…sexin’? You’ll see. It’s a new thing for me. A new kink… In the romances, there’s always been the meet, the conflict, the backstory, the eventual roughish-but-not-superkink love-fucking. In the erotica, it’s always been straight to the rough kinky hot sexin’ in 12k words or less, preferably more than once. But this time…this time it’s different…see for yourself…
If THIS book doesn’t make me #1 on every gayromrotica chart, I will not only eat a boot, I will lick it like a fucking Tootsie Roll till I get to the center!
Oh yeah. I downloaded a bunch of “Jesse” pictures when this was going to be a series. and would require multiple covers..seems a shame to let them go to waste, doesn’t it… especially this one… since Professor Jesse is doin’ some schoolin’ today…
Marc had never realized how small the elevator was until now. Or did it just feel that way because Jesse’s presence filled it so completely? Marc was no slouch at six foot even, but Jesse had three inches on him and about thirty pounds of muscle to boot, Marc guessed.
All his debugging was failing. The code injected into his system, the knowledge that Jesse was gay, that Jesse was dominant, that Jesse…was right here. That all Marc had to do was turn his head, and he just knew Jesse would slam him up against the elevator wall, pin his hands above his head, attack him…
The elevator was fast, and designed not to make its passengers light-headed from the speed of it, but Marc could still feel the blood rushing down from his head, his core, down to his roots.
The door finally opened. Marc composed himself for the walk through the office and past his people. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jesse adjusting his tie, which hadn’t needed any adjusting as far as Marc could see. Had he also been a little overheated in the elevator?
I know that he knows what I like a man to do to me, and I know that he likes to do what I like having done to me… He almost laughed at that.
He passed the conference room, heading for his office. Jesse didn’t question his decision.
He heard Jesse shut the office door behind him. Marc slid open the double doors that concealed a bar. What am I doing? His hands shook as he picked two highball glasses off the lighted shelf. He cracked the bottle of Laphroaig and poured two fingers into each glass.
He turned and handed one to Jesse. This was a new face, Marc thought. Jesse was watching him intently, studying him, curious, wary.
“This isn’t going to go away, you know,” Marc said, handing him the glass.
Jesse took the whiskey and sipped it, his eyes narrowing, clearly appreciating every note and texture to the fine liquor. “No,” he agreed. “I can leave. I can find someone else to do the job.”
“No. Like you said, I trust or I don’t. I don’t…no offense. I don’t trust you yet.”
Jesse shrugged, accepting it.
“Knowing so little about you. About your past.” He brought out the big gun. “Your crimes.”
He watched Jesse’s face to see if he’d blink, flinch, anything. Nothing. Whatever Jesse had done, he didn’t have any guilt about it.
Marc walked past Jesse to his desk, catching just a hint of his scent. He could recognize Aveda products, a whiff of something fresh and floral, nothing heavy or overwhelming. Not a cologne. Skin cream or hair product or something. And something else, too. An undertone, a musk, the scent of a man who hadn’t slept or changed his clothes in a while.
“So,” Marc continue, “we have to find a way to work around this.”
Jesse’s voice startled him, deep and commanding. Marc turned around, and saw the look on his face. Stern. Merciless. His knees weakened, the urge to fall in front of Jesse and worship him…
No. He hates that. The spineless bottom who’s no challenge.
Marc knew what Jesse wanted him to say. To say out loud, I want you. ‘This’ is my desire for you. ‘This’ is going to get in the way of us doing the job.
Instead, he looked Jesse in the eye, defiantly. “Make me.”
Jesse’s cold mask didn’t change. Marc watched his eyes, looking for any contraction in his pupils to indicate surprise. To his own surprise, there was none. As if that was exactly what Jesse expected.
Marc went to knock back his own drink, and Jesse’s voice froze him.
Jesse reached for his glass. Took it from his hand. Held it to Marc’s mouth. “Open.”
Marc’s lips parted, his eyes riveted to Jesse’s. Jesse tipped the glass, excruciatingly slowly. Marc wanted to break his gaze, wanted to look away, but he was….locked. Held firm. To look away was unthinkable.
A small sip of liquid flowed onto Marc’s tongue. “Don’t swallow,” Jesse said, taking the glass away.
