On The Edge (The Brazen Boys)

by Daryl Banner

  When he comes to a stop in the center of my pool, he looks up at me through the top of his head, forehead wrinkled by his curious, lifted brows, his spiky black hair wet and dripping. His eyes glisten like two dark emeralds in the night.

  Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

  I pull off my pants. What’s the big deal? He’s seen my everything. Out of respect, I keep my underwear on, as he kept his on, and then slowly I let myself in. The water sends an ice dragon through my body; it’s been quite a while since I’ve bothered to use the pool. Edge still waits there in the dead center, his fuck-you eyes staring me down, deadpan, unrelenting, unsmiling. He’s the animal in the trees. He’s the eyes in the mountain. He’s the shark in the bay.

  I move through the water.

  When I’m close enough to him to be sharing the same oxygen, I realize my heart’s pounding so hard I can hear it. The water is rippling all around us, making a painting of the backyard lights across our faces.

  “You gotta learn how to be free,” he tells me, half a suggestion, half a command. I’m practically naked, floating in the center of my pool with a sexy-as-fuck stranger I unintentionally invited over off a cam-show paying porn site. How the fuck more free can I get?

  “I … feel pretty free,” I confess.

  “I want you to prove it by sucking my cock.”

  My eyes grow double. “But … but we’re in—Wait, here??”

  To answer, he brings a hand up, caressing the back of my neck. For a heart-fluttering moment I think he means to hug me or bring me in for a kiss. I want to meet those lush, pouty lips so bad. But then the hand starts to gently push me down. I take a breath.

  Plunge.

  When I’m submerging in the water, slowly, my eyes run down the wavy underwater treat of perfect pecs, of soft and rolling abs, of bellybutton, to the black and red waistband of his sport-punk boxers, hugging the meatiest thighs I’ve ever been this close to. He’s a dream I’ve obviously had many times before, a dream I forgot I had, and he’s right here in front of me. Maybe he’s still a dream …

  With a sudden awareness at my having limited breath (and time), I clutch at his boxers and pull down. It’s a total lottery of what one might find when the underwear’s been dropped, even underwater. Needless to say, I discover he’s all along had enough packed in those boxers for a party and a half. His cock isn’t the fake horse-length anteater wildebeest of porno-land, but it is thick and it is veined and it is smooth. I’ve honestly never seen a cock so beautiful.

  I also learn where else he hides metal.

  My mouth opens just at the tip of his cock, breath leaves, and a cool whirl of pool water and cock is welcomed in.

  It’s been so long. So, so long since I’ve had anything in my mouth. All these crazy little lessons I taught myself decades ago resurface. My teeth away, I let my tongue caress every inch of his cock. I feel his pulse in my mouth, even underwater. It’s all in slow motion, my mouth running up his cock, down his cock, up his cock. I realize only now his hand is still on the back of my neck. I wish I could hear you moaning … but the only sound in my ears is the wash and murmur of water spirits and antigravity.

  Breath is leaving me and I don’t seem to care for a while. Water and his cock, air and his cock, I wonder which I’ll run out of first, wonder which will drown me. What a thing to etch into someone’s tombstone: Took a dip in the pool. Drowned on cock.

  Suddenly, I’m breaking the surface of the water, taking into my lungs a generous serving of air. My eyes flip open and I meet his burning, hazel ones. They’ve changed; his face seems unlocked, released from the cold dead stab they were giving me only a moment ago. His button nose and his full, punk-boy lips invite me. It’s such a strange sensation, seeing him this way, because until this moment, I kinda thought he was straight. He might still be, I remind myself. Head’s head no matter the gender of the mouth. His broad shoulders gleam in their wetness, even his tribal tattoos seeming to shine across his left shoulder and bicep like visual words I can’t understand.

  “Is that free enough for you?” I ask him.

  A smile plays on his wicked lips. He licks them, his dimples appearing, and he says, “I can’t tell yet. Maybe you should try again.”

