Page 17 of Stroke Rate

“Jesusfuckinggoddamnedmotherfuck,” River whined, voice thready and full of frustration. “C-can, can I use your mouth?” His eyes went wide, as if he couldn't believe what he had just asked.

Chris paused for a moment; the bold question surprised him and equally turned him on. Could he do that? Could he let River use him? Was he capable of letting go in that way? Just once…Be brave, be brave, be brave.

“Yeah, Riv, use me. Use me to feel good,” he said before he opened his mouth and waited like a good boy.

Giving up control felt as simple as flicking a light switch. The years of pent-up tension and the constant dread of being hurt had vanished, leaving Chris feeling so light and so free he felt almost out of his body. It was as if Chris was watching from above, observing as River traced the head of his cock around his lips, painting them with precum. Watching as River tapped Chris’ waiting tongue with his tip, then sliding the shaft in and out of his mouth. He watched as River cupped his cheek, then feathered his fingers through Chris' hair.

“You are perfection. Fuck, look at you down there. Absolute fucking perfection,” River gasped, his gaze fixed on Chris with utter adoration. Chris felt a flush creep up his neck under the sheer reverence in River’s gaze, making it hard to look back. Chris found it difficult not to retreat and conceal himself from the penetrating gaze of those freckled eyes fixed intently upon him. “Fuuckking perfect,” River whined.

Chris forced himself to gaze back, a whimper leaving his throat at the praise River gave him. Whimpering because River continued to look at him with so much adoration that Chris was unraveling, and he wasn't sure how to feel about that. He watched as River’s nerves seemed to lessen and felt as River’s large hands gripped the sides of his head and took control as he thrust into his mouth. With that first thrust, Chris loosened the last of his constricting reins, giving River free use of his body. Allowing River to hold his head and control the movements, letting River manipulate his body however he needed to feel good. Chris let himself float into a space of nothingness. He surrendered to the overwhelming sensation of being nothing and no one as it flowed through him. He was an object to be used and fashioned into whatever River wanted. He allowed that headspace to take him somewhere else—pulling him farther and farther away like a relentless riptide. The feeling of trusting River with his body was heady and fucking freeing.

He felt River gently tugging his hair. He heard River as he whispered what a good boy he was, what a good job he was doing sucking his cock, he felt himself grinding his hips into the mattress, but he felt detached from the experience. Floating somewhere in the in-between, letting River’s words fill the empty void in his chest, he was being obedient for River; making him feel so good. And knowing that made his blood sing. Chris tightened his lips and sucked hard, dropping a hand into his briefs, stroking himself with the same rhythm as River was fucking his face.

“Yessss, baby, just like that. Stroke yourself and feel good? So good, Chris, you’re making me feel so good.”

As the praise echoed within his ribs, Chris felt a comforting warmth settling in his chest. Good, good, good. He was swimming in the syrupy sweetness of desire and pleasure, his body used to serve River. Somewhere his brain told him that this was subspace, but he was far too gone to hold on to any lingering thoughts. Chris heard River say, “Look at me.” He tried, but everything felt heavy and sounded fuzzy—an almost dreamlike state. River’s hand cupped his cheek, and Chris lazily lifted his eyes.

“Are you close? I’m going to come,” River panted, hips rocking a slow, uneven rhythm in and out of Chris’ mouth.

All Chris could manage was a slow blink of his damp eyes and a small nod, mouth full of cock, spit and precum dripping down his chin. River slid his fingers into the short hair at Chris’ temples and thrust in one, two, three times, and then Chris' mouth was being flooded with River’s orgasm. The warm, bitter liquid covered the roof of his mouth and tongue as he swallowed and humped into his fist, finding his own release. Chris' orgasm arrived, overwhelming him and nearly dispelling his lust-induced haze. He felt River card his fingers through his hair, pushing it off his sweaty forehead, whispering how good he was, as Chris continued to suckle at River’s softened dick. His head feeling heavy, resting on River’s thigh, Chris’ limbs splayed akimbo between River’s legs. He closed his eyes and sank into the words being whispered to him, letting himself drown in the feeling of worth blossoming in him, of gentle hands stroking his body for the first time in his life. Drifting off to sleep, he found comfort in his exhaustion, River’s soft humming, and the gentle thrum of his pulse in his ears.

