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“He’s so small, Johnny: such a frail little thing. But spirited. He’s got… spunk,” pronounces Terry, happily.
“Hmm.” John, back from Tahiti and beautifully tan, takes a sip of his whiskey.
“And I’ve got him looking up to me. Well, obviously.” He laughs. “But he idolizes me. He’d do anything I asked.”
John issues another noncommittal grunt. His expression has gone hard, inscrutable—the eager light that had shone in his eyes when Terry had described making the boy’s knuckles bleed a few minutes ago gone. Interesting.
Terry wets his lips. He leans forward, the hand holding his own glass heavy between his legs.
“Anything, Johnny,” he says. “If I told him to get down on his knees…”
John’s shoulders draw taut. “He’s a boy, Terry.”
“He’s eighteen,” Terry says mildly, though his own heart is thudding now. He initiated it, but this feels all of a sudden like a dangerous game.
He sits back, tilting his chin up with a sigh. “Wouldn’t you like it if I ruined him completely, in every way? I’d do that for you, Johnny.”
He keeps his posture relaxed, flicks his eyes to John’s face. He’s shifting a little in the hard wooden chair—the one behind the dojo’s desk, that he immediately and instinctively reclaimed.
“Can you imagine,” Terry says, “if I were sitting here, and I told him to climb up into my lap. I don’t think he’d hesitate. He’d drape those slim, coltish legs over my thighs, let me cup that sweet, pert little ass in my palms, touch him like he’s never been touched before…”
“Is… is that what you want?” John’s voice sounds tight.
“I want what you want,” Terry says easily. He flexes the muscles in his neck, gaze coming to rest on John’s face. He stretches his mouth into an appropriately wolfish grin. “He whimpered when I hurt him, Johnny. Can you imagine the sounds he’d make if I seasoned the pain with pleasure?”
John doesn’t reply. Terry drops a palm onto one spread thigh. “Or have I gone too far?”
There’s a minor war on John’s face.
“He’s just ever so pretty,” Terry adds. “You didn’t tell me he was so pretty. Maybe that’s why the Lawrence boy—”
John’s chair grinds against the floor as he rises.
“Stand up,” he orders.
Terry almost does it. Maybe this is what he wants anyway: like he said, to give Johnny what he desires. Anything he asks for.
“I’m comfortable here,” Terry says, managing to sound normal through a tight throat.
John approaches him. God, he is magnificent. The clench of his fists makes muscles tighten all up and down the bestial heft of his arms. If he tore Terry from his chair, stole it out from under him to claim it as his own, Terry would sink back down in his lap in a second. He’d ride him until he wept.
Terry’s done much more prompted by much less.
And John… John dodged Terry’s calls for five months before he came crawling back, and even then, all he’d accept from Terry was vengeance.
“Stand up, soldier,” John repeats, and that settles it. Terry locks his ankles around the legs of the chair. He pats one outstretched knee.
“I think you’re tired from your flight, captain,” he says. “Why don’t you sit down.”
John makes a strange, strangled face. His eyes flick toward the door and Terry thinks for a moment that he’s on the verge of leaving.
He forces himself to shrug. “Or I can call the boy. I bet he’ll come racing over. He’s met me here at night before. Either he trusts me implicitly… or he’s hoping—secretly wishing—that something will happen. That I’ll make all his teenage dreams come true…”
“You’re sick,” says John, swallowing heavily.
“A man has needs, Johnny. I’ve been alone for so long…” You left me alone. He’s smart enough not to say it.
“You need help,” John persists.
“Maybe I just need someone to show me the error of my ways,” Terry says, rotating his hand so he can lift and offer it, palm up. “A real man…”
John’s eyes are cold as he steps forward. His fingers squeeze and he’s not gentle, not delicate, as he takes Terry’s hand and lowers himself into Terry’s lap, straddling him with thick thighs.
In this position, he looms over Terry the way the boy never could. He’s heavy, almost overwhelming, and Terry’s doesn’t hesitate, shifting his grip so he can grab hefty handfuls of his ass. He squeezes, grinding up without seeking permission. He wouldn’t ask the boy. He’d take whatever he wanted. For once, for once—it would all be spread out for him, there for the taking. No masks and no games.
John lays a heavy hand on the back of his neck. “Is this what you want, Terry?” he asks, squirming, just a bit, against the hard bulge of Terry’s cock.
Terry bites the inside of his cheek until he’s sure his breathing is under control, until he knows his words will come out measured. “It’s a start.”
He licks his lips. Time to press his luck—bet big and win or lose it all.
“Now open those jeans and let me see that pretty little cock.”
There’s fire in John’s eyes, but after a heart-stopping moment he does what Terry asks. Well, in every particular except for the size of what he’s packing. “Look at that sweet thing,” Terry coos anyway. “Is that all for me? Are you all flushed and hard for me, Johnny-boy?”
He feels a rush, a bolt up his spine, the moment he says it. He says it and Johnny’s cheeks wash pink, even as his gaze stays dagger sharp. But he lets Terry bounce him a few times in his lap, bare and clothed cocks grinding, and when he finally dismounts, it’s only to shed his jeans and briefs completely. Terry’s eyes never leave him as he takes down his own fly and gets his cock out, stroking it and dripping moisture from the leaking tip onto the pants he decides to keep on. He wants to feel Johnny’s bare ass settle back against his denim-clad thighs.
“Shirt too,” he tells him, and Johnny may roll his eyes a little, but he still sits back down in Terry’s lap completely naked.
“Look at you,” Terry breathes. “You’re beautiful,” he tells Johnny: something he’s never been able—been permitted—to say to him before, though he’s thought it every minute, moment, hour of their acquaintance. He’s half in disbelief that John’s allowing it now.
But John’s not really himself at the moment, is he? He’s Terry’s sweet naïve little Johnny-boy, and he doesn’t have a say in what he gets; he’ll get what’s good for him, and be grateful.
“Touch yourself,” Terry says. “Show me how much fun you’re having.”
And Johnny does it. Terry’s still half beside himself with joy. He settles his own cock into the soft cleft of Johnny’s ass and watches him stroke himself, glaring eyes finally closing as the pleasure builds, as Terry covers his hand with his.
“You’re being so good,” Terry says. “You’ve earned a kiss.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice. Their lips slam together—maybe a bit too hard, not entirely in character, but it’s flattering to think he could awaken this kind of passion in some shy little virgin: someone lacking their shared history, their decade and a half of desire and withholding, of lines drawn and crossed and redrawn.
John’s lips are warm and firm, seeking and reseeking Terry, sucking on his tongue, then opening for him without compromise, without conceit.
Something in Terry’s chest bursts. “Oh, Johnny—”
“Shh.” He kisses Terry quiet before he can ruin it, break character. Terry’s heart is pounding, too big for his ribs.
John stares down at him, eyes dark and oddly soft. “What do you want me to call you?”
Terry blinks.
John’s mouth twists into a smile as he says, “I await your orders, sir.”
He knows it’s a game, Terry realizes; he’s playing his own.
Terry wonders if at any point during this, he’s felt as Terry does now: awaiting a surge of victory that will not come.
He forces triumph onto his face anyway. “Don’t be impertinent,” he says, strong-voiced, in control. “You’ll get my cock when you’ve earned it.”
John’s not the actor he is; he sounds too confident as he says, “Tell me how I can prove myself to you, sir.”
Terry wishes he knew the answer.