that, too; reminded myself of the heft of his erection through his jeans, after we’d kissed outside the restaurant.
Selective blindness, focusing solely on that physical reaction and not the words with which he’d tried to explain himself.
I fought the urge to stop in the hotel lobby.
To fall into one of the chairs off reception; to gasp, my skin prickling from the sudden change of temperature, and let my brain continue reeling from this understanding of how deeply I’d fucked up.
How thoroughly I’d managed to convince myself I was doing, even if not a good thing, then at least something both Flynn and I wanted. Blinded in it, by my own needs.
The mirrored wall of the elevator was cold against my forehead. I turned, eyes barely open, at the chime of the doors opening; almost collided with a couple getting in.
“Oh... oh, sorry.” My apology a stutter.
“My fault, I thought this was going down.” An older man, late-fifties. Dressed for a late dinner; his hand at the small of his wife’s back.
I remembered how William had led me to the bedroom; how I’d stood there, mannequin stiff, as he undressed me for our audience of one.
“Are you alright, young man?” The wife, frowning, solicitous.
I waved the concern away. “Yes, fine, fine. Just... tired. Long day, y’know.”
She smiled, and suddenly all I could see was my mom, standing there. Hopeful, expectant; wanting little more than the reassurance that I was only ever making good decisions.
The door opened again; a glance told me I was finally on the correct floor.
“I... Uh, have a good evening,” I managed to fumble out, as I rushed past them.
#
Part of me wanted to leave. Throw what little I’d brought back into my bag and yank the zipper across. Drive through the night, the radio tuned to something mindless.
The wave of exhaustion as I closed the bedroom door behind me said that was a terrible idea.
I shed clothes as I worked my way to the bathroom. Twisted the faucet to hot, and only moments later billowing steam began to fog the mirror. A blessing of its own, the reflection of my haunted face quickly obscured.
It felt like a scouring, as though the shower took the top layer of skin away with the sweat, and the drool, and the remnants of cum. Needles of heat, pounding at my shoulders and my scalp. A surgery, of sorts, to excise the guilt.
Only each time I closed my eyes, it was to see Flynn’s gaping stare as he looked up at me. His emotions more unreadable each time I pictured him, until the convulsions of his orgasm could’ve been the shuddering of death-throes as much as pleasure.
Lightheaded, I sank down to a crouch under the water. Then further still, the shower tray cool against my ass, as I leaned back against the white tiles. Hoping the thundering water would clear enough of my brain that I could sleep, at least.