53. Silas
53
SILAS
I ’ve been living in vengeance mode ever since the night Lilah and I got drunk on tequila and hatched our plan, but seeing Graham caught me off guard. I shouldn’t have crossed the street. I wish I could say why I did, but I don’t think I’d like the answer if I delved too deep.
It’s perverse and humiliating that I’m still so drawn to him. Like my sense of self-preservation goes out the window. How can he get me hard just by sitting there being pathetic? But he does. I’m halfway to my apartment before my erection flags. Huge apologies to the woman whose ass it brushed on the subway. I was so embarrassed, I switched cars. I never switch cars.
My stalker is waiting for me when I get home. There’s something entirely unsurprising about seeing him leaning on a bike rack with his head down in front of my building.
I guess I’m not the only one with a tendency toward self-destruction. I don’t speak to him, but I do hold open the door. He follows me inside, and for a brief, glittering second it’s like old times—the way we used to enter his Chelsea apartment before I had a key. I could do without the sudden rush of tenderness, but it’s gone quickly enough when I remember what he threw away in service to his career.
The bottom line is I have a needy dick and a revenge fantasy. Both are eager to come out and play. I haven’t had sex in more than two weeks. Gil isn’t sure what to make of the fact that I “got fired.” We’ve texted a few times, but I haven’t seen him since I’ve been an independent contractor. Winning this lawsuit will keep me from having to figure out a way to sell myself online, and I’m counting on that. Working for Katia gave me a veneer of legitimacy—a step above a common prostitute, but that false protection is gone.
I didn’t except Gil to react the way he has, but I accept it, even if it hurts and leaves me feeling even more alone. It fuels my anger, and I blame all of this for the fact that I’m letting Graham into my apartment with every intention of making him suffer as much as I have.
He waits in the living room while I grab the bottle of tequila from my kitchen counter and take it into the bathroom with me.
I turn on the shower and strip off the suit I’ve been sweating in all day. I set my phone on the toilet lid before stepping into the hot stream of water. I don’t expect to be alone long, and I resent how deeply, how well, I know the man I left in my living room.
He knows me too. The instant I’ve washed off, I see him through the shower curtain, like the muscle memory of how long it takes me to clean myself is still ingrained in him.
A bitter taste fills my mouth, and I reach for my phone, sure to keep it out of the spray of water. He enters, naked, and immediately drops to his knees. I adjust the shower head to aim the water at his head. As I do, the sheen of his steel cage catches my attention. Good. I want him to hurt. I want him to ache. I want every second of this to be as shameful and humiliating as he made me feel when he denied ever touching me.
I aim the phone’s lens at him as he stares up at me, my cock standing stiff and ready between us. Once I’m recording, I nod .
He grips my shaft and sucks my crown between his slightly parted lips.
My toes curl, and I bite back a curse as I try to keep from buckling through the initial burst of intense pleasure. My eyelids droop as I watch him watching me, his eyes never leaving mine, acting like the camera doesn’t exist.
“Show me your tongue, puppy,” I say.
He pulls off with a gasp and sticks out his tongue. Water spills over it and still, his saliva creates thick strands that cling to his chin. My heart thuds suddenly, and it hurts. Like a blow to a broken bone. I don’t want to want him, and I certainly don’t want to miss him. Therefore, that can’t be what this is.
I wrap my free hand around the nape of his neck and force him back down on me, thrusting deep into his throat. He chokes, and I hold myself there while he struggles to adjust.
His muscles work around my cock, bringing me straight the edge, but I force myself to remember that everything that was good between us is long gone. “You’re acting like you don’t want it, Senator. But you do, don’t you?”
His lashes flutter, and he looks, for a moment, rapturous and worshipful. It’s an answer.
“Then why don’t I feel your tongue moving?”
His tongue slicks around my shaft, and I draw back enough to drive in again. He takes me better this time, his throat resigning itself to being used. His lips tighten around me—like that’s gonna hold me back.
“Who’s the whore now?”