Marc let the whiskey travel around his mouth, each set of taste buds firing off a different response, finding a different component of flavor. He’d been drinking this stuff for years and had…no idea that it tasted like this. He’d never taken this much time to taste it. His eyes widened.
Jesse nodded. And Marc knew.
This was how it was going to be. Jesse would give him what he wanted, what he needed. Just a little taste at a time. Teasing, tantalizing, torturing… the way Jesse liked it. The way Marc would come to like it. Or not. It didn’t matter.
“Well,” Marc said. “Okay.” He tried to make it light, but he knew his face belied his tone. What he was consenting to was a long game.
“But in the meantime,” he said, looking away. “We need to break this tension so I can concentrate. You wrestled in school. Lightweight class, but you did well.”
Finally Jesse’s mask cracked, his eyes got back their pleasantly surprised mirth. “Oh, you have been a busy boy. But you’ve never…”
“Yes,” Marc said triumphantly. “I have. You didn’t know that, did you. You’re falling down on the job already.” He picked up one end of the coffee table and waited.
“Enlighten me,” Jesse said, picking up the other end. They moved it off the large area rug and into the corner of the room.
“I’m sure you know about my time with Parker. You know, ‘Hot Dom Top with Nine for Your Pleasure’?” Marc took off his jacket and threw it on the couch.
Jesse laughed, undoing his tie. “I do recall seeing that in your file, yes.”
“Did you read his ad?” Marc slipped out of his loafers, kicking them away.
“No…” Jesse said, pausing as he unbuttoned his shirt.
“Ah. ‘Real MMA fighter, 100% top, into heavy role play, grappling, submissions, fully equipped octagon.’ Yeah, at first, he was just my dom. But then he decided I had a talent for fighting. And I decided I liked it. So we started training together.”
Jesse undid his belt and yanked it off fast, the end of it snapping as it passed through each belt loop. “And here I thought you were cheating on Ryan.”
Marc’s groin ached at the sound and sight of the belt in Jesse’s hand. “Ryan is well aware of my relationship with Parker. Which has been non-sexual since I subbed to Ryan.”
“Aren’t you cheating on him now?” Jesse said, taking off his shirt.
Marc lost his words for a moment. It was what he’d expected, of course. A big, but athletic body – the agile mass of a wide receiver, not a body builder. Chiseled abs, a perfect V at the hips, just a light dusting of hair across his torso.
The tattoos surprised him. He’d known there was work on his arms from the flash above his sleeve. But Jesse’s whole upper arms were covered in lavishly colored flowers and vines, vines that trailed down from his big shoulders to his chest, making perches for the classic sparrow tattoos on each of his pecs.
There was something inscribed on his abdomen, too, something in a gothic script, in green lettering – it looked like a prison tattoo. Marc couldn’t make it out.
“No, I’m not cheating on him now. My understanding is that we’re here to fight. Unless your dick is going in my mouth tonight.”
“You know better than that, don’t you,” Jesse said, dropping his pants.
Marc couldn’t begin to count the number of men whose lower bodies were no match for their upper development. That was why “poofy pants” were so popular with bodybuilders – because they concealed the inadequacy of their leg work.
Jesse’s thighs were full, ripped, abundant, the kind of thighs that usually lost the hairs on the outer sides, because their friction against a pair of pants would rub them away. Not in Jesse’s case, of course, since his pants were custom tailored for those big legs…
Talk about a pair of legs that could crush your head… Marc thought. Jesse wore little black briefs that couldn’t conceal the size of his package. Monster cock, of course, Marc thought with satisfaction. Good.
In reply, he quickly stripped down to his own fitted boxer briefs. He balanced on each foot as he yanked the socks off the other, and then stood there defiantly, letting Jesse get an eyeful of him.
Marc was no slouch. MMA training had made him hard. He’d been a skinny kid, like Jesse had, but through meticulous application of fitness science, nutrition and training, he’d made himself into a lean, mean sex machine. He didn’t have to pay to get laid, if he didn’t want to. If he didn’t like to pay Ryan as much as he did, for what he got.
He kept a gym bag in the office, ready to go at all times, with extra equipment.
“Wrist wraps or gloves?” he asked, digging into it.
“Are we sparring, or fighting?”
He threw Jesse a pair of fingerless boxing gloves.
“They may be a little tight. Your hands are much bigger than mine,” Marc said, his voice catching a bit as he said it.
“All the better to submit you with, my dear.”
