Hard For My Boss

by Daryl Banner

  That’s my prostate, I realize at once. And yes, I knew.

  “Oh my God,” I groan.

  “Feel good?”

  “Keep doing that,” I beg him. “Oh my God. Do it again.”

  “Do what? Did I tap your boy button?”

  “You and your euphe—OH MY GOD—euphemisms,” I finish. Yes, he hit it again in the middle of my sentence.

  “I can’t do it to you too much just yet,” he tells me, his voice as hard as our dicks. “You’ll come before I want you to come.”

  “Oh? Is it up to you?”

  “Considering my position and yours … yes.” He’s cocky when he addresses me, confidently handling my body and taking charge of every pleasure I’m allowed or denied. “It’s very much up to me when you get to come.”

  “Please, Ben. Fuck …”

  “Maybe I’ll make you wait until your birthday.” He stares down at my gawping face as he continues to penetrate me, thrust by thrust, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll just fuck you for a solid two hours, keeping you on the edge of insanity the whole time until you’re finally twenty-one and deserve to come.”

  “I deserve it now,” I hiss at him, my voice embarrassingly desperate and begging. “I’ve had such a hard day. All the meals and pampering … such a hard day. God, please …”

  He picks up pace, pumping me faster and harder—and with each thrust, seemingly deeper.

  The pressure is so much, and yet my whole body is racked with insurmountable pleasure. I have never felt so many nerve endings firing in my body all at once. I don’t know what to pay attention to, so overcome with feeling.

  Then I know exactly what to pay attention to: I reach for my swollen cock. The second I touch it, I’m shocked by how sensitive it’s become, as if a single stroke could fling me over the edge.

  Ben grabs my hand and swats it away. “Denied.”

  I whimper at him. “Ben. Fuck. I need to jerk off.”

  “You need a promotion.”

  I groan when he pumps me even deeper. I think I hear his balls slapping my ass with every thrust. “P-Promotion??”

  “From intern to birthday bitch,” he taunts me, his rhythm perfect, relentless, and uninterrupted. He’s like a goddamned machine that never tires. All his muscles flex and bulge and work as he keeps thrusting into me deeply. “How’s that sound?”

  “Degrading.”

  “So it’s perfect, then?”

  “Fucking perfect. I’m your birthday bitch. Oh my God, I’m so your birthday bitch.”

  He starts drilling me so hard that my hips lift up from the blanket while he pummels his dick in me, deeper, deeper, deeper.

  I’m seeing stars. They frame Ben’s face as he gives me his all, his eyes still locked on mine.

  Fuck, he is so strong and determined.

  The world spins around me as I breathe brokenly and grind myself against him. My fingers dig into his meaty body, pulling him against me more and more with every shove.

  He hits the spot again. And then again.

  And then again.

  Over and over.

  I can’t take it anymore.

  “I’m coming,” I groan, the waves of orgasm rushing into my cock too fast for a warning.

  And then I’m howling my release, coming all over my body in stream after sticky, warm, white stream. I’m coming forever. I come so much, I fill the Caribbean Sea twice over.

  Ben isn’t far behind. After a few more thrusts, he groans over my face, his eyes never pulling from mine as he empties himself inside of me. His stare becomes so intense as he watches me while he comes, spilling and spilling … then spilling some more.

  The pair of us collapse on the blankets, spent. The stars look down on us as our bodies enjoy glorious, happy aftershocks. Our breaths overpower even the crashing waves from the sea.

  Minutes go by. I am completely at peace. Nothing can touch me, not even a thought.

  Then Ben turns his head toward mine, happiness painted over his sex-drunk eyes. He holds a fat chocolate-dipped strawberry pinched between two fingers, dangling it. A drop lands on my chest. The next lands on my chin. And then I bite the plump red fruit with a little giggle when he brings it to my lips.

  When I turn my face toward him, I find him smiling. He puts a kiss on my lips, pulls back, and whispers, “Happy birthday,” into the gentle wind.

  38

  Benjamin is a man who satisfies.

  When we flew to Mexico, we sat in separate seats. On the way back home, we’re occupying one seat—Trevor in my lap, our arms wrapped tightly around each other, and our lips inseparable.

  We went from business partners going on a trip to lovebird teenagers who hooked up at the school dance.