He sucks harder, his forehead creasing with effort. I don’t go easy on him, squeezing his neck tight and forcing him to take a pounding. His mouth is hotter than the water. His throat tighter than any fist. His plush lips framed with dark, wet hair are the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.
I hate him for that, too. For being incomparable. For being the best head I’ve ever had or probably ever will have. I hate him for getting me addicted to him and forcing a sudden, unwanted withdrawal. He trashed our love. Denied our connection. This connection.
I hate that the only reason he’s here is to get me to back off his ex-wife.
But if there’s a way to do that, his mouth is a contender. He feels so fucking good I want to melt. I want to replace my dick with my tongue, press my lips to his, feel his cock against mine and get closer.
But he ruined that. He ruined everything.
I pound his throat harder, forcing him to choke again. He coughs. The whites of his eyes redden, filling with tears. But he doesn’t do anything to push me away. He steels himself and sucks me as hard as I’m fucking his face.
“Take. Every. Fucking. Drop.” I say, gritting my teeth as my imminent orgasm vibrates every cell in my body.
He grips me by the ass and swallows me whole, his nose smashed to my pubic bone. I blow at the sight of myself fully engulfed by him. His spasming throat pulls blinding sensation through all my limbs. I unload inside him, wave after wave of high-flying relief shuddering through my bones. It’s so all-consuming, I nearly drop the phone. I stopped paying attention to it awhile ago, too lost in the wrongness and my own righteousness to remember why I wanted him here.
He guzzles every ounce of cum exploding from my dick. His swallowing throat compressing around half my length makes my orgasm last for so long it feels lethal.
“Take off the cage,” I say, mindless.
His head shakes, my dick still buried inside him.
I slap his face, and he pulls of me with a deep gasp, shocked as he puts his palm to his abused cheek.
“Take it off,” I growl.
“I—I don’t have the key.”
“Get up. ”
The water’s running cold, and we’re both covered in chills.
“Bed,” I tell him. “On your hands and knees.”
I follow, camera focused on him as he obeys. The shades on the windows are closed like always as he crawls onto the bed. We’re both dripping wet. I grab lube from my nightstand and stare hatefully at the metal between his spread thighs. It’s not enough for him to deny himself, he had to come over with that godforsaken thing on and deny me, too.
But I know from experience his hole is as greedy as mine, and he’ll be sorry he didn’t leave me with any options by the time we’re done here.
“You’d let me stick a baseball bat inside you, right now, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” he whispers, burying his face in his hands.
“You might start to wish I had one of those around in a minute, Senator.”
“I’ll take anything,” he says. “Please.”
“Don’t… Don’t beg. It’s disgusting.”
I prop my phone on the nightstand, making sure we’re both visible in the shot. I squirt lube into his crack, getting turned on when his hole winks open and closed. I coat my hand with another generous squeeze and trace his rim with two fingers. He opens wide, welcoming them. “Slut,” I say, as they sink inside.
His ass clenches on them, and he rocks, riding them almost reverently. Without letting him enjoy it too much, I add a third finger. He grunts and lets out an appreciative groan, sinking back to take them to the knuckles.
“You miss a big cock, don’t you, Senator?” I give him a few rough, twisting thrusts. “Look at this greedy cunt. Someone’s obviously been practicing.”
“Yes…” he moans. “Yes…”
“You realize what this means, don’t you, Senator? It means you’re a whore. Just like me.”
“Yes,” he says again, sounding utterly miserable .
“But where’s the pride, puppy? All this time, and you still can’t be proud of who you are? Who you’ve always been?”
“Silas,” he shouts as I fuck a fourth finger into him, opening him as wide as my cock would if it were anywhere near ready to go again, which it isn’t.
“What are you?”
“A whore,” he pants, barely loud enough.
“What was that? Louder, Lawther.”
“A whore— fuck .”
“But not just a whore.”
“No…”
I funnel my fingers inside, adding more lube to my hand before sliding my thumb in, too, until all my knuckles are spreading him wide.
He makes a shrieking noise as I rotate my wrist.
