Chapter 18 – Braxton #2
"Sure." I force a smile. There's absolutely nothing I'd rather be doing right now than being accosted by a fan when I desperately want to get away from the crowd and fuck my boyfriend in the ass.
Boyfriend?
Blame the fucking drugs.
"Are those your real names?" she asks, eyes shifting back and forth between Pookie and me.
"No." Pookie shakes his head with a laugh. "But we can't share our real names for safety reasons."
"Incorrect." I jab him playfully with an elbow. "Pookie is the only one with a fake name. The rest of ours are real."
"Wait, what?" His cute little dilated eyes squint as he attempts to process this new information. "How did I not know this?"
"I think you just assumed we all had boring real names, too."
He squints his eyes tighter as if he wants to say, Stop saying the first thing that pops into your head. Which would actually be great advice.
Anywho, time to go. I grab Pookie by the hand and drag him past the curtains separating the hallway from the darkroom. I don't even care that a fan saw us disappear into here. Together.
Now, darkrooms are supposed to be dark. Crazy, I know. But there's a red exit sign that casts a soft red glow near the entrance. It's not enough light to expose our identities but just enough light to act on an itch I've been dying to scratch.
I wrap my arms around Pookie's chest and guide him to a bench near the exit, leaving a trail of kisses on his neck along the way. "Get on your knees."
"Anything for you," he whispers back.
And then he does as he's told, dropping to his knees and leaning his chest over the bench.
I sink to the floor behind him, pushing his legs apart.
I peel his shorts and thong down the curve of his ass, and push his shirt up to his neck to expose his back.
I reach into my pocket, grab the baggie, and empty a line of powder on the small of his back.
There's a commotion in front of us, the sound of a belt buckle clanking against the wall. A man grunts and groans while another whimpers. The best part? It could be a fucking celebrity and we'd never know. I've really been missing out in my former life as a straight boy.
Wait.
Fuck.
Ugh.
I lower my nose against Pookie's back and snort the trail of drugs leading down to the crack of his ass.
Once there, I tongue his sweaty rim. It doesn't taste quite as fresh as it normally does, but the drainage in the back of my throat obfuscates it enough that I don't care.
And besides, when his body contorts like this...
when he fumbles on the bench, desperately trying to latch onto any semblance of control...
when he throws such incredibly slutty little moans from his throat... How the fuck am I supposed to care?
I push my shorts to my thighs, lube up my cock with a disposable packet, and press against his hole. I'm about to fuck the hottest new reality star in the world, in a room filled with people, and none of them are any the wiser.
That's fucking hot.
The group—yes, the whole ass group—decided to spend New Year's in Puerto Vallarta.
Mr. Pink wasn't the happiest man in the world; by that, I mean he was absolutely furious.
We're talking red-faced, blabbering, threatening.
That kind of pissed. He even presented the idea of firing us all, but our rising stock as reality TV stars gives us a little more wiggle room than we'd have in a normal working environment.
Unfortunately for him, that meant he'd have to bring in the B-crew, the group of stallions who couldn't quite hack being in the main group, for the busiest holiday of the year.
Sad times.
The whole group is on the beach with about thirty minutes to go until fireworks are launched over the ocean.
There's music and dancing, and the drugs and alcohol are free-flowing.
Somehow, despite everything, we really are one big great family.
Dysfunctional at times, but what family isn't? Hell, even the Rat Queen and I have managed to have fun on this trip.
With twenty-nine minutes left to go until the ball drop, Pookie and I decide to do something a little different.
It's not like we can kiss each other in front of all of our friends, not yet.
I'm barely able to tell myself I'm bisexual, let alone everyone else.
To my surprise, Gunnar hasn't said a word.
Even when we get into squabbles, he doesn't sling the truth like he so easily could.
So, with twenty-seven minutes left, Pookie and I disappear into the dense crowd and make our way back to our hotel room. As soon as the keycard turns the light above the lock green, he's pushing me backward into the room and tearing off my clothes.
See, I promised Pookie more than just a kiss at midnight.
I promised him this virgin, straight boy ass, and he's a little more eager to collect than I anticipated. He shoves me onto the bed and whisks his white shirt over his head, revealing his sun-kissed and sunburnt skin. Then, he's climbing atop me, thrusting between my thighs.
