Page 35 of Give Me What You Will

Frankie stared dully at the muted gray painted wall in his father’s apartment. A paper cup of coffee warmed his palm as he listened to the commotion of the other tenants in the retirement community making their way down for breakfast and morning activities.

He came every Saturday morning, rain or shine, tired or not, in the mood—or not. And he definitely wasn’t in the mood today. He felt like an irritable grump the moment he woke up this morning, which he blamed entirely on Sammy.

Fuckin’ Sammy.

It took him forever to fall asleep last night because every time he closed his eyes, he was right back at the bar, on his knees behind Sammy, feeling his strong body quiver beneath him, his fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock beneath his jeans. And fuck, it had been hard, like touching steel.

He rubbed his fingers together at the memory despite how brief the touch had been. His ears still rang with the vivid memory of Sammy’s moans. Those breathy, raspy groans of pure pleasure. Frankie had never heard anything like it. It had been startling, and so damned…

He swallowed, pushing his fingers into his eyes.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He leaned forward onto his elbows over his knees, coffee clutched in his hands, attempting to clear his mind. Another flash of Sammy, but this time, he was stroking his cock. He looked so fucking good cumming all over himself. The way his back arched off the ground, how his legs tensed beneath him, his face scrunched and furrowed as he broke. The stone façade Sammy had hidden behind all these years had vanished, and for the first time, he saw a rare glimpse of the man beneath.

And he was almost unrecognizable.

The true, real Sammy… was incredible. It felt like he had finally gotten to see Superman without his Clark Kent glasses. He flushed, feeling ridiculous, fisting his hand around the paper coffee cup and trying to push those thoughts aside. He shouldn’t be thinking like this. It was wrong and fucked up, because last night was wrong and fucked up.

And yet he couldn’t stop himself. He had seen the real Sammy last night, and he couldn’t forget how Sammy had commanded Frankie to show him his dick as though the world would end if he didn’t see it. And the world did end. It ended on a whimper and an orgasm. A brutal, annihilating orgasm that he coated Sammy with. And he had wanted it. Sammy had wanted to paint his body with Frankie’s cum, those desperate pleas that became outright begging, something he never thought his Superman would do. And it had been so fucking hot watching this confident, brazen man become pure simpering need for him. For his cum.

God damn.

No woman had ever talked to him like that. No woman begged for it or wanted to be ruined like that. And Sammy wanted to be ruined. He saw it in his gaze, the way he trembled and shook.

Frankie would break him… over and over… until he was a breathless pile of limp limbs, sweaty and sedated. And once Sammy had touched heaven, he would spear his cum back inside that tight ass with his dick and fuck him with it, listening to them both moan at the overly sensitive sensation of being fucked again. Almost like it would be too much. But that’s how Sammy would be. He knew it in his bones, especially after last night. He was fuckin’ crazy—just like Frankie was in the bedroom, although he had never gotten to fully unleash it… had never gotten to untether that side of himself.

He’d bruise here and there with his female lovers, but it was always directional, being told where and how to put it.

Sammy would let him do whatever the fuck he wanted. Bruise him, spit on him, cum on him, destroy him. The sudden realization left his throat dry, and his balls tightened like a fist against his body.

Stop!

Stop imagining things!

Just fuckin’ stop!

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” his dad commented, interrupting his thoughts.

“It was the Fourth of July last night,” Frankie replied, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We hosted. So yeah, long night.”

His dad nodded, looking pleased. “Good turnout?”

“You know it.” Frankie reigned in his churning emotions, attempting to be his charming, usual self with his dad.

Another nod, smirking. “She could always turn out on a holiday.”

The sexualized innuendo wasn’t lost on him, and he attempted a bland smile but failed. “Yeah.”

“So why do you look like someone pissed in your fuckin’ Cheerios, boy?” his dad snipped.

Frankie bit back a groan. “I’m not.”

His dad was always itching for a fight. “You are.”

Here we go.

“You’ve been comin’ here, poutin’ for an entire year. And I fuckin’ know why.” The deep wrinkles lining his dad’s face twisted into disgust as he glared at him from across the table. “I never understood it… you and him.”