23. Lance
Lance
I beat him to the cabinet by half a step.
My back hits the doors hard enough that I feel it in my teeth, both palms slapping flat against the wood like that’s going to stop George Torres-Macklin when he’s already decided to move. Which is hilarious, really, because nothing about him says “easily redirected.”
This is a five-alarm, front-yard-burning fucknuggetry.
His eyes flick past my shoulder to the cabinet. He pauses for a while, but George doesn’t waste time on drama.
“What’s in there, Lance?”
“Nothing.”
He makes a noise low in his throat, the meaning unmistakable: Try again. “Personal items,” I interject, hoping to recover, to sound believable enough.
His eyebrow lifts slightly. I’ve known him long enough to know I’ve already lost this argument.
“How personal?” he asks.
Like ass-deep personal. “Extremely personal,” I say just a little louder in spirit.
“You left your front door unlocked,” he rasps. “You can’t wait to do what you’re set out to do here.”
And this is the part where a normal person would lie better.
“Did I? Can’t I?” I fucking semi-moan, because his body is pressed against mine, arms caging me in, bending me back against the wood like he’s deciding whether to eat me or scold me first.
He looks down at me like he’s still calculating what to do with this situation.
“Can you go away?” I try.
“Can you move?” he counters.
“No.”
“You know what happens when you don’t,” he says. He doesn’t even sound threatening.
He just sounds certain.
“Not afraid of you,” I lie, because self-preservation is apparently not my strong suit. “You can do your worst.”
He actually chuckles. Low, amused, like I’ve just said something mildly entertaining instead of deeply stupid.
Then he leans in close enough to my ears that I forget how to fucking breathe properly.
“You think you can handle it?”
I combust. Full internal meltdown. Brain.exe has stopped working. Dick.exe has taken over.
He reaches over me, hand on the knob at waist level, and shifts me aside without breaking eye contact.
I numbly let him. My heart is doing funny acrobatics. My skin is too hot. Everything is crashing down at once.
The door swings open.
George doesn’t react immediately. He just stares into the cabinet for a long moment, the way his jaw tenses tells me everything I need to know.
“How long?” he asks.
My mouth opens. Nothing useful forms at first.
“Since after Azure Tides.”
That earns me a glance, sharper now.
He reaches in and pulls out the blue silicone dildo, my first one ever. Holds it up between us and looks at me like he’s daring me to explain myself.
“You’ve been very…busy,” he remarks, tapping the cool silicone against my nipple.
I tremble. He’s going to torture me. I can feel it. I suddenly feel like I should start praying, or running.
“What’s this, Lance Bradford?”
He holds the dildo up in front of my face and taps it lightly against my lips.
“Where do you put this?”
“In…in my…”
“Hmm?” he prompts, voice low and patient.
“In my ass.”
“Why do you like it in your ass?”
I stay silent, burning.
“Why?” he probes, clearly preying on me.
Instead of shrinking under it, instead of feeling ashamed or just wrecked with lust, I finally manage to meet his gaze and refuse to look away.
“Because it’s mine. It’s my body. My choice what happens to it.”
George’s expression changes in a heartbeat. It’s not gone exactly—the fire still there in his eyes, but blazing sharper now. It’s focused into something more than just pure hunger.
“And I listen to it,” I continue before I can second-guess myself.
“I’m still a complete fucking disaster when it comes to other men.
Dating, figuring them out, knowing how any of this fits into real relationships.
All that shit terrifies me. But this? This is the one thing I’m sure about.
I know what I want. I know how I want it. ”
I swallow hard, my revelation probably knocking the wind out of both of us right now.
“It’s not just pleasure. It’s ownership of myself. Of what I let inside me.”
George goes completely still. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or surprised.
He looks at me like something just locked into place inside him, as if he’s seeing a version of me he didn’t realize he’d been waiting for. I can see admiration, even pride—fierce enough to make my chest tighten.
A slow breath leaves him.
“Jesus Christ, Lance.”
His thumb drags once along the silicone before he turns his gaze to the toys spread across the cabinet behind me.
“Nobody gets to make you feel lesser for knowing yourself,” he declares. “You understand me?”
Something in me gives way at that.
I never believed I needed anyone’s permission to be who I wanted to be. But deep down, some part of me had always expected this would be the kind of thing people would tolerate at best, until it became too explicit or impossible to ignore.
And George is looking at me like my confession, my honesty deserves respect. It hits so hard I almost have to look away.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I hear you.”
His eyes darken again after a beat, heat sliding back in.
“You’ve been taking all these into that tight little ass for months?” he says, gaze dropping to the cabinet again.
I nod, dissolving into a mix of arousal and raw self-consciousness.
“So, if I put this—or something else—in your hole right now, for exploratory purposes, would you like that?”
I’m short-circuiting. Words are failing me.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I think I’d like that.”
He slides the dildo down my neck. Across my collarbone, down my chest. Dragging lightly over my sternum and stomach.
He hooks a finger into the top of my towel and gives it a little tug. The flimsy thing drops to the floor, exposing me completely naked and leaking before him.
We gravitate closer. He pulls back abruptly, leaving me hanging, aching.
He steps back toward the bed and picks up the thick dark dildo like he’s handling evidence in a very personal crime scene.
“I like watching you use this one,” he says, voice loaded. “Really committed to the camera angles too.”
Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
He saw it.
He actually fucking saw it.
“How…why…” I start, then abandon it entirely. “You son of a bitch. You Oscar-winning, criminally deceptive asshole!”
This stone-faced bastard has been walking around for weeks like a perfectly normal, innocent mechanic while I’ve been having full-blown, spontaneous dick panics every single time I remember how I accidentally sent that video.
