Page 25 of A Handsome Devil

I told myself he was good at it from his marriage to Ashley. I must’ve crammed the rest of the burger and fries into my piehole, since the next thing I knew I was showered, naked, glugging a few sips of Jack, and lying face down on the tacky chenille bedspread. With my head to one side, I couldn’t see what Truman was doing.

Being tended to actually made me a little antsy. As he kneeled with thighs on either side of my hips, I blurted, “I’m not used to this. Men just want raw sex. Not to make anyone feel good.”

He chuckled as his oily hands caressed my shoulders. “Well, your history up ‘til now has been misinformed. I love giving pleasure.”

“You’re a twunk.”

“A what?”

“A twunk is a more masculine, muscled twink.”

Truman didn’t seem to like this, as his hands stilled on my trapezius. “Hm. What else can I be?”

“Maybe an otter? Except you’re clean-shaven.”

He seemed to like this, as his fingers swooshed down to my biceps, clutching and squeezing. Ah. I hadn’t realized how sore I was, how tightly I was gripping my own body. “Maybe you’re the twunk, with all your facial hair.”

I frowned into the pillow. “No. I’m more of a gym rat.”

“Do you go to the gym?”

“Hell no. But I get lots of exercise onstage.” I thought. “Or used to.”

When Truman exhaled, a giant sigh of lamentation for my absence of a career, I noted his searing cockhead pressing against my tailbone. Maybe to take my mind off it, he said softly, “Tell me what feels good and what doesn’t.” As he swept his fingertips over my upper ribs, dangerously close to my nipples.

I was glad I’d tucked my prick up, safely between my stomach and mattress. “It all feels good. Never had this before.”

He thumbed my shoulder blades. “I can’t believe that. Not even when you left . . . foster care? On tour around the world?”

“Nah. Groupies don’t do things like this.”

We fell into a sort of dual breathing, in and out, in and out. Truman took my right arm and did like he was wringing a dish towel. Now that was the most exquisite feeling so far, and I told him. So he did the other arm, too. As a sometimes conductor, I liked to think my arms were fairly robust, but his tenderizing made me aware how badly they ached.

Still, his burning hot cockhead on my butt cheek kept taking center stage. If he was doing that on purpose, it sure was a sly move. I felt as if he was telling me he was in charge . . . which he basically was. I couldn’t bear that anymore.

In one frustrated move, I rolled onto my back. Penis freed from the mattress, it bounced against my hip. I hitched myself up onto a few pillows against the headboard. “Now,” I commanded, looking him straight in the eye. “Give me that fucking oil.”

With a crooked smile like a mischievous elf, on his knees Truman reached for what turned out to be a bottle of olive oil. When he handed it to me, his bobbing cock just demanded a stroking. Jutting and proud, I wanted to do service to it. Wait . . . service? Was I the one praying at his shrine? I swished my oily hand around his length, reminding myself I was the one in control. I held his vulnerability in my hands.

Arcing his spine, Truman placed his fists against the small of his back, his head thrashing, bangs poking his eyes. “Oh yessss . . . “

When I stroked my palm down to his bulging balls and lightly squeezed, it was like he could stand it no more, and threaded his fingers together at the back of his neck. But he watched my handiwork. He watched it avidly, his lower lip gleaming with spittle. I wondered if any man had ever jacked him.

I added some dirty talk to the mix. “I’m gonna pop your cherry,” I growled. “Look at your big dick. Long, thick, veined, throbbing in my fist. You’re just dying to spurt all over my face.”

“Oh God, yes,” Truman admitted lustily. “God, yes. Don’t stop.”

I swirled my thumb over his pisshole. Fuck, how I wanted to inhale that beautiful limb down my throat. “You’ve been wasting this big dick your whole life. Now I’ve got you right in my hands.” Precum dribbled from my hole, and my cock twitched for attention.

Truman must’ve noticed this. Dropping down so his ass touched his heels—yet my hand still gripped his prick—he snatched the oil bottle from the bedspread and dribbled some on my penis. Ah. The old mutual masturbation would level the playing field. I told myself Truman was still my slave, a slave to the pleasure I gave him with my hand, and servant to his worship of my prick.

I flung one arm above my head. “Oh, that’s good. You’re such an expert at cock worship, Truman.” I twitched a grin. “How long’ve you been doing this? Ah!” His stroking became so swift so quickly my eyeballs rolled into my skull, my fingers stilling on his dick.

“Not long enough,” he said salaciously. “I’ve been waiting decades to jack a dick like yours.” Inching his knees under mine, our cocks came close to touching.

Speeding up my jacking, my hands were almost a blur. “You’re a well-hung otter, my little twunk.”

Truman raised his upper lip. “Fuck you. You’re the well-hung gym rat.” His free hand stroked my chest, fingers delving through the hair, thumbing my nipples, making my cock jump in his hand.