Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Sloane
My head falls back on my shoulders as I let out a heavy sigh.
Bruno’s tongue laves around my cockhead as he groans deeply.
I thrust into his mouth on instinct, though it’s not helping me reach this pinnacle one bit.
It’s been ages since I’ve had a session, but usually it doesn’t take this long to get off.
But tonight, I’ve been here for nearly forty minutes already and though we’ve gone through one of my usual scenes, I still haven’t been able to find the release I need.
Usually my focus is better. Though for some reason, I can’t seem to keep my concentration right now.
My mind keeps wandering to work and these blasted failing prototypes. To my new assistant, Oliver…
Who likes men. Apparently.
What are the odds? Chickadee said he was qualified, and he certainly seems like he can handle my workload.
First impressions aren’t everything, but he seems dedicated enough to stay late, and eager to do as I say, which are precisely the reasons I should not be thinking about him in any way, shape, or form that is not professional.
Driving him home was a mistake. I’d watched him leave, of course, from my office and out the door, torn over the need to follow him like some stalker.
I told myself it was justified—I just wanted to make sure he was okay.
So I pulled up the cameras. It’s not like anyone would know and even if they somehow found out, I own the company.
I own the fucking building for God’s sakes.
Reviewing security footage technically falls in the wheelhouse for me.
But I noticed Oliver was not seen going down to the garage and so I followed the security trail until he walked out of my building and turned left.
I admit I was surprised to see him sitting there, underneath that ramshackled plexiglass hut, Chromebook tucked under his arm and eyes engrossed in his phone.
He looked so innocent, so utterly perfect.
Those long arms and legs. Shoulders hunched.
Golden hair messy and hanging over his beautiful green eyes…
And I couldn’t help myself. I swear it is like a compulsion. The need I felt to scoop Oliver Green up and collect him like a prized hockey card.
So I did what any good boss would do…
I pulled his file to get his address and offered him a ride.
It was purely professional. Today it was a ride home.
Tomorrow I’ll set up a flex account for him and get him arranged with a company car.
I get the feeling my new pet is not used to having money, especially if his former employment includes the damn library.
Old habits can be hard to break. I know that better than most, which is why I intend to make sure Oliver has everything he needs to be able to do his job properly.
And if that includes a car and a little extra money so he doesn’t have to worry or take public transportation, well then, it’s money well spent.
Bruno continues his onslaught, working my shaft, which brings me back to the here and now. All thoughts of Oliver and his big green eyes and pouty lips dispel, and a disappointed growl escapes me.
Bruno isn’t a terrible looking man by any means.
He’s perfect, by Paramour standards. Not overly muscular, but toned enough, you can see his definition everywhere, even under harsh lighting.
His tight, cropped dark hair accentuates his trim beard and his amber eyes are quite pretty in natural light.
He’s an attractive man, but it’s his demeanor which entices me, or which used to entice me.
Bruno is good at playing whatever role I desire him to play for me.
Most often, it’s been the role of a submissive, which he isn’t terrible at, but it’s not something that is natural for him.
Even in these moments—the ones where he is on his knees, providing for his master, there is a disconnect.
Bruno sucks my cock not with eagerness, but with purpose.
Because it’s about my pleasure. It’s about giving me what I’m paying for.
It’s not what I really want, but it’s what I have to do to keep the monster fed and at bay.
Lest I want to find myself indulging in doe-eyed former librarians that like men. Which I can not do…
But tonight… tonight I am off in more ways than one, and I don’t like it.
Bruno’s touch isn’t any different than usual, though it has been months, but something about it pulls me out of the moment. He grips my ass with one hand and starts to pump my shaft with the other, as he groans around my cock and I shove him off.
“I didn’t say you could touch me,” I snap.
It’s a cheap cop-out since Bruno is well aware of my limits and safewords.
He drops his hand, pulling back from his attention on my cock.
He looks up at me from where he is kneeling, the red light of the room bathing him in its hue.