Chapter fifteen

River

With Chris asleep in his arms, River lay on his side, experiencing that odd, internal flutter once more. A bone-deep need to keep Chris close—to keep him safe. He was so young; and River knew he was a fucking idiot for wanting him. For allowing things to go as far as they had. He looked so innocent, with long, light brown lashes that reminded River of a fawn in the spring and a sweet little mouth with a very pronounced cupid's bow that seemed to promise everything River knew he could never have. He wanted to kiss the curve of Chris’ lips, hoping to memorize the shape of his mouth and keep a little part of Chris with him forever. So River did. Just a whisper of a kiss that made Chris take a deep breath, but not enough to stir him awake. Instead, Chris’ body strained towards River, his hands flexing as if grasping for something, then drawing inward like little T-Rex’s arms. All of Chris’ sleepy little movements, so endearing, pulled at River’s heart, like the two of them were tethered by an imaginary string. Each precious little sleepy grunt, each cherubic twist of his mouth, each little soft puff of breath pulled the coil around River’s heart a little tighter. This boy, River thought. Clinging to Chris a bit more firmly, torn between wanting to hold him close forever and accepting that he had to let him go.

The thought of letting him go made River’s anxiety flare. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't push back the overwhelming worry that controlled him; it crept through him like a cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse, looking for the exact right time to make its final kill.

The powerful impulse to run, to move and stretch his limbs became so potent that River’s skin seemed to vibrate with it. If he had been alone, River would have kicked lying in bed, letting his brain turn off until he was so exhausted he wouldn't have been able to think about the mess he had made that day. If he had been alone, he would have done his fucking mental gymnastics or practiced mouth movements to keep him from spiraling, but he wasn't alone, and God, he was so tired of being alone.

River continued to spiral as he thought of the horrible decision they had made. Crossing that boundary had been wrong on so many levels, but the most prominent one was that River had wanted—no, needed—to coach Chris. They were entering into a working relationship, and sure, River hadn’t signed any paperwork yet. And yes, they ‌were two consenting adults, but despite that, they shouldn't have done what they had done.

Even if it had been the most natural, amazing thing River had ever felt, even if Chris had felt more like a home than River’s actual house. Being allowed to touch him and talk with him, even with all the stuttering, had felt so natural—as if Chris was a weird talisman his soul had been searching for—like all the hardships River had endured had led him to this moment. To meet Chris, to be with Chris, to keep Chris, but he couldn’t. River could train him and start a professional relationship, but he was too broken and too old to have Chris in any other way. Chris deserved more. He deserved better.

Even if Chris had felt the sense of rightness between them, which he seemed to have done given the way he had trusted River. The way he had looked at him in just that way with glossy, searching eyes, the way he had relinquished control, giving River his body to find pleasure, was heady and had hit him with an innate need to protect Chris. And the way he had fallen asleep. Oh god, the way he had fallen asleep, still suckling on River’s dick, body lax and disheveled, draped between River’s legs. His fingers flexing open and closed over the hair on River’s thighs, like a little kitten kneading biscuits, comatose, not even stirring when River had cleaned him up and rearranged his body to lie cradled in his arms. Fuck, he was so fucked, muffling a groan with what a mess he had created. What he wouldn't have given to not think and worry, to just sleep there with Chris. Fuck, how he missed the feeling of sleeping with another person.

