Filed under: Friday Fiction May 20, 2016
Today’s free story is a short piece I wrote years ago. Long-time readers may recognize it, but if you’ve never read any of my fan fiction, then hey! New story!
It’s a bit longer than last week’s Friday Fiction but still clocks in under 3,000 words. It also gets a little NSFW at the end, so consider yourself warned. M/M pairing for those of you who care.
My theme this week is in the title itself: control.
If you also posted fiction today on your blog (snippets, excerpts, a story or poem, whatever), leave a link in the comments! It doesn’t have to center around the same topic as mine.
Controlled (2,884 words)
Copyright © 2016 J.M. Snyder
He’s the type of guy who likes to think he’s in control. He always wants to be “in charge.”
Fine by me.
If anyone asks — and sometimes even when they don’t — he says our hooking up was his idea. I let him think it was. A few smiles here, a touch there, and truth be told, I orchestrated the whole thing. I wanted him the moment I laid eyes on him and knew I had to make him mine.
But you can’t chase after someone like him, hell no. He’d see you coming and run the other way. He has to be the one who makes the first move. He has to be the one who says what happens next.
So I flirted with him. Nothing overt, nothing he could throw back at me and say, “Hell, man, I didn’t know you were gay,” and then tell me he wasn’t into guys. I couldn’t have that. I started small — a smile every time he looked at me, a laugh after he said something he thought was funny, and that wide-eyed stare of mine that made him think he was the only one who mattered to me.
It was the stare that cinched the deal. He loves that. We’d be at a party and look up and there I was, staring at him from across the room. I’d hold his gaze two seconds, no longer than that, then look away. When I looked back, he’d still be watching.
I knew I had him then.
He kissed me first. Next he wanted to touch me there. Sleeping over my place was his idea. He suggested taking showers together. He suggested making love. Two months in, he sat on my sofa and held both my hands in his, and said he hoped he wasn’t moving too fast, but would I consider moving in with him?
“Isn’t that a great idea?” he asked. “It just came to me.”
At least, that’s what he thinks. That’s what I want him to think.
* * * *
When he gets home from work, he’s always too tired to fool around. You’d think at his age he’d be tearing off his pants at the mere hint of sex, but he spends long days on construction sites doing God knows what, and it wears him out. Most of the time he comes home, shucks off his clothes, and hops in the shower while I make dinner. If he has a bad day, he’ll talk about it. Otherwise he only grunts when I ask him anything.
The evenings usually wind down with us cuddling in front of the TV. Sometimes I manage to ease down the zipper of his jeans and slip my fingers into his fly during a commercial break, but I can’t push too far. Fondling’s as far as I get before he’ll catch my wrist and tell me, “Come on, hon. You know I’m worn out.”
He’s tired, I know, and he has to get up early in the morning. But I want him, is that so bad? More to the point, I want him to want me, and sometimes it seems like we’re just falling into this comfortable pattern of eat, sleep, and snuggle that I don’t want to get into. I want spice. I want passion. I want his body and I want him in me and I want him at my feet, begging to love me. He might think he’s the one who calls the shots, but I always get what I want where he’s concerned.
* * * *
So it starts with me setting his alarm clock half an hour later than usual. Step one. When I hear the alarm ring, I don’t move. I pretend I’m not awake. And when he leans over me to turn it off, he sighs and, in his thick bedroom voice, he murmurs my name. “Damn, you look fine.”
I roll over beneath him and stretch languidly, like a cat — first one arm, then the other. A hand behind his back, touching his skin as lightly as possible. My cheek pressed to his chest. My leg moving along his until my knee brushes his crotch, and I yawn when he leans into my touch. Then I smile that slow, just woken up smile I know he loves. When I finally open my eyes, he’s staring at me like he wants to eat me for breakfast, and that’s exactly where I want him. “Hey,” I breathe. My voice is deeper than it usually is because I know what that does to him. “What time is it?”
“Time to get up.” He barely whispers, his hands already smoothing along my chest, down my stomach.
When his fingers brush through the hair at my crotch, I roll away. His hand trails around my hip and over my butt as I stumble from the bed before he can keep me beside him. “Oh shit,” I say, like it wasn’t me who changed the alarm. Running late’s part of the plan. Make him want me and then don’t let him have me, not just yet. “Jesus, you’re going to be late.”
“What?” He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Fuck. The alarm just went off.”