Marc laughed, and turned to see Jesse smiling, too. This would be…fun.
“I have extra mouth guards, but of course, they’ve been in my mouth.”
“So it’ll be the first time we trade spit,” Jesse whispered. Marc was so glad he was facing away from him, looking in the bag. Oh my God there were going to be so many firsts…
Marc tightened the Velcro straps on his gloves, and looked to Jesse for the ready signal. Jesse nodded, extended a gloved hand. Marc tapped it with his glove. It was on.
The furniture pushed aside, the room was clear of danger. Other than the reek of sexual tension in the air, that is, of pheromones, of hormones, but that didn’t give Marc an erection. He’d always had one when he started training, but Parker had beat that out of him in a few sessions in the octagon. Popping a boner meant you weren’t focusing on the fight. The other guy was not the object of desire. In the abstract, considering the fight before or after, he was the opponent. In the fight, in the heat of it, he was the enemy.
They began to dance, moving around each other, doing the initial examination of one’s opponent for speed, reflexes, agility. Jesse’s hand shot out at his chin and Marc ignored it, his brilliant mathematical brain having already calculated Jesse’s reach from his height, arm length, and distance. Marc knew Jesse’s jab would stop a full inch short of Marc’s face.
Jesse was fast. He threw a low kick at Marc’s thigh. Marc took it, measured the power behind it, accepted the pain. All part of learning his opponent.
Marc countered with a fake jab, then landed the cross on Jesse’s cheek. No holding back. Go for the kill.
It stung, he knew, because he saw Jesse’s eyes light up, and he knew why. Pain was living – if you felt it, you were alive. Pain shot adrenaline into your system, endorphins, opiates… That was so much of what Marc loved about being a sub – pain was like a shot of drugs, without the hangover.
Jesse rushed him, trying to take him down. Not the way you would in an octagon, hard and fast enough to slam your opponent into the fence. No, the way you would in a wrestling match, with a circle you couldn’t leave making the invisible fence. The furniture was displaced, but still there, still deadly if they made a wrong move.
That was trust, Marc thought idly, falling with Jesse, accepting Jesse’s velocity and the game change it required. We’ve never fought, we know nothing about how the other behaves in a fight, and yet we each trust the other not to shove a head into the corner of the desk.
Jesse was almost on top of him, his arm around Marc’s neck, ready to lock him into a chokehold. Marc wasn’t all the way down, though. He struggled back to his feet, his torso folded over, in Jesse’s grasp, as Jesse tried to force him back down. Marc used his strong legs to lever his way out of the hold.
He jumped up and away from Jesse, breathing hard, his face red, trying to get his air back after the choke. He looked tired, just for a second, and Jesse knew it. He came at Marc, hard and fast, landing body blows to take more air, more energy out of Marc.
Which was his mistake. Because Marc wasn’t tired at all. Parker knew that MMA was a young man’s game, that he would need to transition to something else eventually. And he’d decided on acting. Which was part of fighting, anyway, so he was already on his way. And that, too, was part of Marc’s training. He’d let his face slack for a moment, given it that look of defeat that sends a predator in for the kill.
His fists flew, connecting with Jesse’s face and body, again and again, all the mad frustrated energy of…all this erupting out of him. This fucking hacker intrusion into his smoothly running business, the fucking Jesse intrusion into his calm orderly life…
Jesse fought back, hard, fast, landing a hit on Marc’s jaw that rocked him. Marc staggered back, but kept his guard up, so he was ready for the kick that flew at his head. Jesse wasn’t fucking around, wasn’t coddling him, humoring him. Jesse was going for the knockout.
So was Marc. He flew at Jesse, and took him to the ground this time. They were on their sides, Marc’s legs wrapped like a vise around Jesse’s, his arm around Jesse’s throat, Jesse’s hand pressing with all its might against his grip.
Jesse torqued his hips, working his way out of Marc’s grip, and in a flash was on top of Marc, punching him in the sides over and over, punching him hard. The gloves were padded, but the impact was still powerful, each punch designed to take just a little more energy out of the other man, to wear him down.
Marc used every muscle he had to keep his chin tucked into his chest, to prevent Jesse from getting another chokehold. But Jesse was bigger, stronger, a different weight class by thirty pounds… it wasn’t a fair fight, they never would have been matched up in a real fight. He levered Marc’s head up, and got the choke, his forearm like hot metal against Marc’s throat.
