by Daryl Banner
His knees sinking into the bed, his muscles shining like a knight’s armor in the wash of amber light, he says, “Tomorrow, your cock can be yours again. Tonight, it’s mine.”
Then the punk-boy called Edge straddles me, his overwhelming muscular weight causing the bed to protest in tiny squeaks and groans, and ever slowly he lets me into him like a guest.
A guest I go in, a king I become within.
“Oh my fuck,” I exclaim. I can cum right now. I can cum right fucking now and he hasn’t even moved.
“Edge with me,” he whispers. “Stay on the edge with me.” He starts to move his body—oh my fucking lord and savior—and in an instant I’m out of breath, something gripping hold of every part of my body, a chill, an electric shock, a fire. I grip the sheets so tight, I could poke holes through the planet. “Stay on the edge with me,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet.
I do as I’m told. His muscles move in the darkness, in the lightness. Every one of his soft, rolling abs introduce themselves to me in a spray of light. His pecs, the left one and the right, and the godly nipples and the metal there. He moves slow as the earth, sly as the lynx, muscles I didn’t know could exist in a man’s hips and ass moving and squirming.
And then he presses down, and I’m even more inside him. Buried, the throbbing cock. Swallowed, the meat of my life. Consumed, the trapped animal.
He doesn’t even touch his cock and it’s bone hard, bobbing with his every movement, hopping with his every heartbeat. I’m so distracted with the sights that when I finally bring my gaze to his face, I realize he’s watching my every reaction, drinking them in. When our eyes meet, he grins, he grins …
He grins and says, “Tomorrow, you’re free. Tonight, you’re mine.”
He says the words and all I can think of is, I don’t ever want to be free.
I reach and take his cock into my hand. What power, just to hold it in my hand. His pleasure, in my hand. Now I get it. I start to stroke, and I make his eyes rock back and his throat to purr. Animal …
“You’re so beautiful,” I choke, and the sound and the sight of our bodies moving is all that exists. My other hand reaches for his chest, and I feel the landscape of his firm, taut skin, wrapping tight against his muscles. His pecs like hillsides of flesh and strength, his nipples proudly boasting of strong metal rings. My hand explores, introduces itself to the ring on his right nipple, giving it a pinch, a tug. He gives a moan, a groan in response. Yes, I agree, running my hand up his pec, down his pec, a sculpture of breath and life and blood at my palm. This is real, I tell myself. This is not a ghost in the screen. This is not a website. This is not a lonely 3AM jerkoff. My hand traces to his left nipple, my lips parted, my heart racing. Giving his left ring a tug, a pinch, I can only imagine the sensations it’s giving him. Like electricity, his whole body reacts; I even feel his thighs tighten around my waist. You’re my fantasy in the flesh. You’re the captain of the wrestling team, caught me in a submission hold. And I submit. I submit. Handcuff me to another barstool. Trap me under your muscles. Drown me with your cock, I don’t ever want to be free.
I submit.
“Edge with me,” he whispers.
“Oh god,” I respond.
“Edge with me,” he says again, then brings his arms up and, while moving his body in perfect rhythm, he strikes a beautiful, perfectly-executed double bicep pose. Rocking me, riding me, his biceps flex in the traces of light and for a second I’m floating, eternal, immortal.
And then it comes.
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—” I blurt out, lurching, my own abs flexed. His weight on me, pinning me, I can’t move. “I’m gonna—Oh god, I can’t hold it, I can’t hold it—”
He grins, his dimples making a show, his biceps still flexed perfectly in the dark, his play of muscles working, his tattoos brooding, his punk-boy lips …
“Ready to tip?” he mutters.
Then he swats at my hand—the one that was working his cock—and he says, “My turn. Lay back birthday boy and enjoy the show.” Then he takes a grip of it the way one clenches a fist in anger, he starts jerking his cock. The other arm stays flexed, as if turned to marble, a statue of the gods. I grip his iron-hard thighs and moan, the edge I’m riding tipping, tipping, tipping over. “Oh god,” I choke, watching a new show of his arm working, working, working his own meat. The way it flexes, the way his tattoo moves, the way it shakes …
His eyes still locked on mine, he moans.
