On The Edge (The Brazen Boys)

by Daryl Banner

  I get off the couch and, delicately, pull my underwear back up over my raging, sensitive boner. The effort is far easier said than done. “Those are three very different things you’re asking for.” When I get to the kitchen and see his bare muscled backside and the squeeze of his underwear on that sculpted ass, I suddenly find myself forgiving him for all his audacities and, instead, sighing with appreciation.

  “Ooh, Kool-Aid!” He pulls out a jug of green, then shuts the fridge and flips open my cabinets once again. “Cups? I remember, I remember … This one! Nope, next one! There.” He snatches a cup and starts to pour.

  For a moment, I’m amused at the idea of not correcting him in what, exactly, he’s about to drink. Then I chuckle and blurt: “That’s actually a sugar-free, nonalcoholic margarita-flavored drink.”

  He screws his eyes up at me, then brings the glass to his lips for a sip. “Not bad,” he decides, then opens his lips like some kind of underwater fish-beast and chugs. I watch him, impressed, and yes, there’s still a raging boner pressing against my underwear. He sets down the cup, rips a belch that’s sure to reverberate halfway across the damn world. My neighbor’s walls might’ve just shook. “Not bad at all.” He helps himself to another glass.

  “Feeling right at home, are you?” I fold my arms and lean against the counter, humored by his thirst. “Keeping a guy on the edge is exhausting work. You must be parched.”

  “Mmm,” he mumbles in agreement, chugging his second glass as quickly as his first. When he finishes he asks: “You got work tomorrow?”

  “No. Off until Tuesday. Long weekend for me.”

  “Me too. Perks of having a birthday near a holiday weekend, huh?” He grins, flashing his teeth, then pours a third glass. Why’s he asking? I’m pretty sure he’ll finish off the whole fucking thing. For some reason, I don’t care. Even the act of him consuming everything in my fridge piece by piece turns me on, like he’s consuming me, piece by piece. He ate more than half of the dinner I cooked for myself. He’s drinking my drinks. He’s consuming me like prey.

  “You’re nothing like I expected you to be,” I admit.

  He sets down the glass, lifts a brow at me. “What’d you expect me to be? Tough and rough and full a’ mean stuff? I can do that. I’m paid to be that way every day on cam. You think it’s sweetness guys pay for?” He laughs, gulps another mouthful the size of two of my mouthfuls, then sets down the glass and crosses the kitchen, coming up to my face. He’s only half a foot taller than me, but I find myself looking upward to meet his eyes as though he were eight feet tall. “Guys pay for a man to tell them what to do. Guys pay for a man to be a dick to them. Guys pay me to play a character on cam, to fill some void in their lives, to be their dick high school coach, to be the bully that tormented them in the hallway. You don’t ever get a guy paying you to be sweet. If you want sweet, go to the fucking candy store.”

  He says all this, the tough playing out in his face with a wrinkle by his nose, a scrunching of his forehead, a pursing of his lips. But compared to the first moment he stepped into my house, I suddenly find myself discovering far more adorableness in his face than cruelness. I’ve had him wrong all along.

  “You drank half my fake margarita.”

  “I’ll drink whatever I want,” he says back, but I see the playfulness in his eyes, the hint of the smile creeping out the corner of his punk-boy lips.

  “Alright. You do that, mean boy.” It’s me who’s smiling now, taunting him right back. Two can play. “Drink all my drinks, mean, tough boy. Eat my chicken. Eat all my chickens. Be mean and meaner, isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”

  “Ah! So your words are coming back to you now?” He bites his lip, comes very, very close to my face. Our cocks press against each other in their tight confines of cotton and spandex blends. His muscles loom over me like a mountain. “The more you pay me, the worse I treat you. Isn’t that what you said? Did I read that right?”

  “If memory serves, I haven’t paid you a cent yet.” I smile, feeling smart. “So by that fact, you ought to be sweet as a candy cane to me.”

  “Thought you didn’t like candy canes?”

  Speaking of money: “So, what’s the, uh … What’s the protocol? Do I pay you when you go? Or … or do I pay you now? Or …” I’m fumbling for the words. Our cocks pressing against one another, I’m understandably distracted. He’s hard, too, I noticed. “I mean, can we safely say we’ve … you’ve begun your, uh, services or … I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.”