  I’m about to protest when his big hand, sweet as a lover’s, comes to the back of my neck once more, gently pulling me beneath the water. It’s so unexpected, how gentle he’s treating me. I put a hand on either side of his firm, muscled hips, the V of muscle there cutting down like an arrow of flesh to his cock, and into my mouth his pierced manhood goes. I never thought sucking cock underwater was possible, I think, humored. I imagine what he looks like above the surface; just a dude standing in the pool, his eyes rocking back in ecstasy, his muscled pecs shimmering, his half-torso lighted as perfectly as a photo shoot in the backyard pool lights. An onlooker would have no idea the source of his great, unapologetic pleasure. They’d assume he were working a hand on his member below. I am that hand, I realize, inspired to suck harder, to move my tongue and lips in ways I know are driving him wild. I am that source of great, unapologetic pleasure.

  Then I’m up again for air and, to my delight, I see him breathing heavy, his lips parted, his eyes flashed open. I was doing a good job, I tell myself. I’m so hard that I feel the water moving along my own cock, even within my underwear, as sensitive as it’s grown.

  “You seem pretty free now,” he remarks with a crooked smile, pinching those dimples out again. His hand still rests on the back of my neck. I feel like his little pet. That shouldn’t turn me on, but it does.

  “Not free enough,” I say right back, plunging once more, this time without the guidance of his pull. My mouth finds his cock in seconds and it’s quite like they never separated at all. On this third “try” of mine, I finally get the moan I was looking for, and it echoes through the water from his powerful chest like a great underwater beast singing its song of longing.

  Then I feel the tug of his hand, this time to draw me up from the water rather than down into it. When he’s brought me up for air, his face inches from mine, he looks as if he’s catching his own breath, as if he were the one that were just submerged.

  “Enough for now,” he tells me. “I’m close.”

  “Isn’t that the point?” I ask, confused.

  He gives me a sexy, devilish smile—which alone inspires a thunderbolt of horniness to charge through my belly—then begins to wade through the water, pulling me with him to the brink. I just follow, a fish among its school, a dog by the leash.

  Then, we’re both sitting on the edge of the pool talking, our feet dipped into the water. All my stresses have somehow taken a total abandon of my body and neither of us have even cum yet. Am I free enough for you now? I can’t stop sneaking sidelong glances at him, watching the little crystalline drops run down his perfect body. His pecs are puffed up like some team captain and defined with the casual ease of a strong boy who handles things roughly and eats chicken like some medieval knight. The ripple of smooth, almost soft abs play down his front, now cut off again at the waistband of his sexy red and black athletic boxers. He’s leaning back on the palms of his hands, which is creating an eighth and ninth world wonder of his biceps and triceps as they flex to hold him up. I’ve never hungered for anything so badly.

  “Why don’t you date?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” I give it an honest thought. “Everyone kinda feels the same to me. I see them online. I’ve made profiles, browsed the dating sites. Everyone just looks the same. They’re all chasing cock. They say they’re chasing someone with common interests and a good heart and blah, blah, blah, but if you’re not pretty, you’re nothing. The truth is, you can be their perfect everything, but if you aren’t sporting the muscles of a god or the face of a candy cane twink, you’re ignored.”

  “What the fuck’s a candy cane twink?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He shifts a bit. My eyes don’t miss a single flinch or movement of his muscles; I figure by now I�
�m allowed to look and ogle and drool all I want. “What if I told you that everyone out there is exactly like you?” He kicks once, casting a scatter of liquescent stars like constellations into the air. For the small moment those droplets hang in the air, I imagine each of them to be a guy I could’ve dated. This fleeting moment is all I have to catch any of them, but before I’ve had a chance to even meet a single one, they’re all back in the pool, gone forever. “Even your candy cane twinks. Even your muscle gods.”

  “Even you?” I say, a trace of attitude in my voice.

  “Even me,” he agrees, turning his head. His eyes seem calm, open, curious. How can someone look so strong and so gentle at the same time? “Like all those guys you won’t date, you probably have this preconceived notion of who I am, or what I am, or what I’m about. Truth is, I’m probably a lot more like you than you’d ever let yourself believe.” He burns me with his eyes. His black dabs-for-eyebrows lift, amused, toying with me as he burns me alive. “And what am I, really? Just some guy you paid? Or am I the dude you wished you had hit on at the bar?”