I glance up at the ceiling and take a tour down memory lane, wondering just how I ended up in Mexico about to be fucked in the ass.
This journey of self-discovery ultimately began with Tamra cheating on me with that Canadian man, so really, this is all Tamra's fault.
What I didn't know then was that being cheated on would be the best thing to ever happen to me.
Pookie kisses my throat as he unbuttons his jeans and clambers out of them. I move my hands to the mounds of his ass and am surprised to find familiar cotton fabric. It's loose-fitting, too. I angle my head to get a better look to find he's wearing my boxers.
"How do they look?" he asks as he sits up and pulls my legs around his waist. He tugs my boxers down my thighs, exposing my very fucking eager cock. "Do I look hot in them?"
"Fucking fire." I shift forward, climbing into his lap and throwing my hands around the back of his head.
It's not lost on me that I went into this evening believing I'd be apprehensive about the whole affair, but instead, I'm grinding over him, desperate to feel the heat of his cock against my ass.
I look at the clock on the wall—twenty minutes left. "You're running out of time, cowboy."
"Just remember you asked for this."
He plants a quick smooch on my lips before tossing me backward and rolling me onto my stomach.
He rips my boxers down the length of my legs and tosses them to the floor.
Then, he's leaving a trail of wet, hungry kisses on my ass.
The closer he inches toward my hole, the tighter I instinctively squeeze.
Nineteen minutes remaining, and I'm starting to panic.
He pries my cheeks apart with both hands, and a whiff of warm air passes over my hole. I tilt my head sideways into the pillow, praying my hole looks as good as Pookie's. But what if it doesn't? What if it's not clean? What if the sight of it repulses him?
"Fuckkkk," I shift my head into the pillow in a desperate attempt to stifle my moans. He absolutely cannot know how much I love this. Of course, I've had my ass eaten before. Tamra used to do it all the time, which she so bluntly outed to the whole world during a game of Never Have I Ever.
And if his cock feels half as good as his tongue, I'm going to be in serious fucking trouble because I don't want him getting any ideas about our roles in this situationship of ours.
Look, I've been around gay people long enough to understand the various roles on the spectrum—top, top vers, vers, bottom vers, bottom.
I know where I fall on that spectrum: top.
Total top. I don't need to be fucked to know that, simply because nothing in the world comes close to the feeling of unloading in a warm, inviting hole.
However, I want to know what it feels like because I think it'll help me in the bedroom.
This is all in the name of science and being a better, more loving, and caring top.
He climbs up over me, and I can feel the weight of his cock through his boxers. He smooths a hand over my ass and whispers in my ear, "Are you ready for a finger?"
I check the clock.
Seventeen minutes.
"Y... yeah," I groan. "No time like the present."
An awkward silence follows my canned feel-good quote, but the silence is broken by the popping of a bottle of lube.
The sound sends a shiver down my spine and a tremble through my hole.
He reaches down and presses a finger over my opening.
It's cold to the touch and then warm as he swirls it around the rim.
And as he presses it in, a never-ending gasp of unknown pleasure stumbles out of my slack-jawed mouth—a jagged whine at the sensation of being too full and not full enough.
"Good fucking boy," Pookie moans in my ear. "Such a good bottom."
I snap my head over my shoulder, gritting my teeth. "I'm not a fucking bottom."
"Whatever you say, cowboy."
He sinks deeper into my ass, and let me tell you... I've never felt quite so vulnerable in my life. I'm already fucking sweating, breathing hot fire against the pillow, and desperately trying to climb away from him, all the while somehow remaining fixed in place.
He pulls his finger free, and my hole tightens again.
Then, there's another finger joining the first. It's about to be a whole fucking party.
He pushes inward and there's a burning sensation, but I fight through it as he inches his way in until he's knuckle deep.
It's when he's there that he does something unholy to me.
I can't quite make out what he's doing. Instead, I can only describe it—pushing, prodding, stretching.
The delicate and tender lining of my rectum being played with like it's a toy.
And daddy fucking likes it. I raise myself to my elbows, sinking my teeth into the pillow while arching my ass backwards, craving for him to go deeper.
But he can't, and he voices as much, "I can't go any further. Not without my—"