by Daryl Banner
Ben’s face, for once, is the one blushing. “Trevor …”
“I don’t want to hear any more protests,” I demand. “This is my birthday weekend, and so we honor my wishes. And right now, all I wish is to dance with my boyfriend and enjoy the music.”
His eyes flash. “Boyfriend …?”
I freeze in his arms. My feet stop moving. I didn’t even realize I’d said it. Can I blame the alcohol and call it a slip of the loosened tongue, playing it off?
I look up into his eyes. “Shut up. I’m drunk.”
“Are we boyfriends now?”
He won’t let it go. “It just slipped.” I bury my face in his chest, then distractingly remind myself how firm and shapely his pecs are. “Your chest is making me horny,” I whisper to him, though with my swimming state of mind considered, it probably came out in a hollering moan.
“You smell great,” he murmurs into my hair.
I crumble under him, clinging tighter as we dance in slow circles to the sound of singing strings and a woman’s soft vibrato. “You smell like sexy,” I moan back.
He chuckles. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to me,” I retort smugly.
“Are you sure I don’t smell like boyfriend?”
I reach down and grip his ass tightly, squeezing it, but I meant to smack it for that jape of his. Ben draws his head back to look at me, smirking as he figures out what I’m trying to do.
“We should probably get back to the room,” I decide in a tiny voice, “before I try to form a comeback and accidentally take off my pants on this dance floor instead.”
He pulls me against his body tighter—so tightly our crotches grind against one another. That doesn’t help my giddiness at all, pulling every ounce of my mind straight to our swelling cocks, the heat coming off my face from the alcohol—and my sudden and unexplained desire to take off all our clothes.
If we didn’t have the attention of the whole place already, we certainly do now.
Ben puts a finger under my chin to lift it to his lips, which come down from the muscular mountain of him for a kiss. “Good idea,” Ben finally agrees when he pulls away.
We leave the lounge at once and take a long winding path around the resort back to all of the cabanas that line the private beaches. I don’t even remember the walk; the first thing I’m aware of is being back in the cabana with the pretty lamps and the lush furniture and the salty air. I get my clothes off in a fit of giggles, dizzy, then drop onto the bed completely naked. The feel of the soft sheets on my skin is like swimming in whipped cream and ocean breeze. I don’t even know how I’m angled on the bed, spread out akimbo with a drunken smile stretched from one ear to the other.
Ben nestles against my body and pulls me into his arms. He’s naked, too, I realize. I grunt and explore his body with my sleepy, clumsy fingers. Somewhere between a lazy kiss and the grazing of his hand along my bare ass, I drift away.
35
Benjamin is a people-pleaser.
I watch Trevor for a whole hour, splayed out on the bed on his stomach with his cute butt exposed through the sheets as he softly breathes, sleeping. The morning sunlight fills the room along with the calm roaring of the ocean. I can’t pull my eyes from Trevor.
Yeah, I’m totally being the creep watching him as he dreams.
The moment he hit the bed last night, he was out. Despite our cuddling naked and not having any sex at all, I found myself far from disappointed. I was full of joy, warmed and at peace. I feel a responsibility to keep him safe too, protecting him in every way.
That means protecting him from myself, too.
The last way I want to take his virginity is through drunken, spoiled, sloppy sex. That sort of messing around can come later, because it does have its place, but not now, and not when it’ll feel too much like taking advantage of someone I care about.
And I do care about him, even for as relatively short a time as we’ve known each other. Exactly three weeks yesterday, in fact, but it feels much longer. I’ve really gotten to know Trevor quickly in the thick of it all. There is something about his personality that marries so well with mine whether we’re kidding around, kicking back, or going to town on each other’s faces. There isn’t age between us. There isn’t money between us. There isn’t fame or class between Trevor and I.
No. We are just two men, between which I only see sparks.