  “Might come as a surprise to you,” he says, his eyes dancing down my face, making me feel small and happy and tickled, “but neither have I.” With that, he braces his hands on the counter at my back, an arm on either side of me like a cage—and what a cage it is, of muscle and tattoo and bicep. His hips and cock seem to press even more into me. I feel so much of his sexy, meaty weight against my cock, it sends a swarm of tickles up my gut.

  Wait a sec. Neither have I, he said. Does he mean he’s never done this before? Is he saying that I’m his first guy to ever meet face-to-face? Am I supposed to believe that?

  “But your profile said you do face-to-face meets. You even listed stuff you, uh, do. Fetishes and whatnot.”

  “It excites people, seeing shit like that. It really gets the fantasies going in their heads. Makes them tip more.” His arms flex, even his thick shoulders flinching. His breath keeps falling on my face with every exhale, intoxicating me somehow. “But I don’t meet a single one of them. Even if they offer to pay for my flight and hotel. Most of my customers are halfway across the country. Or world. How the fuck would I meet them anyway? Most come from Utah, all those horny repressed fuckers. You’re the closest guy who’s ever contacted me.”

  “So proximity,” I state, making sure I’m hearing him right. “Proximity is the reason you just … bravely drove your ass over here the second I sent that message without a misgiving in the world? Throwing all caution to the gods and to the fates and hustling on over?”

  “I only threw caution to the gods. Fuck the fates.” He grins, then suddenly moves his mouth to my neck like a snake strike, which inspires a gasp from me, but I realize he’s not there to kiss it—he’s inhaling, deeply. After doing his bizarre sniff-sniff, his face returns to mine. “You smell nice. What’re you wearing?”

  “Um. Chlorine, I imagine.”

  “Are you enjoying being in my arms without actually being in my arms?” He reaches up, flicks a strand of hair off my forehead, then returns his hand to the counter. “Enjoy the view?” To accentuate his cockiness, he flexes each of his pecs in turn.

  I bring a finger up and, with great pleasure, I run it along one of the tattoo designs on his left shoulder and arm. “This is beautiful art, by the way. I’m really not usually into tattoos per se, but … but this is really intricate, complex. What does it mean?”

  He shrugs his left shoulder to get a better look, then shrugs for real. “No idea. I just got it because it looked cool.”

  I laugh. Full and guttural, I just break into laughter, unable to help it. He doesn’t join; he just stares at me as if studying my laughter, as if it’s a curious human expression he doesn’t understand.

  When I stop, I say, “Sorry, I was expecting this long, drawn-out, deep answer about how they represent your strength, or the childhood traumas you had to overcome, or something. Sorry.”

  “I didn’t have any traumas,” he says, all matter-of-fact. “I had a pretty good childhood, actually.”

  “Your tattoos are sexy no matter.” Intoxicated as I am by being literally trapped within his muscles that call to me, his heat and his breath bringing me to sweat, a call of nature is calling louder. “To be honest, I gotta pee.”

  “Should I allow you to?”

  I laugh and shove at his massive chest to get free. He doesn’t budge. I might as well protest against a cement pillar. Even the weight of his hips and his cock keep me pressed to the counter, unable to move. “Edge, please. Let me go.” />
  “Should I make you pay?”

  “To take a piss? Seriously?”

  He bites his lip and waits, burning me with his eyes. He’s serious.

  What a kinky fucker.

  “Alright. If that’s the game you want to play. I’ll pay you.” I haven’t paid him anything yet, so I figure, why not humor him. “How much for my freedom?”

  “A hundred.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Deal.”

  Accepting the deal, I begin to move, but find his arms still stubbornly blocking the way. I lift my brow questioningly. He makes the devil’s grin. “More.”

  I stare at him, gawking, incredulous, turned-on. “More money??”

  “More than money. I want something else too.” He’s grinning so darkly; the darker he gets, the harder I get. “What else you got to offer me, boy?”

  Boy, he calls me. My eyes trail down his perfect, muscular body. More than money. Our cocks are pressed against one another in their respective prisons of fabric. What else you got to offer me, boy?