George doesn’t even flinch.
“Trust me,” he replies, clearly fighting a smirk as he reads every panicked thought flashing across my face. “You have no idea how hard it was to pretend I didn’t.”
I open my mouth, but nothing escapes except for the sound of my soul leaving my body.
He reaches down and playfully flicks my painfully hard cock. We both watch it bob aggressively, then leak a fat bead of precum that stretches into a thin, obscene string before it finally breaks and falls to the floor.
I stifle a moan, biting down my lower lip.
George’s eyes stay locked on it for a second too long.
Then he walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, casual as hell, like he’s about to watch the evening news. He turns his attention to the laptop. The video is still playing—me, on my knees, riding that same dildo, moaning like I just discovered religion.
George watches me fuck myself on camera with the calm intensity of a man studying engine schematics.
His face is completely unreadable.
And somehow that’s worse than if he’d laughed.
“You record every time?” he asks, without looking up.
“Most times.”
He finally returns his gaze to me. Those dark eyes pin me in place.
“Use them,” he commands. He nods at the toys on the bed. “On camera. Now.”
My pulse fucking explodes. Heat floods my entire body so fast I feel dizzy.
“You’re…watching?” I ask, voice cracking like a teenager.
“Yes,” George says simply. No hesitation. No mercy.
I gulp. With shaky hands, I adjust the tripod, angling the phone so it captures the whole bed. George drags the chair from the desk, drops into it, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. His stare is heavy, unblinking, locked on me.
I climb onto the bed, heart hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. I grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand first and slick my fingers generously. I start with the beads because they’re the most familiar, the safest.
I kneel with my back to the camera, reach behind myself, and press the first bead against my hole.
It slips in easily. The second follows. I breathe through the stretch as I slowly push them in one by one, until the largest one pops past my rim with a filthy sound that feels way too loud in the room.
The sudden fullness makes my cock twitch hard and leak a bit onto the sheets.
George’s voice cuts through the silence. “How deep do you usually take them?”
“All the way,” I answer, already a little breathless. “Until I feel the pull when I move.”
I rock back slowly, letting the beads shift inside me. The pressure builds beautifully, pressing against all the right places. A broken moan slips out when the biggest one grinds against my prostate.
George makes a hungry sound in his throat. “Again.”
I pull the beads out halfway, then push them back in even slower. My thighs are already trembling. I can feel George’s eyes devouring every detail—the arch of my back, my cock hanging heavy and leaking, the way my hole clenches greedily around the beads with every shallow thrust.
He stands, and my breath catches.
“On your back,” he says.
I roll over and spread my legs without thinking, then immediately want to crawl into a hole and die from how eager I look. George goes down on his knees by the bed. He picks up the thick red dildo—the shorter, girthy one with those obscene spiral ridges.
He slicks it up generously, eyes never leaving my face, then presses the blunt head against my hole.
“You want this in here?”
I bite my lower lip and let out an impatient groan.
George stops moving the toy. “Would it hurt for you to ask nicely?”
I want to murder him. I also want him to just put it in me. “Please, yes, just put it right fucking there.”
“This feels good?” he asks, driving the dildo in, pushing it deeper. He twists it ever so slightly so that the ridges drag along my walls.
The stretch is immediate and depraved. I cry out in pleasure, back arching off the bed. “Fuck…yeah.”
He’s grinding it against that spot until my toes curl. “Been putting things in this greedy, little hole for months?”
He just can’t stop talking—
“Thought my fingers and that one other toy were the first ones inside this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Many years of knowing you…you still surprise me, Lance.”
My thoughts derail completely. Jesus Christ.
He starts fucking me with it in steady strokes, angling it perfectly against my prostate.
George leans down, mouth latching onto my nipple, sucking hard while he keeps pumping the thick red dildo in and out of me. The dual sensation is too much. I’m moaning like a whore, hips chasing every thrust, completely shameless.
He pulls back just enough to speak against my skin. “Don’t use the fucking alien toy yet. You’re going to record yourself with it alone and send it to me.”
I nod frantically.
“And the vibrator,” he adds, voice dark, “you’re not touching that one either. I have plans for it next time.”
Oh, I’m definitely using that the second you leave, motherfucker—
“I’ll know if you do,” he says, like he can read my mind, and sucks harder on my nipple.
I’m right on the edge, shaking, when George wraps his big hand around my cock and starts stroking me—firm pulls that completely destroy what’s left of my sanity.
I come hard, clenching convulsively around the dildo deep inside me. The orgasm crashes through me from both ends at once—prostate and cock—ripping a broken, shameless moan out of my throat. My whole body locks up, thighs trembling, cum shooting across my stomach and chest.
George doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking me through it with the toy and stroking me through every aftershock. His mouth is still latched onto my nipple, sucking hard until I’m shaking and whimpering like I’m falling apart at the seams.
When I finally collapse onto the bed, wrecked and panting, George gently pulls the toy out of me.
He rises up on his knees, stroking his own thick cock fast and tight. His face stays just out of the camera’s main angle as he comes hard, shooting long, messy ropes of cum across my stomach, spent cock, and ass.
Then, without a word, he takes my phone off the tripod with his clean hand and angles it down, filming a slow close-up of my twitching, cum-smeared hole. His own cock hovers just above me, half-hard. The scattered toys are lying all over the sheets like filthy evidence of everything we just did.
The room falls silent except for our ragged breathing.
I drag my eyes up to him.
“We should watch it,” I say, grinning at him, satisfied. “Together. Sometime.”
George meets my eyes for a long moment, still catching his breath.
“Yeah,” he says, too low for how sure it sounds. “I think I’d like that.”