I hope I’m not being naïve in feeling that way. I just can’t deny how smart, aware, and observant Trevor is. Of all the younger men who have passed through my life like street signs in a speeding car, none have caught my eye—and my soul—like he has. There is something about him that is like spiritual kin to me. And I don’t mean “kin” in the he’s-my-“son” way; I’m really not into the daddy-son thing, as I have had the pleasure of witnessing plenty of that when I once represented one of San Francisco’s leading men (cough, daddies) in the leather scene. I mean that something about Trevor aligns with me in a way that transcends age and lifestyle.
And he called me “boyfriend”. It might have been a slip, but I saw the sincerity in his eyes, like using that word was as natural as calling me by my actual name. Benjamin. Boyfriend.
The thought has me smiling all over again. Boyfriend … This whole weekend, I want to wine and dine him like the prince I think he is. And today, he’s certainly going to feel the part.
Prince Trevor.
Slowly, and at last, Trevor begins to stir, as if osmosing all of my thoughts about him somehow. I watch as he writhes out of the feathery dreams he was likely having on this ridiculously swanky mattress and these sumptuous, silky sheets. He slowly peels open his sleepy eyes, searches for mine, and then a cute, blushing smile spreads across his face. “Hi,” he croaks.
I run a hand through his hair and return his smile. “Morning. Sleep well?”
He turns over onto his back and pulls the sheet across his waist, as if deciding now to be modest. This is the same boy who ripped off all his clothes last night, torpedoed into the bed buck naked, and fell asleep against my equally undressed body. “I slept naked,” he murmurs in a sleepy voice, still smiling all cutely. He starts to stretch, all his little muscles flexing with him as he does, revealing some obliques I didn’t realize he had. “But I slept really, really, really well.”
“Glad to hear it. I did, too.”
He stiffens up suddenly and stares at me, wide-eyed. “Wait. Did we …? D-Did we, um …?”
I roll my eyes. “Really, Trevor? You’re going to pretend like you don’t remember what we did last night? You had one drink. One. And a splash of tequila hours before.”
He bites his lip, thinking, then meets my eyes again. “So … we really just came back here and … we just fell right asleep?”
“Yep. Right after I tied you to the wooden X in the top secret basement of the cabana, gave you twenty lashes, then let you off so we could snort two lines of coke together, then—”
“Alright, alright, I get it,” Trevor cuts me off with a roll of his own eyes, laughing. “I just … I’m surprised we didn’t do anything. Like, I would have maybe wanted to.” He presses his lips together into a cute, shy smirk. “And you were a perfect gentleman, huh?”
I glance down at his morning wood, which he either hasn’t noticed or is totally ignoring. It’s making a dramatic tent in the sheet he pulled over his waist to protect his “modesty”. When Trevor’s eyes follow my own and find his involuntary erection greeting him, he shifts to cover it.
Until my grip on his thigh keeps him in place. So much for being a perfect gentleman. “You think you can let that beautiful cock poke anywhere it wants and not suffer a consequence?” I tsk-tsk-tsk him. Then I get on all fours, and his face hardens. “Time I give the birthday boy his first present.”
“My birthday isn’t until—”
I slip under the covers as fast as a snake, cutting off his words. His morning wood is especially hard, likely because he needs to pee pretty bad. That’s goin
g to make this morning blowjob all the more tormenting for him, which I take private pleasure in as I bring a hand softly to the base of his taut balls and feel Trevor jump with surprise at the touch of my cool fingertips.
His cock stares me in the eye, beautiful and swollen to its max. When I wrap my tight lips around its tip, uncaring of the mix of pleasure and anguish I’m about to force Trevor to endure, I feel his legs tighten under me and hear him moan deep.
I ride his cock with my lips—up and down and up again—over and over until he’s already squirming beneath me, likely ready and desperate to spill.
This time, I want him to spill, and I won’t let my hand collect the load; it’s already collected twice from him.
Now, it’s my turn.
“B-Ben …” he moans from the world beyond the bed sheets in which I’m buried, sucking him hard and relentlessly.
