Page 10 of Jack Frosting

And then I heard a car door slam.

I turned the milker off, then the television, pulled my pants on, and grabbed my shirt before heading out the door. I secured the lock, took the stairs two at a time, and made it around the corner to the other staircase and up to the second level just as I heard the side door open.

I closed my bedroom door, willing my heart rate to slow down.

That was too close.

FOUR

JACK

“Hello?”

I was home early, before Henry, but Clayton’s car was in the driveway. He must’ve been upstairs, so I headed straight to the basement. I needed a shower. I didn’t usually shower at the gym since the clients did. It was better to keep the relationship professional and not include nudity. I already had a few flirty clients. They didn’t need a bigger reason to like me.

I noticed it right away. The padlock on the “storage” room was unlocked. Just hanging there on the latch. I could hear faint voices from behind the door; it sounded like a movie. If real people were in there, they’d be locked in. Kinky.

I knocked gently, but there was no change in the noises. I glanced back up the stairs, but I already knew I was going to open the door. My curiosity was too strong. Why would he lock a storage room anyway?

Slowly, I lifted the lock out of the hasp and pushed open the door.

It was dark, but I could clearly see a delicious beefy ass getting tongued as if the young man’s life depended on it playing on a huge screen mounted to the wall. That wasn’t that scandalous, a gay porn movie room for jacking it.

I felt along the wall for a light switch and flipped it on.

HOLY…FUCK.

It was a sex dungeon.

The room had three centerpieces: a sling in one corner, a massage table in another, and a huge X adorned with wrist and ankle straps. Each one was illuminated by its own spotlight. And then there was the utility wall. Riding crops, floggers, chains, ropes, masks, other stuff I didn’t recognize.

Jesus.

Clayton was a closet BDSM beast!

I was worried I’d get caught, but another part of me didn’t mind that thought. My cock was rock hard and barely contained by my jockstrap. With the groans of a needy bottom keeping my blood flowing south, I pulled my shorts down a little so I could rub myself through the fabric.

Approaching the middle of the room, there was a leather chair and some sort of contraption in front of it. I recognized the Fleshjack, but it took me a few seconds to realize it was a milking machine. I had only seen one in porn, never in real life. I wanted to see it in action, so I looked for the switch, but I must’ve hit something else because the Fleshjack came loose and fell to the ground.

I picked it up and froze. Shit.

Fresh cum had dribbled out of the fleshy canal and onto the black rubber floor.

I thought I heard a noise from the stairs, so I stopped to listen. Someone was coming.

Quickly, I turned to put the Fleshjack back, but my foot slipped and my hands grabbed only air as I fell backwards.

Ow!

* * *

“Jack?”

Through the darkness, I heard my name.

“Jack? Can you hear me?”

My eyes fluttered open to find Clayton, looking down at me with a concerned expression.