Candy Kiss

by Cameron Riley

  It didn’t take long for him to take the whole cock into his mouth and down his throat. Easing Michael’s cock past the opening of his throat should have been second nature, Draven had done it that many times. But just for a moment, feeling his lover’s manhood twitch in his throat, was enough to trigger his gag reflex.

  Shit!

  Draven pulled away and stifled a cough, he took a few deep gulps and steadied his breathing.

  “Really, are you that out of practice? You want me to suck your dick, big boy?”

  “Hell no,” Draven said. “I was just too eager.” He took the hard, slim cock into his mouth again, fueled by the mocking grin in Michael’s face. He’d suck him off fast and dirty and get him to explode into his mouth. He needed to show Michael that his head game was still on point.

  Although Draven’s older brother hated his fierce loyalty to Michael, he never came out and said it. Draven’s desire to prove himself to his ex was a source of contention between the club members who knew about their relationship.

  Swirling his tongue over the crown, Draven licked and kissed it, tasting the saltiness of the precum as it mingled with his own saliva. When he felt the other man’s fingers running through his hair, Draven closed his eyes. Michael’s other hand took hold of the back of Draven’s head. Michael bit out a curse as his breathing quickened, his body shuddered and his hips gently thrust forward.

  As Draven fulfilled his lover’s need, he thought there was nothing hotter than hearing Michael’s pants and moans. But he drew back, which caused a frustrated groan from his boyfriend. When Draven made a show of licking his own finger, tapping it with his tongue so that it was lubricated with his spit, he saw excitement dancing in Michael’s eyes.

  Michael knew what was coming and he parted his legs even wider with anticipation, allowing Draven to slide his wet finger into his anus, which dragged another loud curse from Michael’s foul mouth. It gave Draven pure joy to watch his boyfriend scramble for a grip on the edge of the counter as he fingered his prostate. He screamed to the heavens and to all of the saints. Finally, he screamed the right name.

  “Oh Draven, you fucking, filthy bastard, suck me!”

  He closed his lips around the length, sucking it into his mouth an inch at a time, feeling the weight of Michael against his tongue. The drowsy warmth of Michael’s thighs enveloped him and the musky manly scent engulfed him. Draven sucked slowly, known it must have felt like torture to Michael, and with this in mind, he dipped his head toward the base and back up again, enjoying the way the other man shuddered each time.

  Michael’s hips bucked, he writhed, crying out and without warning shot his hot load down Draven’s throat. Draven swallowed him and then sat back on his heels. They stared into each other’s eyes and the lust between them was almost tangible. The sultry expression on his lover’s face made it damn near impossible not to grab Michael and take him right there on the kitchen floor.

  “Let’s go, I wanna fuck you upstairs,” Draven said.

  “Why not eff me down here?” Michael whined.

  Draven cast an eye at the mess of black trash bags and the litter that cluttered the kitchen floor. He wondered if Michael was lying about kicking his meth habit when he wrote to him in prison.

  “No. I’m using lube. Now, get your sweet ass upstairs, I can’t wait any longer,” he growled. Michael hopped to it without another word. Clenching his jaw, and fighting to control the surging desire that swelled his balls, Draven watched the perky bare ass that swayed seductively in front of him.

  They never made it past the living room.

  Chapter 4

  Draven

  What’s this?

  Draven rubbed his left ass cheek and brought back a Cheerio. “Why the hell is a Cheerio on your carpet?” he asked Michael, who he cradled on his bare chest.

  “Hmm?” Michael interrupted his snoring. He draped a small thigh over Draven’s waist and gave an inaudible reply before he continued to snore loudly.

  They were lying on the living room floor where they had just fucked the life out of each other. When Draven shifted, a bolt of agony shot through his back. There was no doubt that he had rug burn, Michael climbed onto him and rode him from orgasm to orgasm, draining his balls of come.