I need no warning. I know how close he is. Desperate to pee, desperate to come, desperate for some kind of relief from the twist of my mouth, the toying of my tongue, the pressure of my suction, and the hypersensitivity I’m making him tolerate for so long.
He’s such a champ. And he’s so strong.
And he wants more of it.
“I’m g-g-going to come,” he warns me, his breath jagged, his voice quaking and urgent.
And then he does.
I swallow it all. Every burst. Every shot. Every drop. I swallow the sweet lusciousness like it’s my birthday, drawing my mouth up and down his cock, but slowly now.
His body still quivers underneath me, the experience made even more sensitive by my continual sucking of his cock even after he’s come all he can.
Finally, I lift my head from his cock, slowly kiss my way up his smooth, supple body, then bring my mouth upon his pink, panting one. I swallow his panting and his awe as I kiss him, letting him taste himself on my lips.
I pull away and get a good look at Trevor, who is all but spent and he’s barely been awake for five minutes. His eyes are full of dreams when he opens them at last to look upon me.
I grin suddenly, proud of myself. “You were saying?”
He chuckles. “What?”
“Your birthday isn’t until …? Tomorrow? Sunday? That may be,” I murmur to him, “but this whole weekend, I plan to give you pleasure from one end of it to the other. And if you’ve studied my career as much as you say you have,” I add, “then you know that I don’t give up until the job is done, and it’s done to perfection.”
He giggles underneath me, then throws his arms around me and wrestles me back down into the sheets. “My turn,” he growls as he starts reaching for my cock.
“Nope.” I pull his hand away. “This is all about your pleasure.”
“But I haven’t reciprocated anything yet,” he says with a pout.
“Oh, you will,” I promise with a devilish smirk, then kiss him, tasting him all over again, a taste I’ll never get used to, a taste I’ll never get enough of.
36
Trevor is one pampered boy.
My life is so hard.
Like, ugh, it sucks so much to be me.
Observe the warm stones resting on my back like hot palms, and the skillful thumbs making putty out of my feet. Observe the relaxing music an hour later when I’m kicking back in a spa bath of warm spring water. Observe the kind lady gently massaging my temples with warm oils, and the pleasant tingling her work casts down the rest of my limp, noodly body.
Such agony.
Did I mention the endless service of any drink I could possibly fathom or any food I could possibly crave? I’m pretty sure I could request grandma’s fresh baked chocolate chip cookies on a platter of gold and find it brought to me within ten minutes. It may even literally be my grandma’s cookies. I have no idea how the magic of this place works; I simply know for a fact that it does.
When the spa treatments are complete, I’m actually expected to figure out how my legs are supposed to work. Seriously, a part of me expects the masseuses to carry me around the resort. How am I supposed to walk when my legs feel like two wimpy rolls of thrice-kneaded bread? Not to mention my arms. I can’t possibly be bothered to lift a glass to my thirsty lips, not after the morning of massages, treatments, and general pampering I just endured.
And some people get to experience this every day.
Like, I can’t even feel my muscles anymore. Every single part of me has been worked, pressed, twisted, pulled, mashed, beaten, and bent into flesh pudding.
I need to be poured onto a big dish and left in the sun to bake before I can call myself a functional human being again.
“Enjoying yourself?” asks Ben.
We’re in two reclining chairs shaded by an oversized umbrella with gorgeously garnished cocktails between us, a lavish pool to our right, a beach with calmly rushing waves to our left, and a cloudless sky kissed by the gorgeous, golden sun overhead.
And this joker asks if I’m enjoying myself.
“I suppose I’m alright,” I answer flippantly, going for another sip of my tasty cocktail. No, I don’t know what I’m drinking, but it tastes like happiness and everything right in the world.
“Oh? Everything not to your exact liking, Prince Trevor?”
He’s been calling me Prince Trevor all day. I can’t say I know where it comes from, but it seems to be some kind of inside joke to him, so I play along. “I’ll let you know when I am, in any way, dissatisfied. You’ll be first to know, in fact.”