Marc’s ears rang, his head pounded, his face flushed. Jesse had him.
“Tap out, god damn it,” Jesse hissed.
Marc kept fighting. Jesse tightened his grip. “You’re gonna fucking pass out. Do it!”
Marc’s hands flailed, trying to hit Jesse back. Then he felt it, that falling into emptiness as he…
Jesse released him, jumped up, shouting. “What the fuck is wrong with you! Why didn’t you tap out?”
Marc gasped for breath, unable to speak. “It’s…it’s a draw.”
“What? You…you’re crazy,” Jesse said disbelievingly.
“I didn’t tap out. You let go. It’s a draw.”
Jesse shook his head. “I get it. That’s how you prove you’re not a spineless bottom, huh?”
Marc rolled over onto his back, met Jesse’s stare. “If that’s what it takes.”
Then he saw it, in Jesse’s eyes. Something changing. Something waking up…a part of Jesse that relished a challenge. And had found one at last.
Marc got to his feet, slowly. Jesse grabbed him by the ear and dragged him into the bathroom. He yanked Marc’s underwear down to his ankles.
“Sit down.” He shoved Marc down onto the toilet seat and left him there.
Marc could hear him rummaging through the gym bag. Jesse came back with heat in his eyes and wrist wraps in his hands.
“Stand up.” He unrolled the first of the wraps, fifteen feet of sturdy fabric, and spun Marc around. He bound Marc’s wrists together behind him, tight enough to immobilize but not enough to cut off circulation. Jesse was a fucking pro at this, Marc realized.
“Sit on that fucking toilet.”
Jesse worked fast, reaching behind the toilet tank and looping the tape around and around Marc and the tank, his back pressing hard into the nubs of the upraised lid.
Jesse’s bare chest was an inch from his face, the sweat glistening on it. Marc ached to reach out with his tongue, to taste one drop of Jesse’s sweat…
But he knew the rules. Like the whiskey, Jesse would tell him when and how much of…anything, everything, he could have. His erection stood high and proud, shameless, telling Jesse how much he wanted it, this, all of it…
He looked up at Jesse’s face, so close, so far. He had the most beautiful face. And it was this, this…concentration, this competence, this focus, that did it. That made him more, that made him…everything Marc yearned for.
Jesse finished, stepping back to check his work. He nodded. “That’s for taking unnecessary risks.”
Then he left and shut the door behind him.
Marc sat there, struggling against his bonds – not to escape, but to feel them, to test them, to resist and accept at the same time. To see if he really was powerless, to confirm it, to…revel in it.
Out of my hands. Not my decision. His cock leaked precum. He could move his head, and he turned it to his shoulder. He could just extend his tongue to touch it…Jesse’s sweat, his skin cells, some small part of him was still there, where his forearm had locked on Marc’s neck.
He knew the taste of his own sweat. Rivers of it had run into his mouth when he was training with Parker. He could taste the difference, could discern what was himself and what was the residue of Jesse… The sweat of a clean man on a clean diet, rich with testosterone, adrenaline….
He couldn’t move his torso, but he could move his hips. He could just thrust enough to rub the bottom of his dick against the toilet seat, licking his lips again and again, sampling more of Jesse’s essence.
It didn’t take long. He gasped as he shot his load across the room. He’d cum without touching himself before, yeah. Always in the hands of a true master. Jesse? Jesse hadn’t even needed to be in the same room with him…
Marc was jolted awake by the familiar sound of the coffee pot starting up, the beans grinding and the hot water gurgling. He must have slept…how long? His body was sore, his ribs ached from the punches, he was stiff and longed to move…
Jesse opened the bathroom door. He was still in his underwear, and Marc could see where the bruises were beginning to form on his torso, where Marc’s shots had landed hard.
He looked at the crusted goop on the marble floor and smiled. “God damn, you really do love this shit, don’t you?”
“When it’s done right? Yeah. I do.”
Jesse nodded. “Okay then.” He briskly undid Marc’s bindings. “You ready to focus now on the problem at hand?”
“Hell, yeah. Let’s kick some hacker ass.”
“Good. Coffee’s ready. Take a shower.” He handed Marc three Advil, which he easily dry-swallowed. “Then get a cup of coffee. We have work to do.”