Maybe sleeping in a bed with Chris would have rid him of his awful, soul-crushing sadness. Nope, River cut that ‌line of thought off. He couldn't go there. River could not keep Chris. So instead of succumbing to what might have been, instead of staying, River eased his arm out from under Chris and rose from the bed—driven by the need to put some distance between them and rid them of the awful mess they had created. Chris would move on, find another coach, and River would figure something out. Right? That was better—Chris didn’t need a broken shell of a person as his coach or anything else. It was better; he wasn’t worthy of Chris or anything else. Leaving was better for Chris, even if doing so fractured River’s soul further than it already was. He quietly put his clothes on and left a note on the desk.

I’m so sorry I can’t do this.

Riv

Seven words was all he could write, knowing if he didn’t get out of there and cut the cord, he would stay. He would hold Chris and sleep, and they would fuck around again, and things would get even more tangled. They could have been great together; instead, he had fucked it all up. Walking to the bed, running his fingers through Chris’ mess of hair one last time, River leaned in, ran his nose along Chris’ ear, memorizing his scent, and whispered how sorry he was.

River ran and ran, trying to exhaust himself, trying to get his brain to stop thinking all the way back to his hotel. Stop thinking about the mess he had created. Stop thinking about how he had betrayed Coop. Sweaty and drained by the time he tapped the key card over the door handle, he walked into the cold, sterile room, the nauseating smell of fresh disinfectant punching him in the face. He took a quick shower, ignoring his pathetic reflection in the mirror, then packed and watched the black night sky fade to purple with a little pink on the horizon. River took a few shuddering breaths, trying to fight the sudden anger with himself. Why were you such a coward? Why did you leave? He wiped at the wetness in his eyes and tried to clear the alarming tightness in his throat. His mouth felt all wrong; jaw muscles strained, a thickness in his tongue, and the heavy stutter from the day was enough to send him spiraling. What in the world did I do? What if I have another setback? What if I lose my voice again? Fuck. He wanted to scream, tried, and realized he couldn’t as tears flowed down his face. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He needed to get back to Colorado, needed to figure himself out. Again. It would get better; his voice would be fine. If he couldn’t coach Chris, well…He would figure something else out. River watched as the night sky turned to the soft pastels of morning—prism-like tears blurred and distorted the light of the sun just rising above the horizon. Muted pink, yellow, and orange danced across his eyes as he let the tears flow and he thought of the two words he yearned to say, “I'm okay.” I'm okay. Just say it, he thought, needing to say the words even if he didn't believe them, because River was not okay and he wasn't sure he ever would be.

“I’m okay,” he tried to whisper, but only a croak came out, tongue thick and throat tight.

The only certainty in River’s current predicament was the need to see his speech therapist again—the stress of this whole situation had shrunk River down to a nervous, stuttering fool. After a lifetime of battling that disorder, River knew his triggers: stress, exhaustion, and excitement always set off difficulties in his speech. He had experienced every single one of those stressors during the trip. It would be fine; he would be fine. He tried to remind himself not to spiral, not wanting to make things worse.

Tears streaming down his hot cheeks, and wracking sobs were the only noises his mouth could form as he wiped his nose, cleared his throat, and tried to speak again. He thought the words he wanted to say–they were there–he just hoped his brain would allow his mouth to say them. “I’m okay,” he thought, but his mouth couldn’t get them out. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “I’m okay,” the words came out whisper-soft. Similar to after the accident.

For a time he wondered if he would ever talk normally after the accident. Overwhelmed by depression and grief, he remained silent for close to a year. Eventually, sick of his own mutism, River started speech therapy again and regained normal speech patterns.

So now, four years later, having another blip in his language was frightening; he didn't want to be locked away in his fucked-up brain. He tried again, “I’m okay,” stretching his mouth, placing his tongue perfectly at the bottom of his mouth, he repeated, “I’m okay.” The words came out soft and slurred, but they were there, allowing him to relax a bit. He lay down, practicing his mouth movements, muttering letter sounds, and placing his tongue at various points in his mouth. He did it as the sun rose, and he continued the entire way to the airport, trying and failing to forget the boy he’d left behind.