Edge moans, his face wrinkling up, his eyes locked onto me and his lips parting. He moans, flexing harder, jerking harder, insisting to keep his gaze glued to me, watching me. That’s the fun thing about the edge. Unable to control myself, I moan with him. I’m gonna cum. Never quite knowing when you’ll … tip. I’m gonna cum inside him. He’s gonna cum on me.
“Derek,” he says.
My name.
Then he spills all over me. Cold and hot at the same time, my chest is covered in ropes of liquid marble, one spray, then another, then yet another, a fourth eruption. Five, six, seven, he pours it all over me, jets of passion. His final bursts are smaller, gentler, calming down, and his jerking’s slowed to an almost tender caress of his own cock, easing out the last of it. His eyes never leave mine.
Watching Edge’s gaze, his cum across my chest, my cock inside him, his muscular body still moving without interruption, a perfect rhythm of earth and beauty and muscle, he gives me another show of his biceps—both, now—flexing them with the poise of a work of art, and he bites his pouty lip, nose wrinkled with that stank-eye punk-boy attitude that makes me fall to pieces inside. His eyes smolder.
Staring into that smolder, his biceps flexed, that’s when I finally tip, and I cum forever. I cum forever and forever inside him, moaning and feeling forever the sound of my own voice tremble down my body, forever and forever, like a musical instrument, and the song brings me half to tears.
When I’ve spent it all inside him and my breath is gathered back enough for lucid thought, I finally manage a word: “F-F-F-Fuck.”
“Fuck,” he agrees.
He moves off me, my cock sliding out, and then, to my surprise, he lies down on the bed by my side. We stare at the roof together, our feet touching, our shoulders pressed against one another. His cum still all over my chest, I realize I have no instinct yet to clean up. The two of us just listen to each other breathing.
I submit.
Then I laugh. He turns his head slightly, gives me a questioning grunt. I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say, smiling like an insane person. “Nothing at all. Fuck. You don’t want to know how long it’s been since I’ve had … since I’ve had anything like that. I’m … I can’t even …”
“I’ve never done that before, either. Not like that, I haven’t.” I can’t see his face, but his words seem to smile. “Do you feel any freer now?”
“If I were any freer, I’d be gone.”
“What are we gonna do about these long nights of yours, Derek?” His sudden use of my name is both sexy and equally unsettling. It’s like, with every utterance of my name, he creeps that much further into my soul. He really does own me, I think ruefully. I’m not so sure that’s a bad thing.
“We’re not gonna involve handcuffs and kitchen counters,” I state. “That’s for fucking sure.”
“I’d keep the wine away, too.” He props himself up on an elbow. “Hey, I made a cum-angel on your chest.”
“Gross.”
“Look! Look at the design. It’s a work of art. I totally made a cum-angel. Look, there’s a wing by your nipple.”
“You’re so gross.”
He grins. Suddenly he’s up and grabbing my hand. “Come on, birthday boy. Let’s get clean.”
Surprised, I lift myself off the bed and, with a giddy cocktail of chemicals racing through my guts, I’m dragged to the bathroom. He flips on the light, tearing us both abruptly out of the world of shadows we’d created, and draws open the shower door, starting the water. Absently, I realize
the condom’s still on me, so I make a wrinkle of my face and peel it off, discarding it in the waste bin. Edge steps into the shower and pulls me in playfully with him the second I’ve tossed the condom away, inspiring a laugh from me. The water hits my face and runs down my chest. He takes a bar of soap and begins washing his own mess off my body with animal vigor, but his eyes are caring, his lips pursed in concentration. Even when he’s manhandling me, he’s somehow gentle.
“So, how much did the sex on my bed cost?” I ask him teasingly.
He screws up his eyes, still lathering a storm of suds on my body, then says, “Another two hundred, we’ll say. Would’ve charged less, but someone got too close too fast.” He winks, then moves out of the way to rinse me off with the jet of water.
“Can you blame me?” I laugh, letting the soap and water run down my body. Then before I realize it, I’m pressed against him, my face nuzzled at his neck, and his big arms are around me, wrapping me tightly once again in his prison of muscle. Our faces are close, too close, not close enough. Trapped like this, facing him, I feel his hands start to wash my back. I close my eyes. I’ve become noodles in the bowl of Edge, standing naked in the shower as the water softly thrums against our skin.