  “I don’t go to bars.” I feel guilty suddenly, my gaze trailing down his chiseled arms. Am I really so shallow? “I guess I’m just comfortable somehow. Comfortable in my house. Comfortable in my job. I go onto those—those sites, the ones with the cams, the one with … you,” I make an uncomfortable grimace, “so I can feel that sexual connection with someone. I just can’t get it with normal guys. I don’t know why. I think I’m fucked up. Why the name ‘Edge’?”

  He laughs, amused by my question, and peers up into the night sky. “I’m pretty sure I came up with that name six or seven years ago. It just stuck.”

  “What’re you on the edge of?” I ask.

  He looks at me. “Everything.”

  “Wait. Six or seven years?” I do the math, furrowing my brows at him in disbelief. “You’ve been doing this web cam thing since you were eighteen?”

  “Sixteen, actually. But it was strictly flexing back then. Yes, taking my shirt off and flexing for money. I wasn’t on the site at first. I just got people’s attention through YouTube, through word of mouth. Sixteen is a golden number in the perv business, I discovered. I even continued saying I was sixteen until nearly the day I turned nineteen.” He lets out one dry, humorless laugh. “At first I was just having fun, making extra dough for my iPhone and my games. I’d hide what I do from my girlfriend. Well, from all my girlfriends. I didn’t really start showing anything else on cam until I had to pay for my college.” He frowns; even his frowns are sexy. His lip ring shimmers and his ears twitch. “That’s when I learned the sad lesson that dick pays more than muscle.”

  “Sad lesson, indeed,” I say.

  He licks his lips and gathers a thought, or perhaps he’s escaping one. “But I needed to get through college,” he goes on. “Now I have an alright office job. I got out of work early today, by the way. Lucky you. I’m usually on later. That’s when I get all the pervy desperate ones. They tip well, but sometimes ask for weird shit. You won’t believe how many shirts I’ve torn out of. It’s called Hulking. Oh, and I sat on a banana once. Twice. Anyway, I do the cam stuff just for some side cash now. I’m definitely not bankin’ by any means, but …” He shrugs his two thick shoulders; even that is a sexy show for me. “I get by. I really don’t need much to get by.”

  “You? An … office job?”

  “Just slip off my lip and eyebrow rings, cover up my tattoo in a long-sleeve button down and I look like any other guy in the office.” He grins, showing me those pearly whites.

  I study his face a good while before responding, “You can never be just any other guy. Look at you. You’re too hot. You could melt the skin off a volcano.”

  His eyes hover uncertainly on mine, perhaps judging if my words were meant sincerely or not. Admittedly so, that was a bit of a dramatic compliment, and I’m nothing if not hyper enthusiastic about how special I think he is. Edge. I chose you. I chose you and you appeared at my doorstep.

  “It’s so freeing,” I tell him, going on, “that I can just say that. To your face. If I ran into some hot guy, I’d never say something like that to him.” I look at his eyes, and suddenly it’s like I’m just chatting with a friend. “You get what I mean? I could say anything to you.”

  “You said plenty in a certain message,” he points out, converting me back into a quivering, horny mess. Yes, I said plenty enough, though it kills me not to remember much of it. “I wonder what else you’ve got left in you to say.”

  “Hmm.” I squint at him, daring to be brave again. “Girlfriend, you said? You hide this from your girlfriend? Girlfriends, plural?”

  “Back in high school when I dated girls,” he clarifies. “Didn’t think the news that I flexed on cam for drooling muscle-worshippers would go over well. I don’t date girls anymore. It was kind of a … pre-discovery, holding-up-an-image, denial sort of thing.”

  “So you’re not dating anyone currently?” I don’t know why I need this expressly stated. That analytical, cautious and careful demon inside me won’t easily let go its greedy hold.

  “Aren’t you my date tonight?” he asks slyly. I open my mouth to say something, but find my face going red and no words coming out. Aren’t you my date tonight? I think my penis just grew ten inches. I consider opening my pants to check. “Enough about girls. It’s just us boys tonight. How much do you weigh?”