  Or at least that’s what it feels like. Trevor can’t stop smiling and laughing and recounting all the things we did, including our fun, kick-back time at the resort pool earlier today. I left Sunday completely open for us to do whatever we wanted without a thing planned. I also knew today was his actual birthday, so I made sure to have breakfast brought and served to our cabana. Of course it included a stack of chocolate chip glazed pancakes with a candle piercing them like a spear. “My cake was last night!” he protested when he saw the decadent arrangement. I smirked his way and said, “Expect a lot more candles where that came from.”

  And I didn’t relent. When he wanted to try some “gourmet hamburgers”, I had the server stick a candle in that, too. Then, completely without my prior setting it up, a mariachi band came up to our table and sang their rendition of “Happy Birthday” to a blushing, lip-biting Trevor.

  When it came time to pack, one slippery pair of underwear led to another, and we ended up christening the bed one last time before leaving the room. Yes, it ended stickily. Yes, it involved two condoms, lots of lube, a particular holler of ecstasy that I’m quite sure all four neighboring cabanas could hear, and a sleepy smile of delight from my boy afterwards.

  I always want to be the reason for his sleepy smiles of delight. I only ever want to make that boy smile.

  “Are we about to land?” Trevor asks, peering out the window to our side.

  I rub his thigh, smiling up at him. “Should be pretty soon.”

  He glances back at me, his eyes full of life. “I didn’t want this weekend to end. I could stay there forever.”

  I put a kiss on him. “Me too.”

  “But … only with you,” he amends, his gaze turning serious. “You made it all worthwhile. I can’t imagine having spent this whole weekend with anyone else.”

  I give his head a rub. “You made me dance,” I groan.

  He laughs at once. “That was one of the best parts! I was even drunk and totally remember that.”

  “Drunk? Pfft. You were tipsy at best. Lightly buzzed, maybe.”

  “Thank you, Benjamin, for this amazing weekend.”

  I smile at him. If only he knew how worthwhile he made this weekend getaway for me. “You think this weekend was all about you and your birthday?” I snort and shake my head. “I just wanted a cute guy by my side to have fun with. And if he’s lucky, he had a little bit of fun, too. Did you have fun?”

  “Yep.”

  “Success.” We kiss again. Really, we are this sickening right now. Feel free to avert your eyes if this sort of mushiness makes your eyes roll so hard, you have to chase them across the room. “But if I’m being totally honest …”

  “Yes,” Trevor encourages me. “Be totally honest.”

  I meet his eyes significantly. “You’re far, far more than just a cute guy to me.”

  Trevor squints at me. “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Alright. Prove it.”

  I swat his ass, which is easy to do with him in my lap. He lets out a grunt, then glares at me challengingly. “That all you got?”

  Now I grin, egged on. I lift Trevor like he’s a sack of bread, flip him over amidst him laughing and protesting, throw him over my knee, then spank his ass firmly. Throu
gh the material of the sexy khaki shorts he’s wearing, his cheeks fill my palm perfectly with each playful-yet-firm swat I give them.

  It’s the best damned spanking I’ve ever given. I have so much fun with Trevor, I have half a mind to close the whole damned office for the week and give everyone time off, just to turn this jet right back around and stay in paradise a while longer.

  “Learned your lesson yet?” I ask.

  He bites his lip and looks back at me, then shakes his head, blushing as red as the strawberries we ate after making love last night on the white sands of Cancún.

  “Very well,” I grunt, then begin another round of spanking.

  Don’t worry; I’ll kiss his ass all nice and better when we land, and there won’t be a pair of khaki shorts in the way.

  After the plane lands, it’s well after ten o’clock. The sun is down and Monday’s return to the office hangs on both our minds. Trevor insists on being dropped off at my place so he can take a cab home, too afraid that Elijah might spot us together. He gives me a deep, fulfilling kiss in the car outside my building as we wait on his cab. When it appears, Trevor trades one car for another and is gone in seconds. My heart longs for him, feeling lonely in an instant after he goes.

  Already, I’m so attached to Trevor. It almost scares me, how deeply my feelings have grown in such a short time.

  Of course Lance tackles me when I enter my condo. I pay the pet sitter handsomely, including quite a hefty tip, and then it’s just me and my dog … and the cool air of my silent, empty home.

  Without Trevor, it’s infinitely heavy. And even with Lance on the foot of my bed an hour later when I lie down to sleep, I still feel the vacuum of having no one to wrap my arms around. It makes me ache, not having Trevor with me.