I’m sitting here in just a skimpy pair of red trunks, by the way, courtesy of Benjamin Gage, who is responsible for this entire weekend’s wardrobe. I can’t really complain about it. Just like my outfit last night, the trunks fit me perfectly, cupping my cock and balls and cleaving my ass just right. Though it does make me feel a bit like a Ken doll on display for the whole world—Benjamin’s own personal trophy to show off, I suppose—it also makes me feel sexy.
I can’t remember ever feeling so damned attractive, sexual, and desired. Ben is making me feel so many things for the first time. And I don’t just mean the cucumber slices over my eyes.
The sun is overhead when Ben and I return to the cabana for a shower. This would be the second experience I’ve had in our giant, extravagant cabana shower, which makes me realize that I never bothered describing the first. Picture a walk-in closet, except it’s a glorious chamber of watery, soapy, showery delight. The mere size leads me to genuinely wonder why the hell a shower would need to be so big. Is it meant to house an orgy of eight at once? For the time being, I’ll ignore the sudden hot fantasies that spring to mind at that very thought—bookmarked for my next jerk-off session. This shower has a warm jet of water coming from every damned direction, so you don’t have to worry about scrubbing that spot between your balls and your butthole; rest assured, it will be thoroughly attended to by these invasive shower jets.
Not that any of that matters to Ben, whose hands are doing a plenty enough good job of soaping every single goddamned inch of my wet, slippery, sensitive body. I have never been so turned on for such long periods of time as I’ve been here in Mexico with Ben taking every liberty to touch me everywhere. He is all animal and a perfect gentleman all at once. He treats me like a piece of meat and a prince. How is it even possible?
Yes, I get and stay hard the entire shower. No, Ben doesn’t do anything about it except torment me worse and worse with each soaping and rubbing of hands against skin.
Of course, I’m allowed my turn to torture him when it’s my turn to lather up and rub my hands up his tatted body. Even for as slippery as the water and soap make us, his muscles still feel firm as marble. His abs are like rolling pins of meat. His pecs are two thick mounds of bread pinched at the end by nipples, which I give a teasing kiss to as I clean him. Yes, Ben bucks and moans.
Ah, so mister muscle man is sensitive there too.
Noted.
But I behave, and we save the real messing around for later. Ben gets out of the shower first to make sure all our evening plans
are still in place while I finish up. When I step out ten minutes later and don the clothes he left out on the bed for me—a beautiful royal blue button-up with slacks, a sleek belt that must’ve cost a hundred dollars on its own, and shiny dress shoes—I feel like a totally different person.
I’m not Trevor Woodard. I’m Mr. Woodard, the young man who walks with his chin lifted a hair higher.
Is Ben spoiling me? Am I a spoiled little turd biscuit, now? Should I start popping my collars and complaining to the manager at every restaurant I go to?
When I step out of the bedroom, I find Ben on the phone in the kitchen. In a sleek grey dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up loosely and a sexy pair of slacks (all of which make Benjamin look unexpectedly laidback compared to his usual standards), he looks downright edible.
He taps his phone looking satisfied with himself, pockets it, then lifts his gorgeous face to me. “Ready for dinner?” he asks.
I bite my lip. “You mean it’s not you?”
He chuckles darkly, then shakes his head. “No. I’m the dessert, and I decide when you get to enjoy me.”
I scowl at him. Such a cock tease.
The dinner is nothing to scowl at, however. He takes me to a gorgeous restaurant I must not have noticed last night on our extravagant touring of the premises. The restaurant is located on an upper floor of the main building. Some windows have a view of the Caribbean Sea while others overlook the gardens of the resort. It’s the resort we view during my birthday dinner, which consists of a dish called Cocobichuela—which is a blend of shrimp and sliced lobster with rice and tropical fruits in a curry sauce. This cocktail of succulence is served in a hollowed-out coconut shell with a slice of pineapple on top, which is very intimidating at first sight, but after the first bite slips past your lips, you are certain you’ll never taste anything better for the rest of your life.