I’m already pulling on my boxers, and because I have my back to him, he doesn’t see me grin. “Maybe you hit the snooze and fell back asleep,” I suggest.
He growls in frustration. “We have a few minutes …”
Not long enough. I don’t want right now — I want forever. I want him begging for me. I want him hard and aching. “Maybe tonight,” I tell him as I zip up my jeans. Over my shoulder I wink at him. “Come on, get moving. We can’t right now.”
He pouts at me and, for a moment, I almost give in. Almost. Then I turn away and pull on one of his shirts. He’s already wanting me, isn’t he?
And that’s a good thing.
* * * *
Step two: don’t let him touch me. Well, little touches are okay, his arm pressed against mine as we brush our teeth at the bathroom sink, a hand on my back when he passes me in the kitchen, his leg alongside mine beneath the dining room table. But that’s it, nothing more. No hands on my knees, squeezing to get my attention. No holding hands. No hugs or kisses or anything like that. Not even a goodbye kiss when he leaves in the morning — I’m conveniently in shower as he walks out the door.
When he comes home from work, he wants me; I can see it in his eyes. But I’m not ready to give in yet. It’s harder to resist when we’re alone, though, so I suggest we go out. It’s Friday night, why not? Dinner and a movie, my treat. Before he can complain, we’re back in the car, me tucked into the passenger seat, hands and legs folded together like a prim Poindexter on his first date. He glowers in the driver’s seat, one leg shaking with suppressed anxiety.
He wants me, I know it. Soon.
Out in public, he usually doesn’t like to be so touchy-feely, but he’s feeling neglected, his need radiating from him like musk from a deer in heat. But I’m not ready to give in yet. So whenever he makes a move that looks like it’ll end up with me in his embrace, I move away. Not on purpose, mind you. It can’t look like that. No, I just shift a little and he plays it off like he wasn’t trying to wrap an arm around my shoulders, and he smiles at the people around us, a just hurry up and leave smile he uses when we aren’t alone and he wants us to be. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at me so hard I can feel his gaze like the weight of the world pressing in on me, and I have to bite the inside of my lower lip to keep from grinning. He doesn’t know what I can do to him.
We grab a bite to eat at a burger joint near the mall, then buy tickets for an eight o’clock showing of the latest superhero film. Just before we go into the theater, I manage to get the two of us alone for three minutes. We’re in the men’s room — he entered first, and I locked the door behind me so we wouldn’t be interrupted. While he takes a leak, I take my time washing up at the sink. When he’s finished, he comes over and leans around me, his chest against my back, as his hands cradle mine beneath the rushing water.
His lips press against the tender skin on the nape of my neck. In the mirror above the sink, his reflection stares at mine. “This is the first time I’ve had you to myself all day.”
I have to smile at that. Letting him have me to himself wasn’t in my plans until right now. I lean back into him and close my eyes, purse my lips and moan as he kisses my nape again, then trails his lips around my neck to my ear, my jaw. I wait. One, two … he reaches the corner of my mouth, just as I knew they would, because I’ve puckered up slightly and he wants to kiss me.
I turn towards him, just enough for the faint bristles along his chin to tickle my upper lip. His little press of lips turns into something more as his tongue slips into my mouth and over my teeth. With wet hands he grasps my wrists and spins me around, leans me back against the sink, pushes into me, hungry. He wants me so bad, I can taste it. His hands grip the sides of the sink and one knee rises between my legs as he tries to mount me, here, now. I feel his hard dick rub against me when I run a hand down the front of his pants and he sighs my name, pushes me into the sink.
I’m almost ready to give into him, let him win, when someone hammers on the door to the restroom. “Anyone in there?” a muffled voice hollers from outside.
He rests his head on my shoulder and sighs. I ease my arms around his waist and laugh, a breathless little sound I’ve perfected to tell him I’m just as horny as he is. “When we get home,” I whisper.
“I want you now,” he says.
Yes, that’s part of the plan, too.
* * * *
Step three. During the movie, I hold his hand — the dutiful boyfriend. Afterwards, I let him drape an arm around my shoulders as he leads me to the car. Though it’s a bit awkward, I rest my head on his shoulder while he drives us home, careful to keep my eyes shut as if I’ve fallen asleep.
I haven’t. It’s part of my plan.
When we reach the house, he turns to me and shakes me gently. “Hey, babe. We’re here.”