  He’d almost forgotten how wild Michael could be. And then there was the part of him that had banked on it. But between his stinging chest from Michael’s slaps, his bite-marks, and sore dick, Draven was regretting it. Or at least regretting that they were too horny to make it upstairs to grab the lube.

  But his tender cock wasn’t the only reason why he was regretting that they never made it to the bedroom. His nostrils flared at the stench that wafted up from the carpet, mixed with stale beer and mice droppings. Draven turned his head in a futile attempt to get away from Michael’s snoring and he was confused at what a pool cue was doing on the floor. Michael never played pool.

  While in prison, it had taken Michael years to write him and when he did it was a sob story asking for money to help him with bills. He apologized for not writing and explained how he was locked in a battle with his meth habit.

  Draven didn’t know what to believe or how to respond, but he wasn’t in a position to go and tell Michael to go fuck himself. Being inside was lonely, especially as he kept to himself. He got a club member to send Michael the money and prayed that he wasn’t making a mistake. From that point on, Michael wrote to him every week, which helped to keep him sane.

  Draven hoped that Michael was clean. He believed a life with him would work, but he needed them both to put a stop to their self-inflicted harm and turn away from the path of self-destruction. The prison priest told him this while he was inside. The man paid a visit to him and gave him some advice. He told him that it was best to change his ways and that he needed to promise that he would no longer be a member of Devil’s Sons. Draven thought that someone was playing a prank on him and even though he rarely spoke, he decided to make an exception. The man could fuck off. Before he was able to tell the priest what he thought about his advice, the priest told him that the message came from his dad, Creed Lawson.

  A priest acting as a messenger for a member of Devil’s Sons. Draven couldn’t help smiling at the irony whenever he thought about it.

  He tapped Michael’s shoulder, prompting the other man to roll off him. He staggered to his feet, hooked his jeans off the floor and left his underpants, deciding that perhaps going alfresco might help his chafed junk.

  Picking up Michael in his arms, he carried him upstairs to the bedroom as he limped up the staircase. The various smells, fading and unpleasant, forced him to hold his breath. A single inhale of the stenches evoked things that triggered his pre-vomit gag: rotten eggs, the hint of urine beneath the smell of vinegar and fingernail polish. Not only did this make Draven want to spew his guts out, but it signified to be true what he’d hoped wasn’t the case. Michael was still smoking meth.

  Once he put Michael in bed, he trekked to the bathroom, making sure to walk extra careful to avoid the pain that passed through his body when his foreskin rubbed into his thigh. Apparently, going commando hadn’t provided him with any relief.

  The sight of the bathroom made the house’s banal horrors complete. Draven stepped over the pile of dirty clothes and muddy sneakers, ignored the pee-splashed walls and spotted a turd in the toilet. At least that’s in the right place, he thought. After he finished his leak, he flushed the toilet and moved across the room to the washbasin and that’s when he saw the pipe.

  Resisting the urge to groan, he picked it up and sniffed it. Michael hadn’t kicked the habit. He couldn’t process the mix of anger, disappointment, and fear. But he allowed the emotions to breeze through him like a bitter cold wind and he promised himself that he would help Michael get through it. It was hard trying to beat a meth addiction; Michael needed all the help and support he could get.

  Draven dropped the pipe into the small steel wastebasket by the washbasin. One thing was certain: he had to
clean Michael up or at least bring him back to the land of the living. The first step to achieving it was to clean the house.

  “Still ain’t got no effing cleaning lady!” Michael was awake. He’d somehow managed to creep up on Draven, who was lost in thought.

  “What’s with this ‘effing’ stuff?” Draven asked.

  “I’m doing voluntary work at the church now, so you know.” He said shyly. “The pastor told me that I got a pretty good potty mouth.” He tromped over to the toilet, put the lid down and sat on the seat.

  “I see,” Draven said, glancing at the tattoo of his name on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “And it doesn’t bother you - going to the kind of place that tells you how to talk?”

  “I’ve gotta get used to it.” Michael grimaced. “But there ain’t too many places that will accept me for who I am.”