I don’t ever want to be free.
The water shuts off and two towels are fetched off the shelf. When I’m halfway through drying, he twirls his towel and snaps it at me like a whip, scoring a solid spank to my ass and a yelp out of my mouth. I punch him for retaliation, which is a lot like punching a brick wall, and then he’s chasing me out of the bathroom and halfway across the den, the both of us laughing as the cool air of the house kisses our bodies all over.
We end up on the couch with the TV on again. He’s folded his arms against his thick chest, his shoulder pressed into mine as I’m curled up next to him, feeling the warmth radiating off his body. This doesn’t feel paid for, I muse, fascinated with our behavior. This doesn’t feel like business. This can’t be just a job to him, right? With the ambient lull of the TV, I find my mind wandering away from the excitement of what just transpired. My hand gripping his arm, I wonder suddenly if I’m clinging to him out of fear that he’s soon to leave. I wonder if I’m clinging to him the way one might cling to a memory. This amazing night, this amazing guy … It’s already becoming just a thing I’ll remember.
“There’s something else you typed in your message,” he says.
I feel his voice vibrating through his massive arms. “What’s that?”
“Muscle boys only want one thing. Money, money, money, I believe you said.” He chuckles. “I’m pretty sure you went on to compare me to a butcher, selling my meat for money.”
I clench shut my eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.
“I found it kinda funny.” He chuckles again. “But I’ll say, I care about a lot more than just money, money, money. In fact, it isn’t about the money anymore, Derek.” There’s my name again. “After so many years, camming starts becoming about something else entirely.”
I sit up, lay my arm on the back of the couch and turn to watch his face as he speaks. I don’t know how much time I have, I think to myself. I want to look on that face as much as I possibly can before you go.
“Just the same way a baker provides bread, or a pharmacist provides medicine, or a tailor provides clothes …. I think the real thing I provide is communion.” He lifts his eyebrows teasingly at me. “Communion. Big word, I know. That’s one of them college words.”
“I’m impressed,” I tell the side of his face, smiling stupidly. I miss him already.
“The way bread eases your hunger, and medicines ease your pain … What I provide eases loneliness.” Edge’s eyes meet mine, tenderly, thoughtful. “It’s not really about getting off. So many guys I do shows for, they aren’t even getting off. What they’re paying for is attention. What they’re paying for is company. Communion.”
“Well, I’m sure they’re getting off too,” I point out with half a roll of my eyes. “Don’t kid yourself.”
“But why pay for my time at all? You can Google almost anything and get porn in your search results. You can get porn of a million different tastes, but none of it will keep the loneliness away. Look at the world we live in. Trapped behind screens. Locked to our Facebook statuses and our tweets. Our phones.”
“It’s a sad, isolated world we live in,” I mutter.
“So maybe that’s why the fuck I came over,” he says, finally making his point. “Fuck that screen. Fuck this world. I came the fuck over and we had quite a night, didn’t we?”
“Yes.” I don’t ever want to be free. “Yes, we did.”
He smiles, his lips wetted by his words. His eyes shimmer in the light of the TV, and he says, “When your heart’s free, no screen or laptop or phone can hold you back. Not even handcuffs.” He unfolds his arms, gives my thigh a squeeze, then rises off the couch.
“Where’re you going?” I ask too quickly.
“It’s getting late,” he says before stepping out the glass doors to retrieve his pants. I watch through the window with longing, hungry eyes as a pair of jeans rise up those smooth, muscular legs and make art of his ass once more. What a sight, I think to myself, sighing. He finds his shirt too and, by the cool light of my backyard, works his way into it. Two sneakers find his feet, and before long, the sight of him dressed again meets my eyes, a perfect vision of the man who hours ago entered my house and my body and my world.
He strolls back inside, his lips pursed in thought. “See you again, then?”