  I slide downward, ever slowly. He just stays where he’s at like a fucking steel fortress. The further down I go, the harder it is to go, my face sliding against his abs. The bones of my face count his abs as I slide, one, two, three, four … And then I’m face to face with his thick bulge I’ve already come to enjoy. A home away from home to visit.

  My hands grip his waist band and pull. His cock slaps me in the face when it’s let loose. This time, without the threat of drowning on water, I instead partake of the potentially dangerous tasks of drowning on cock.

  His hard one slides in my mouth. My tongue massages it. My eyes closed and my hands groping feebly upwards, reminding me with my sense of touch the abs I just slid down against. He fills me and he fills me.

  Only now, with his cock in my mouth, do I feel the fortress move. I dare call it a squirm. His thick thighs don’t budge—two pillars of concrete—but his upper body shifts, I can tell with my hands. His abs flex, and then they vibrate as the sweetest of moans issues from his beastly chest.

  Like, seriously, I used to hate blowjobs. They’re the fucking worst. Oh my god, basic hygiene, people. But Edge’s cock is the smoothest cock I’ve ever let in me, and his body has a scent that enters you with the naturalness of air, of water, of earth. I could breathe and drink and lick him all day.

  Then I’m up again, the smallest of grins on my face, returning his own. After his eyes come back from the world of ecstasy I just sent him to, his grin is gone. He says, “That a boy.” Finally, he opens an arm and, almost reluctantly, I slip from his meat prison and cross to the hall where the bathroom is.

  Shutting the door behind me, I realize my cock’s so hard, I don’t have a chance in hell of peeing until it’s soft anyway. Sorry, not the type with the talent to boner-pee. Despite my desperate need to purge the bladder cache, I resign myself to waiting out the likely handful of minutes it’ll take for my steely ding-dong to convert back to flesh. Meanwhile, the sight of my own flushed face in the mirror greets me. Water droplets still rest on my shoulders, my hair made dark, drenched from our experimental dip in my little ten-thousand dollar manmade pond. I lean into the mirror. This is really happening, I tell myself. But what is it that’s really happening? With the exception of half an underwater blowjob and half a handie and a please-let-me-go-to-the-bathroom suckie-suckie in the kitchen, nothing’s really happened.

  But that isn’t true, is it? Within me, something’s been unbound. Within my chest, a boldness has taken hold, a boldness that wasn’t there before, a boldness that feels both heavy as the world and light as freedom. Or perhaps it’s freedom that’s heavy, and the world that’s so light it feels like it could at any moment drift away.

  With the deep thoughts, I take a piss.

  Emerging from the bathroom finally, I find the house cast into darkness. The TV is shut off. Silence greets my ears, and at once fear’s icy fingers take hold of my stomach. The power isn’t out; the bathroom light worked just fine. “H-Hello?” I try, my voice echoing into the bowels of my house. Slowly creeping down the hall, I don’t hear even the suggestion of a footstep, nor the drawing of any breath, not even my own. I turn right, squinting at the front entryway. I look ahead at the dining area, unable to make out a thing. Padding barefoot, I move into the den, the pool lights from the backyard spilling in being my only means of sight.

  “WOOOOO!” he screams, a shadow jumping out of nowhere.

  “FAAAACK!” I scream back, my pulse in my ears. “What the fuck was that??”

  The light dancing on his face, he’s wearing a huge grin. Amusing himself, clearly. “Fifty to kiss me.”

  “What?” My heart’s thrashing against my chest from the shock I should have expected, and a hand’s clutched somewhere at my neck. “Fuck you. What?”

  “Hundred. Price’s gone up.” He steps closer to me, a shadow in the dark. Still somehow, the light from the backyard cascades down his tight pecs, down his soft roll of abs. Each of his arms is a universe. And then there’s the lips, the pouty lips that speak such punk-boy poetry, the lips that now bear a price. “Take it or leave it, birthday boy.”

  I’m already hard again. “Hundred, then. Two hundred, I want tongue.”

  He puts a hand on my neck, as if we were in the pool again, except this time I get what I’ve been long wanting. He pulls my head in, and the world falls apart as our lips meet. They are as soft, as strong, as inviting as I’d dreamed. Our breaths are at war, breaking against one another like waves, jagged and sharp and long. His hand never lets go, trapping my lips against his, and I do not object. He must sense he hasn’t trapped me enough because suddenly his other hand is at the small of my back and I’m pulled into his body with such force, I hear myself moan.