  “That’s true,” Draven said. Opening the shower door, he turned on the faucet. The shower made a gurgling sound, a few drops of water fell from the showerhead and then it sputtered out. He turned it off.

  “Now that you’re home, can I grab $40 off you?” Michael asked. “I wanna get decent clothes for church.”

  “What’s wrong with the clothes you usually wear?” Draven asked. He knew it wasn’t for new clothes. Even if he never saw the pipe, he would have been suspicious. He always used to give Michael money and tried to ignore what the man did with it. Draven’s older brother said he was too much of a pushover.

  “Have you seen them? They all have holes and shit. Look, never mind, just lend me some money,” Michael said quickly.

  Draven noticed the man’s gaunt look. His eyes were sunken in. “Have you been drinking water?”

  “Of course. What are you getting at? I told you that I’ve stopped crank. If you don’t want to give me money just fucking say so. But I've changed, Draven. If you think it was easy being out here, you know, being faithful, while you were locked up, then you’re wrong.” With that, he stomped off.

  Draven signed. The typical meth addict was a motormouth; they couldn’t get the words out fast enough, but Michael was different. He could appear normal, he spoke slowly and hardly ever twitched. And other than his spectral thin appearance, he looked like an average guy. But his house betrayed the fact that there was something wrong with him. His house was always a mess because he couldn’t concentrate long enough to get anything done.

  Draven grabbed the pipe from the wastebasket and went to confront Michael. It wasn’t going to be pretty. Whenever they had their arguments, Michael lashed out at him and said the vilest and most hurtful things about Draven’s family. However, Draven wasn’t prepared to give up on his boyfriend.

  He found Michael in the living room with his back turned and approached him, put a hand on his shoulder. “You wanna explain this to me?”

  Eyeing the pipe for a few minutes, Michael’s face contorted with anger. “No. Get that fucking thing out of my face.” He slapped it out of Draven’s hand and balled his fist.

  Draven felt deflated as if all of the air had left his lungs. Michael was only five-foot-seven, he weighed ninety pounds and was never a physical threat to Draven’s six-foot-three frame, but it didn’t matter. Draven found himself sick of it all.

  He retreated. He didn’t want to fight anymore. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said. “I can’t do this.” He wasn’t sure whether it was the tone of his voice or how quickly he had surrendered, but Michael’s demeanor shifted.

  “Wait don’t go, baby. I need the money.” He grabbed Michael and wrapped his arms around him.

  “No,” Draven said, taking Michael’s skeletal arms. He wondered how he never noticed the way he looked before. Of course, Michael was back on drugs, but there was something different, unsettling, and sirens were wailing inside his head. “There’s something else going on here.”

  “No, babe, I just need the money is all,” Michael whined.

  “I’m not fucking around,” Draven said. “Who’s your supplier?” Before he was locked up, he threatened to shut down the operations of any of the local dealers who sold to Michael and they heeded his words. The Devil’s Sons were the law in Good Hope. It was stupid to ignore their warnings, especially a warning from the club president or vice president.

  “It’s just some guy. I don’t really know him,” Michael said, acting as if he said too much when he hadn’t said anything at all

  Draven knew he was lying. He slammed his fist into a wall. He wanted to change, he wanted to take his dad’s advice, even though he never knew what steps to take.

  The front door opened and when the three man walked in, Draven tensed up as he immediately knew who they were.

  Fuck me sideways!

  The fucking bastards walk in here like they own the place, Draven thought. On more than one occasion, The Devil’s Sons went to war with these men to protect their stuff. The Slayers used to be the larger club, but they’d fallen in number. Now they were a group of guys fighting among themselves for the power of the dying club.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked. Turf wars were one thing, but entering into the home of another club’s family or loved ones was another thing entirely. There were rules to engagement.

  As soon as they saw Draven they pulled out guns, but Draven rushed around the couch, faster than they could point their weapons, and threw one to the floor. Next, he slammed his fist into another one. The men yelled hoarsely, and just as Draven pinned another man to the wall, a loud sound shook the living room and he couldn’t hear.