“What do your friends in the Capitol call people like you? You can say it. You can’t offend me, puppy.”
That’s a lie. His existence offends me, but here we are, and I’m finally starting to enjoy myself as he truly begins to suffer.
He whispers the word, but it’s not loud enough. I need to hear him admit it. I need my phone to hear him admit it.
“Louder,” I snap.
“ Queer .”
“Oh, is that all? They’re being too nice. Maybe they see it in you. The queer with a greedy hole and a dick that only gets hard for cock.”
My hand slides in to my wrist, and I turn it slowly, curling my fingers into a loose fist. He’s a wreck of heavy breathing and grunting noises intermingled with whimpers and the occasional deep, primal moan.
The moans elongate as my knuckles graze his prostate.
I used to charge a lot for fisting, I think bitterly, but the majority of men who thought they wanted it, couldn’t take it. They’d nope out as soon as my thumb joined the party. From personal experience, I know exactly how intense it is. How it makes your asshole feel like it might never go back to normal. It’s never made me come—it’s way too much, and not many people have the finesse required to make it good, but I’ve done it often enough that I do, if he can get past the hard part and accept what’s happening to him.
Graham rocks on his knees, adjusting to the intrusion and working his sweet spot. His ass lifts and rolls, bearing down on me with each breath. I grit my teeth so I don’t start punching the guts out of him, no matter how much I might want to—no matter how much he deserves it.
If he can come like this—great. It’ll make for a better video. Look at me, still making a living with sex.
I twist my fist as he rocks, finding a rhythm the way we always did, no matter what we were doing. I try not to resent that it still comes so easily, but it’s hard not to.
“I think I—” He cuts himself off, unable to finish telling me what I can already feel happening. His purple balls are full and taut. His asshole is vibrating on my hand in erratic spasms.
He comes, and it sounds like the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. Like he’s being torn apart limb by limb—dying. He comes so hard, he loses control of his body, collapsing onto his chest and his legs splaying flat on the bed as he convulses with the orgasm his cock cage trapped inside.
My slick hand unclenches now that it’s not inside him anymore. I stare down at it. I can’t believe I just did that.
“I’m gonna be sick,” he says, hand reaching for the edge of the mattress. I pick up my trashcan and stride quickly around the bed. He lifts his head and vomits the instant I get there.
I reach down to stroke his hair off his forehead but stop after one pass. I don’t want to touch him like that. It’s his fault for wearing that goddamn cage. Otherwise, he could have an orgasm like a normal person. Fucking masochist.
Once he’s done, I remove the soiled liner from the small bin and take it out of the room, double bagging it before shoving it into the kitchen trash. I wash my hands in the sink before splashing some cold water on my face. Somehow during all that I went from shivering to sweating.
I find him in the bathroom when I return. He winces as he bends down to pull up his pants.
He looks up at me, startled, and his green eyes catch me like a glue trap. The ghost of the love we once shared flickers like a faint shimmer in my chest. I don’t speak, and he doesn’t either. Instead, I turn away, opening my dresser and pulling out a pair of sweats. I get dressed while he does, hoping he’ll leave once he’s done.
I don’t trust myself with him. He shouldn’t trust me. But neither of us seems to have the slightest clue how to protect ourselves from each other. It’s surreal—him being here. There’s a normalcy and familiarity to his presence that beckons me, wanting me to feel comfortable. But beneath all that is just—nothing. Emptiness.
Loss.
I put my hand on the edge of the dresser, close my eyes and take a deep breath to keep from breaking down. This never had to happen. I would have stood by him through anything. Loved him no matter what. But this is all we are now, and it’s fucking devastating.
“I need you to go,” I call out.
His hand touches my back, and I jump nearly a foot away, whirling to face him with both palms up to keep him off.
“Silas, please?—”
“No. No, no.” I shake my head, pointing at the door, not wanting to hear it and willing to go to great lengths to avoid listening to one more word.
Resolution sets his features, and my eyes narrow to a glare.
He’s not leaving.