  The porn boy moan. The one I make fun of. The fake grunt of porn stars, except this one was neither porn nor fake.

  His tongue enters me, a surprise. I was so taken by the warmth and the play of his lips against mine that I’d forgotten entirely what my second hundred had bought. His tongue works against mine, tickling me, toying me, and I’m feeling myself leaking in my underwear. You own me, I think, writing another message to him, a mental message I’ll definitely never send. You own me and I want no one else to own me ever again. Fuck freedom. Take it. He takes it. He takes command of my mouth, his hands take command of my body, the whole of my being knowing full well I’m going nowhere without the express permission of his strong hands.

  And what the fuck am I doing with mine? He’s pressed me into him so tight, my arms are bound to my sides. Tentatively, I feel my hands move to his hips, the only part of him I can manage to reach. And his hips are reward enough. His cock is throbbing too, I feel it pressed against mine. My hands trace the sculpted hillsides of his muscle to his firm ass, made more slick by the athletic boxers he still wears. I’m gonna get those fuckers off you. I want you in my mouth again. I want you in my mouth until your head’s rocked back and you’re exploding and shouting my name.

  Then he slides a hand under my waist band and cups my bare ass, tugging, pulling me up. Effortlessly, he’s pulled me up off the ground, holding me to his body while he makes work of my lips and my tongue.

  I could cum like this, I realize with a shocking punch to my own gut. He’s driving me so crazy, grabbing me, gripping me, assaulting me, I could cum in my pants like this. My cock’s grinding against his abs now, his hand still kneading my ass, his other my neck, and suddenly my underwear drops to the floor, forgotten. Now he’s got me the way he met me; naked, exposed to the world, completely at his mercy.

  After what’s likely a century passes, he finally pulls away from my mouth long enough for me to exclaim, “Fuuuuck,” quite intelligently, and for him to smile and drink in my obviously overcome expression. I think he’s about to set me down, certain he’s tired, but then he’s buried his face into mine again, our lips connecting, and his muscles keep me pressed to his body like I weigh nothi
ng at all.

  For the next ten minutes, my feet never touch the floor.

  And then suddenly: “I’m gonna cum,” I warn him, my lips moving against his mouth to force out the words, my cock right on the edge, my toes tingling happily, my ass so stimulated just by his groping, massaging hand that feels like ten men’s hands.

  Suddenly he’s moving. The air of my house brushes past us he moves so quick, firmly gripping me as though I were now a permanent part of him, rushing me across the den, down the hall. He never sets me down. The first door he kicks open is a closet; the second is my bedroom.

  My back crashes onto the bed. I look up at him, illuminated by the stripes of backyard light cutting in through the blinds. He looks like a demigod, glowing with unseeable power. Then quite slowly and deliberately, he slides down those sexy tight boxers, peeling them off like a skin, and my lamp catches them when he casts away the confining thing. Daftly, he runs a hand up his body, lets it rest on his nipple, plays with the piercing there. All the while, he stares me down like a stick of meat, while my actual stick of meat points furiously at the roof, still pulsing from the almost-cum I had in the den.

  With sudden conviction, I stretch a hand and fumble with my nightstand drawer, producing a condom and lube. When he sees what I’ve got in my possession, his left eyebrow lifts with playful curiosity. “My, my,” he murmurs. “The boy has become a man tonight. The boy has become a man.” He flashes his whites, then climbs onto the bed while I extend the condom and lube to him. “You want me to put it on your cock for you?” he asks. I stare at him, confused until I realize we’ve got it backwards. “No,” he says before I can protest. “I want you in me,” he demands, “and I’m going to do all the work. These muscles you’ve been craving all night aren’t for nothing. It’s your birthday, and a birthday boy needs a gift.”

  The package tears off and lands on the floor. He places the condom on the tip of my cock, inspiring another winning porn star moan from me (I can’t help them—I’ve been on the edge for hours now), then rolls it down. It fits like a fucking glove. The lube he applies threatens to make me cum right there, his muscled fist working my cock.