“You’ve jerked off before, haven’t you?”
Red Tie gripped himself and began stroking, slowly at first, then he closed his eyes and went for it, probably hopeful that this time Nick would let him come. And, yes, his arm muscles were very pretty this way—so was the tautness around his throat and neck, the tensing of his belly. A rich guy kneeling in the middle of a game room in his own very expensive house, trying to get off before he was ordered to stop.
Nick prowled closer, and although the man was clearly aware of his presence, need was superseding that by now. Pushing a man’s buttons was one of Nick’s favourite parts of the job. It was subtle, but potent.
The john was soon panting, and the vicious twists to the head of his cock made Nick’s balls tighten in sympathy. He closed the last bit of distance, then ran a thumb along the man’s open lips.
The john’s attention flashed back to him, just in time for Nick to push two fingers into the man’s mouth and push one leg forward, boot tip sliding past the man’s balls, a cool, hard presence pressing against his perineum. As predicted, the john was thrown off his rhythm again, not sure whether to suck Nick’s fingers, grind against the boot, or focus on coming.
“My fingers,” Nick helped, and was rewarded with the guy taking his fingers deep, nearly face-fucking himself, if Nick hadn’t been so evil as to push down on his tongue with his fingernails as a warning. Then he commanded, “Come.”
The john groaned around his fingers, jerked harder and faster, then his whole body grew taut, face slack. Nick looked down into his face, focused intensely on the man, moving not at all, though tempted to unzip and thrust his dick down the man’s throat. Later. Red Tie had paid for the whole night, he’d get the whole night.
“Fuck,” the john muttered, head rolled back, throat bared.
Nick’s lips twitched with a smirk he kept back. “I bet that feels much better.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Nick glanced down at the drops of semen running along his leather-clad leg and pooling on his boot. “Clean up the mess.”
The john needed a moment to understand, then moved to get to his feet.
Nick grabbed a handful of Red Tie’s short hair, making him wince. “With your tongue.” He twisted the john’s neck to force him to look at him and pushed close enough that their noses were almost touching. “You need to learn how to behave. You don’t want to see me get upset.”
Red Tie gave a minute nod, then bent down until his chest touched his thighs—one nice compact package for restraints and fucking—and traced his tongue along Nick’s boot. Then he cleaned the slim line of semen off Nick’s pant leg, and looked up, eyebrows raised, seeking approval.
“Good.” Nick stroked his hair. “Now stand up.”
The john was still a little shaky from his orgasm, and getting up took some work. He grabbed the edge of the billiards table for balance, paused for a moment while he got his knees under him, then rose completely.
Nick stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger, alternately looking around the room and looking his sub up and down as he plotted his next step. Then his gaze landed on the rack of billiards cues on the wall. Eight of them, all different lengths and thicknesses, and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning.
“Oh fuck,” the john said under his breath, and Nick realised he’d figured out what Nick was looking at. Quite possibly figured out what he was thinking. Nick barely kept himself from laughing at the half-horrified, half-aroused expression, especially as he imagined Red Tie picturing himself bent over the table with one of the cues rammed up his arse.
He gestured at the rack. “May I?”
The john looked at him, eyebrows up. He knew damn well there was only one right answer. A Dom asking “May I?” wasn’t looking for permission. Moistening his lips, he nodded.
Nick started towards the rack. Over his shoulder, he said, “Bend over the table. Hands flat on the felt.”
The second whispered “Oh fuck” nearly brought a snicker out of him, but he contained it.
He took his sweet time choosing the right cue. He’d played his share of billiards, but didn’t know a damn thing about which length, thickness, weight, or whatever would give him an advantage in that game. He just knew, without even looking, that his john was watching. And probably swearing and wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.
Nick finally selected a cue. Holding the thicker end in one hand, he ran his other up the length of it, nearly to the tip, watching his hand slide over the polished wood. “I assume a man like you doesn’t buy cheap equipment.”
“What?”
He looked at the john, who’d obediently bent over the table and placed his hands palms-down on the felt. He’d lifted his head and was eyeing Nick, looking deliciously confused and nervous.
“Your billiards equipment.” Nick tapped the stick’s shaft emphatically. “You don’t buy anything that’s cheap, do you? Anything that’s . . . flimsy? Brittle?”