Chapter 19 #2
Will sparks literally fly? Will more silver trinkets appear when we come? Will Grayson sneeze and we’ll suddenly be dressed again?
But as he moans, I see my friend is in that exhilarated headspace when one rises above the physical. This is my cue to let loose. I poke his pleasure spot, encouraging Grayson to stop riding and enjoy the jabs.
He does at first, then pushes his arse so my cock is deep inside. I close my eyes and push with equal force, ramming my wood further.
Grayson squeals with delight. I love a good power bottom.
By the staccato sound of Grayson’s grunts, he must be jerking off.
And I’m close. Grayson yells. Cum streaks over my chest and I love its splotchy warmth.
Then I shoot into that wonderous void, because that’s what it feels like being inside when the sensation of an orgasm replaces the physical to and fro.
It’s all about headspace as our release of tension is shared.
I open my eyes and find Grayson rising steadily, ejecting my cock. And now that it’s exposed, it glistens. Grayson eyes it like he’s pleased with himself for a job well done. So I gaze at the cream on my chest, then look at Grayson, pleased with myself for the pleasure I bestowed.
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I’m miffed Grayson is taking a shower. It means he’ll leave soon, and I need him to stay. Why doesn’t Grayson feel the same?
While the water runs, I wipe my dick with my cum towel once again, then put on the tutu and top hat and wander into the bathroom.
“Cute,” says Grayson.
I lift the ballet skirt to show him my arse. “You can screw me if you stay, if you’re into topping.”
“I didn’t think I was going.” Grayson soaps his face.
“But you’re taking a shower.”
“You just offered me your arse. Don’t you want to start again all shiny and new?”
It seems Grayson is a clean freak. There’s more to learn beyond his sneezy mishaps.
“You don’t wash after sex?” Grayson asks.
I peel off the tutu and toss the top hat in the bathtub. I give Grayson a towel before I enter the shower. Grayson sneezes. I run out wet and check my apartment, leaving damp footprints all over the carpet.
“What’s the matter?” Grayson yells out. “Should I turn off the taps?”
“You sneezed,” I call back from the laundry. I re-enter the bathroom and step into the shower. “You sneezed and nothing happened.”
Grayson’s grin starts small. It builds to a wide-mouthed smile before he punches the air. “Halleluiah!”
“Now that you’ve mastered your sneezes, will you be able to cure my mum?”
“I guess so. But I’ll need Maude’s guidance to work out how, as Penelope’s success rate is hit and miss.”
“True. But we’ll sort it out regardless. And we’ll find Summer. Does Maude have a crystal ball?”
“I don’t know.” Grayson picks the tutu off the floor and chucks it into the tub on top of the hat.
I wash my dick and oddly, imagine it as a wand. After all, it just created magic. It brought us closer. I shake these juvenile thoughts from my head.
“Maude told me to look after Penelope,” Grayson says. “Because she needs friends.”
“That’s interesting.” I turn off the taps and Grayson hands me my towel. “You don’t think Maude and Penelope are related?”
“Hmm. They could be mother and daughter. They look kind of alike.”
“True.” I dry myself. “But maybe she just likes her. Penelope is fun until she needs looking after.”
“Yeah. And how often do we need to do that before a friendship is considered a chore?”
We gaze at each other, neither sure of the answer.
“What shall we do now?” I ask.
“I’m hungry. It’s been a long day, and a long night at that club.” Grayson rubs his forehead. “Shit, this time-hopping thing is weird.”
“But at least we cut our boring routines, like in a movie when each scene skips to the important bits of the story.”
“I like the sound of cutting our boring routines because I’m sure I don’t have a job anymore.”
“Does it matter?”
Grayson beams. “I guess not.”
––––––––
-GRAYSON-
We are in Milo’s living room, both dressed. I’m concentrating on dinner, keen to see if I can master my powers. I wave my hand as if I’m holding my wand.
“Fuck!” Milo is standing next to an enormous moulded chocolate mousse. It is taller than he is.
The coffee table is overloaded with a mountain of prawns.
Many keep dropping on the carpet. There are liquorice threads hanging from the ceiling.
And on the kitchen counter is a fondue, surrounded by various food portions to dip.
There’s a plate of steak and chips. Another with duck a l'orange with mashed potato and salad. And another with chicken schnitzel served with roasted vegetables. In fact, there’s so much grub, I’m not taking it all in.
“How did I miss that?” Milo says.
There are ten ice cream sundaes with various flavoured toppings and fruit. They’re in a line in front of the TV.
“It’s a shame I’ve run out of marijuana,” says Milo, wiggling his brows and looking hopeful.
I clear my mind, then focus hard on how Milo’s living room looks without enough catering for a wedding reception. I lift my hand.
“Milo, out of everything here, what do you want to eat?”
“You.” He chuckles. “The duck smells nice. And keep the sundae with the strawberry topping.”
“The one with grated chocolate or the one with sliced strawberries?”
“Sliced strawberries.”
I clear my mind again. The spell works. The duck a l'orange, the schnitzel, the double strawberry sundae, and the caramel-topped banana sundae stay. And a bowl of chopped happy herbs and a bong replace the stack of prawns.
“Oh, Grayson, you’re such a romantic.”
“Put some music on.”
As Milo seeks tunes on his phone, I take our main courses to the dining table, then go back for cutlery.
Music plays. It’s soothing electronic stuff. Perfect for a stoned night in. Milo packs the bong and offers it to me.
“You first,” I reply.
Milo smokes. “I’m a twenty-three-year-old with mother issues.”
Oops. Should I get stoned if this is the topic of conversation? I don’t need to feel paranoid.
“Oh, sorry.” Milo splutters. “I forgot about your mother issues.”
“At least Amelia is walking and talking.”
I’m given a goggle-eyed stare before he packs the cone and offers it again.
After I smoke, I ask Milo if he has a job.
Milo’s confident gaze lets me know he’s free of work commitments.
Of course he is. He probably hasn’t worked a day in his life.
Amelia set him up. He probably has a high-earning bank account and lives off the interest. Or Amelia gives him an allowance.
It’s a wonder there’s no maid. But I’d lay bets he has a regular cleaner.
“Let’s not talk about money,” Milo says.
“How did you know I was thinking about money?”
“I don’t have to be magic to read your face.”
Captain Picard speaks from Milo’s phone. I love his commitment to sci-fi.
“I won’t check that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m on a date.” But Milo can’t help himself. He fetches the phone, peeks at it, looks at me, then returns his gaze to the screen.
“What is it?”
“I have nearly twenty thousand followers.”
“Huh?”
“Over the week we just skipped, people began following me because Summer is missing, and others are celebrating coips.”
He raises his phone to show me. There’s an endless feed of naked selfies all using the hashtag.
“You should eat before your duck gets cold.”
But Milo can’t stop staring at his socials.