He has to do it a few times until I pretend to wake. “Wha …?” You have to say it just right, like you were almost out and he’s only just managed to get you up or he won’t buy it.
“We’re home.” He says it low, pressing his lips against my ear and breathing those quick little breaths that says he might ravage me right here without even waiting until we get inside. As he helps me from the car, his hands brush along my stomach and lower, rubbing beneath my ass as if by accident, and I lean heavily on him because I know he likes that. It makes him feel strong when he helps me up the steps.
Now here’s the final step of the plan. I love this part. We get to the bedroom and, as he starts to undress, I sink to the bed like I’m too tired to take off my clothes. When he notices, he whines my name. Yes, whines. He’s older than me and still sounds like a little boy when he wants something badly enough. “Come on, babe —”
“I’m tired.” I fall to the pillow, pull my legs up beneath me, and yawn so wide, he’d fall in if he comes any closer.
He’s naked now and leaning over me, and I have to keep my eyes closed or I’ll give in because I know he’s ready to rumble, I feel his dick poke at me when he climbs into the bed beside me. “Come on,” he wheedles.
He starts to take off my shirt and I let him because I need to get undressed anyway. Then he unzips my pants, pulls them down, and starts kneading me through my briefs as if he’s going to get me interested whether I like it or not. That’s the only thing I can’t control, because no matter how much I think about my mother or his mother or spiders or whatever, I can’t not get hard. I can’t keep from being turned on by him and his hands which are pulling off my underwear, his lips kissing along my lower belly. “Please?” he purrs. “I’ve waited all day for this.”
I know he has. But I’m still not giving in.
So I roll away and sigh his name, letting my voice trail off like I’m too tired to keep talking.
Now his mouth is on my hips, my ass, that sensitive skin where my legs meet my butt and between my thighs, he’s kissing and his tongue licks at me like I’m the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. He likes my ass, I know he does, so I let him roll me onto my stomach and I bury my face into the pillows to keep from moaning when his fingers slip into me.
I say his name again, softer this time, trying hard not to sound like I want him. It takes a hell of a lot of effort to keep my voice steady, and I can’t help but arch back into his hand. “Baby, I’m so tired …”
“Please,” he begs. “I’ll be quick, I promise. Please.”
He spreads my legs and kneels between them. Then he raises my hips and eases into me, filling me, moaning that I’m tight and hot and he loves me, he loves me, he loves me. He always says that when we have sex. It’s a mantra for him, it keeps him going. I fist my hands into the sheets, keeping them beneath the pillows so he can’t see. Then he lies down on top of me, snakes his arms under mine, pulls himself down onto me and holds me close, his chest flat along my back. With each thrust he moans again, a breathy sound right in my ear, and he starts to kiss my neck but ends up just grunting my name and the words love and God and yes over and over again. I hold back, don’t let myself come when he does, his seed filling me with a liquid fire that warms me up from the inside out and makes me sleepier than I already am.
When he’s done, he kisses my cheek and tells me he loves me again, and I frown, my eyes still closed. Pretending I didn’t just want to do that. As if I’m still not in the mood. “Oh, babe,” he sighs.
Here it comes. The apology.
“I’m sorry,” he says, like I knew he would. His hand eases between my body and the mattress, reaching for my erection. When he finds it, he says he’s sorry again. “I know you’re tired, baby, I’m sorry.” He rolls me over, his fingers kneading me, working at me until I can’t hold back any longer. Then he crawls down between my legs and, with his hot mouth and probing tongue, brings me to the edge, until I arch into him and I bite my lip so I won’t cry his name when I come.
Then he’s kissing me again. He tastes sour now, my own juices on his lips, in his mouth. He’s kissing me and holding me tight and saying he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, he didn’t mean to do it when I didn’t want to but he was so damn horny and I was so good, I’m always so fucking unbelievable and he loves me.
I snuggle against him and murmur it’s okay because it is. This is exactly what I’ve been building up to all day long, this moment. Tomorrow he’ll be unbearably sweet because he’ll think he took advantage of me. He’ll bring me breakfast in bed and do all the chores, do anything i ask, take me out to lunch, treat me like a king. And tomorrow night he’ll let me love him nice and slow, the way I like it, no matter how tired he is, because he’ll feel bad for using me tonight.
He tells me he loves me again before I really do fall asleep.
He thinks he’s the one in control. But that’s okay. Because that’s what I want him to think.