  I’m confused for a second, stammering to produce an answer when suddenly he’s on his feet and his hands grab me under the arms, lifting me like a wet cat off the pavement. I make a few feeble squeaks in protest as he carries me back into the house, the glass doors not bothering to shut, and throws me onto the couch. Like a panther he crawls over me, his breath tracing a line from my abdomen to my nipples to my face, and that’s how I end up on the couch with the hottest guy in town hovering over me, his eyes inches from mine, his lips inches from mine, breath and heat swirling between us.

  Droplets of water drip off his body and land on mine like little kisses. He doesn’t say anything, just hanging over me like an animal who’s finally caught what he wants. I suppose that’s me, somehow. I’m breathing deep, heart making a two-man tribal dance in my chest, no idea what Edge is intending to do. He keeps catching me by surprise, acting on impulse, doing whatever he pleases, pouncing about and watching my TV and eating my dinner and leaping into my pool and now onto me.

  “You’re one sexy cat,” I tell him. He smiles at that. “But I don’t want to be … like all the other guys. Pawing over you, taking from you, making you do things,” I add, unsure how to put it. “Even paying for this, I don’t feel right just … having my fun. I kinda want to respect you.”

  He licks his lips. “Funny. I kinda don’t want you to.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  He squints. Oh fuck, he looks so cute when he squints. Just when I thought I’d seen all the muscled, powerful facets of this animal, he goes and turns adorable-as-fuck on me. “Maybe I want to make you happy. Maybe making you happy will make me happy.” He licks his lips. You seem to love licking your lips. Please, let me lick them for you. “I’m right on the edge of telling you my name. Maybe you’re right on the edge of figuring out my name. Maybe we’re right on the edge of something … fun.”

  “My cock’s been right on the edge for a few hours now.”

  “Let’s see how long we can keep you there.” He grins into my face. I fight an urge to kiss him so fucking hard. I still don’t know if that’s allowed.

  And then his hand is at my underwear. I suck in a breath of air, stunned by his hand’s sudden decision, and then my underwear is yanked down. The force he uses alone is a turn-on, and when his unexpectedly smooth hand finds my cock, he finds it hard as steel. I gasp. He starts to move his hand, slowly, measured, careful. In seconds I’m already right on the edge, but he’s stroking me so slowly, there’s no way I can cum. I’m held there, pinned to the couch with this muscled fucker over me making miracle work of my
cock, and that wicked face just hovers above me, devilish, taunting.

  He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  “We can’t make a big ol’ mess on your couch, can we?” he whispers, hissing, his teeth showing and his lips curved cheekily. His eyes are full of play and his hair still drips, drips, drips … my forehead rained upon by this beast.

  His hand is slow and his fingers skilled, and I’m breathing so jagged I’m seeing stars. The stupid sitcom has been traded for some nightly talk show and I’m listening to the laughter of some live studio audience when Edge draws his face so close to mine he could enter it.

  He whispers, “I kinda have a thing …” He’s stroking, stroking, stroking me. “For bringing guys to the edge …” Stroking, stroking, stroking. “Driving them to the brink of … insanity …” He grins, his lips so close to mine, the smell of chlorine and sweat intoxicating me. “And never over.”

  “Can I kiss you?” I blurt out, half breath, half words.

  “That’s the fun thing about the edge,” he tells me between tufts of uneven breath. “Never quite knowing when you’ll … tip.”

  And then he stops and jumps right off me, vanishing in an instant. With my mouth hanging open and my throbbing cock pointing to the sky, the ceiling and the stars make a merry-go-round of my head.

  I hear the fridge open, and then his voice calling from the kitchen: “You got anything to drink around here?”

  Are you fucking serious? Catching my breath and, without ease, sitting up to get a look at him in the kitchen, I find his head buried in my fridge. “There’s a bottle,” I start to say, my breath still caught in my throat, “a bottle of wine on the counter. It’s my last good one, but—”

  “I meant like soda or something,” he calls back, rummaging through my fridge. He is so fucking invasive. Does he have any respect to personal space? “Orange juice. Gatorade.”