His eyes cloud with uncertainty, and it pisses me off.
Because he looks at me, like I just told him I ate the last cookie.
“I’m sorry, Master.” His voice is remorseful, soft, and full of guilt. But it’s not real. It’s practiced. Rehearsed.
“I know you are,” I bite, and I hear him shifting, a deep sigh escaping him. “But sorry is not good enough. Not tonight.”
I close my eyes because his tone, and even his words, are making my skin crawl. I open my eyes and back away, fixing my gaze on him.
“PUP,” I note, shoving him away as I pull my cock and myself back from him.
“Master, I—”
I hold my hand up to stop him from advancing.
“I said PUP. Scene end, Bruno. It’s over.” I stuff my cock into my trousers and zip them up; straightening the fabric, my fingers twitching as the hurricane starts to fester within me. The monster inside of me hungers for more. For things I can not give it, not tonight. Not here.
I need my oasis. I need my bed, and perhaps a good sleep.
“Was it something I did? Said? Did I not—”
“This isn’t working,” I say, my voice bitter to my own ears.
He doesn’t move, even though I’ve clearly ended the scene. This isn’t like him, though I suppose there is that disappointment, that expectation because he did not bring me my release, that he has failed. Despite his nature, Bruno, like most people, thrives on praise, not failure.
And I know, somewhere deep down, he sees this as a failure. Perhaps that is what happens when you sink all your praise and approval into satisfying men and women for a living.
Part of me wants to break away, while the other knows I need to make sure he is okay.
Even if things did not transpire the way I prefer, I am nothing if not professional.
And this… while the room may be different and the duties different, this is still a professional relationship.
It’s transactional and requires a certain level of understanding. A certain level of care.
I might pay Bruno to serve me from time to time, but that does not negate my duties as a dominant because it is professional.
If anything, it means I need to make myself and my role more clear.
I need to keep him within the structure of our arrangement and make sure he is mentally alright as well as physically.
“It is not you, Bruno,” I tell him carefully.
He looks up at me with sad brown eyes.
“It’s not you, it’s me? Really, Mr. Pierce?”
I don’t laugh. I hold his gaze steadily and he doesn’t look away.
“Do not take it personally. We all have bad days.”
Bruno nods. “Right. Of course.”
I reach out and grasp his chin, forcing him to look at me as he tries to look away.
“Thank you for your time.”
The disappointment in his eyes is evident, and I hate it.
I hate to know I’ve disappointed him. I hate to disappoint most people, and it seems I do more of that than I wish.
So I pull my wallet out to take out a few crisp hundred dollar bills.
I’d already paid when I booked my time, on top of the rush fee, a measly fee of one thousand dollars for a full two hours.
Still, the need to placate him for his time and soothe his anxieties is tantamount.
I offer him three hundred dollars, holding it between us.
His dark gaze flits to my fingers, where I hold the folded up bills.
“Are you sure there is nothing else I can do?” he asks, leaning a little too close for comfort. I look at the cash, then at him.
“No. Take it.” I step back, thrusting my hand out to him. “For your troubles.”
Bruno purses his thin lips, giving me a heavy sigh of defeat. He takes the cash, his fingers grazing mine. I watch as he counts it.
“Good Boy,” I tell him, if only because I don’t need him thinking I’m upset with him.
He nods as I slide my wallet back in my pocket and make my way towards the door.
The hallway is empty; the doors all closed.
The only thing that can be heard is the faint sound of classical music pumping through the speakers.
I groan, having heard Moonlight Sonata too much in my life to properly enjoy it anymore, not to mention I’m quite irritated.
My mind is a mess, and I need release. I need to work this out of my system.
This melancholy, this fixation, which I already feel taking hold of my consciousness.
I thought for certain a visit here tonight would cure me.
Help me work out my stress and my overbearing thoughts, but I was wrong.
All it did was make me irritated, and I could barely focus on anything. And I didn’t even come.
I make my way out, the staff thanking me for my time, and I dismiss them with a wave.