“Oh.” I realize stupidly that he’s expecting what’s owed to him. Hopping off the couch, I rush to the kitchen counter and peel open my wallet, which I’d left by the laptop. “I gotta do the quick math. Fuck. I’ve paid for guys before on the site and …” I squint at him. “I’d reckon you’re about the same as them? Three a minute?” I bite my lip, shaking my head. “No, no. You’re premium shit, you are. Five a minute. That’s … Fuck, where’s my watch?”
He just watches me with arms hanging at his sides as I torment myself with math. A lazy smile is smeared across his face, amused.
“Five times … Well, it’s been about three hours. Two hours and forty minutes. Oh! I’m reading the hour wrong. Three and a half. We’ll round up. Four. That’s sixty minutes times four … times …” I bite my lip again, punching numbers into my phone calculator. Already so soon glued to a screen. Even before he’s left, mashing fingers into a device. Look at the world we live in. Trapped behind screens. “Twelve hundred dollars. Jesus,” I exclaim. “Plus the … the kiss, the tongue, and the …” He’s just watching and watching. “Am … Am I doing this right?”
He chuckles, tickled by my mathematics, I guess. Paying the butcher, I think, amusing myself. Paying the butcher, yeah, but whose meat has he butchered? His or mine?
“Twelve hundred plus a hundred for the kiss, a hundred more for tongue, two hundred for sex …”
“Don’t forget the pee break,” he says.
“Fifty for … nature’s call.” My wallet’s empty after the first six hundred. “I don’t have enough. I’ll be right back.” I quickly rush to my room, pull open a drawer and stare at another wooden box.
It’s like the night’s been reset and I’ve come in here for my handcuffs again. I’d give anything to redo this night. I’d redo it over and over and over, just to relive that rush. The box clicks open.
I’d give anything for this night again.
Edge is leaning over the couch watching the TV patiently when I return. At seeing me, he straightens up, puts on his bad-boy face, and lifts a brow expectantly.
“Sixteen hundred and fifty dollars,” I say. So many jokes were made throughout the night, I can’t even confirm the proper amount. He doesn’t correct me, so I assume it’s right. I extend the cash. “Here you go, Edge.”
His eyes drop to the money in my hand. With a crooked smile, he takes the money, then leans in. I think he means to say something in my ear, but he finds my li
ps instead. The kiss is so sudden, I freeze in place. He’s already a memory, already just another hot thing I’ll jerk off to every night before I sleep. I’m frustrated and I’m emotional and I’m already turned-on again.
When our lips part, he stares at me, dark, severe, and he says, “I’ll be seeing you soon.”
My heart lifts at his words. Is this his way of ensuring I’ll be his return-customer? Is his love something I’ll have to buy every time? “Yes,” I blurt.
He smiles at that one word, then moves past me. I don’t turn around, touched and naked and scared somehow, just the same as he found me, minus a pair of untimely cuffs.
I hear the front door open. I hear the front door close.
The quiet murmur of the TV is my only company now, and the scent of Edge that lingers in the room grips me. I can still smell him. I can still smell him all over me, even after the shower. It’s like he never left. I don’t ever want to be free.
Half an hour later, when I’ve finally shut off the TV, put away my laptop, and begin to clear the dining room table, that’s when I see it. Lying there on the edge of the table, the sixteen hundred and fifty dollars.
I stare at the money, stupefied.
It isn’t about the money anymore, Derek.
I stare at it and my heart lifts. I take the money into my hand. Money, money, money. It isn’t about the money. His voice circles in my head.
I’ll be seeing you soon.
I put away the dishes and the cups, then stop when I find the jug of margarita mix on the counter. With an inescapable smile finding my lips, I grab the jug and consider a glass I’d put it into. Careful, cautious Derek who never drinks from the jug, I laugh suddenly, then say, “Fuck it.” I kick the jug back and gulp down the tasty green juice. I choke once, laughing, then continue, the green running down my chin, dripping on the floor. Who cares.
That’s the fun thing about the edge …
I’m on the precipice of a great change. I chug and I chug. I’m riding the brim of the life I have and the life I want. The green goes and goes and goes. I feel the world calling to me, and I’m right on the edge of answering it. I’m so tired of just watching the screen. I’m so fucking tired of watching. The world waits and I chug and I chug.