  He tried to throw his elbow at the large man who was pulling him from behind. The guy was the strongest man he’d ever felt, his strength was beyond belief, superhuman even. Draven fell back down to the carpet and as his eyes darted around, he wasn’t able to see the hulking guy who grabbed him. Then he couldn’t move. He saw the three men running from the house, but he couldn’t see who tackled him. And he couldn’t move. As Draven’s eyes grew heavy, he heard Michael yelling at him.

  “You should have just given me the money, you idiot! You made me do this!”

  Draven couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

  Chapter 5

  Draven

  Voices shouted around him, and in the split seconds that it took for him to blink, he was on a stretcher, and then in the back of an ambulance, and then being carried through a corridor. Amid the loud voices, a woman was asking him if he could hear her and said that his family was on their way.

  Draven was alert and lucid enough to worry about Michael. What had happened to him? Wasn't he in the ambulance? Was he okay?

  He found the strength to try and move, but a hand touched him. “Don’t move, everything is going to be okay.” It was the woman’s voice. Draven relaxed. He was strapped down.

  “You’re with us, aren’t you, Mr. Lawson?” asked the voice of the woman who he assumed must have been the EMT. She was with him in the ambulance.

  “Yes.” Draven wondered how she knew his name, but he vaguely recalled telling her in the ambulance. “Where’s Michael? What --what happened?”

  “You were shot.”

  And then it all came back to him, the three men, the fight and Michael’s words. “You made me do this!” In those few seconds, the stark truth hit him: Michael shot him from behind. Was he with The Slayers? Or acting on his meth-fueled compulsions? It didn’t matter. When Draven’s older brother, Skull, learned about the shooting, there would be trouble. Serious trouble was more accurate. The Slayers were going to have to prepare themselves for a war that they weren’t ready for and Michael would need to get out of Good Hope.

  Michael, what have you done?

  Even as the dizzying blackness clouded his eyes, Draven worried about Michael.

  The rhythmic sound of the heart monitor was the first thing Draven become aware of when he opened his eyes. He quickly realized that he was attached to a heart monitor and he stopped fidgeting and scanned the room.

  “You’re awake,” a nurse smiled, stepping a
round the curtain. “The doctor will be here shortly.”

  He tried to raise himself up, but a wave of nausea rolled through him. He closed his eyes. “I was shot,” Draven said. There was a dull throbbing in his head.

  “Yes. Try to rest, now. Let me know if you need anything.” She was about to turn and leave when he asked her a question.

  “Do you know if my brother is here?”

  “I’m not sure, I could check outside if you’d like?” she said calmly.

  “No. That’s alright.” Draven closed his eyes and waited. He gathered that his injury couldn’t have been too bad otherwise the nurse would have mentioned it. The clock on the wall told him that he’d been out for a few hours.

  Next, the doctor stepped around the curtain and introduced himself. He told Draven that he had a treat-and-release graze wound but their only concern was the concussion he received from blunt force. They imagined that Draven was struck from behind with an object. Draven couldn’t remember it happening and even if he could, he wasn’t going to share the information. He’d been in the hospital enough times due to knife wounds that he knew the cops would show up soon. Draven never spoke to cops.

  Like clockwork, the cops showed up and questioned him, but they knew Draven well enough to have known that they weren’t going to get any useful details from him. They also knew that it was likely to escalate since it was a feud-related incident. They eventually left, and he passed out.

  He woke with a start, and he wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the cops left, but he felt another presence in his room. Oddly enough, he wasn’t afraid, instead, he waited for his guest to address him.

  “Draven?”

  It was Skull’s voice.

  “Hey, bro.” Draven shifted and turned to face his older brother. The president of Devil’s Sons was sitting in the chair closest to his bed. They sat in silence for a few minutes and then Skull told him what he didn’t want to hear.