  Until my phone buzzes with a text from him. I smile in the dark, my face lit up with the glowing from the phone screen, then type my reply. So much for getting any sleep tonight.

  When the morning comes, however, I wish I had gotten some. There’s yet another text awaiting me on my phone, but this one is not from Trevor.

  REBEKAH

  Benjamin. You’re all over the news.

  I sent you a link. Call me ASAP.

  With my stomach sinking through the bed, I flip over to my email and find Rebekah’s at the top, sent seven times in a row. I open it to find an article with an image right at the top—a dark and blurry snapshot of two men cuddled on the beach.

  It’s me and Trevor, with a tiny censor box over my ass crack.

  39

  Trevor is right back to reality.

  “Elijah,” I try for the twentieth time through the door.

  He isn’t talking to me. I still don’t know why. Maybe he got all lonely this weekend without me. Maybe his loving, adoring cat-monster Salamander chewed up the power cord to his Xbox.

  “I got some new shiny shoes,” I announce, leaning against the door and picking at my fingers. I’m already ready to go; I’m just waiting on Elijah in the bathroom before we head off to the office together. “And … some other clothes, too. Birthday presents from my parents.”

  I’ve become so skilled at lying. The gifts of clothing Benjamin got me have just become gifts from my parents with a few words.

  Not that my parents would have bought me two pairs of sexy underwear and the skimpiest red trunks I’ve ever seen.

  And worn.

  “Elijah. What happened? Is it Ashlee?” I finally ask, figuring that if I don’t probe, I won’t get anything from him. The last time he acted like this back on campus, it was because a girl in his Poli-Sci class he was interested in turned out to have a boyfriend, and all the “flirting” Elijah thought was happening was, perhaps, not flirting at all. “Is Ashlee dating Brady now or something?”

  The bathroom door flies open so fast, I would’ve fallen clean to the ground if I didn’t have such fast reflexes.

  I stare at Elijah’s furious, scowling face. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” echoes Elijah darkly. “You have some balls, Trevor. I’ll give you that. You have some seriously nervy balls.”

  Maybe I struck a nerve and took a step too far. “Sorry for suggesting it’s Ashlee. I’m just fishing. Last night, you were sleeping when I got back. Or maybe pretending to be, since your door was open and the TV was left on. This morning, you walked right past me when I was eating breakfast—we’re low on Lucky Charms, by the way—and then barricaded yourself in this bathroom. Not one word to me.”

  “What one word would you like to hear?” asks Elijah. “Liar? That’s one word. Friend? That’s another.”

  The first traces of genuine worry start to snake their way through me.

  “How about ‘parents’? Or ‘birthday’? Or ‘You weren’t at your house all weekend, so where the fuck were you?’”

  “That’s more than one word.”

  “I KNOW! IT’S THIRTEEN!”

  Okay, maybe now’s a bad time for humor diversion. Besides, he’s obviously on to me. “Listen, I didn’t want to—”

  “No, no. You listen.” Elijah gets in my face so close, all I smell is his minty toothpaste. Spearmint, by the way. “I called up your mom because I wanted your opinion on … something. When she then explained that you weren’t visiting home for the weekend, but in fact were supposed to be having a party with your friends here—which I suspect was supposed to include me—I had to play the quickest game of cover-up I’ve ever played. I told her yeah, of course we were together, of course we were partying, and that she misheard me: I wanted her opinion, not yours. So there I am on the phone, spilling my heart out to your mom and getting the best damned advice I possibly could regarding me and Ashlee. No, I didn’t blow your cover to your family. I covered for your ass.”

  “So this is about Ashlee!”

  Elijah doesn’t appreciate my interjections one bit. “Now I’m just left with one burning question. What the fuck were you doing this weekend?”

  I sigh. “Elijah, I know I lied to you. I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re using my toothpaste.”

  “Mine ran out Friday, and yours is fucking tasty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now spill the truth, Trevor.” His voice softens. “Please. I’m so tired of being lied to. I’m supposed to be your best friend.”

  I sigh. “You are my best friend.”

  “So tell me where you were.”

  I stare at him hard, which isn’t a difficult task considering he’s so close to my face that I can see up his nostrils. I consider him for much too long, so long that I start to wonder if I’m making us late for work.

  The trouble is, while I trust Elijah wholeheartedly, I’m not sure if this particular truth is too big for him to handle. How much can our friendship truly withstand?

  “Elijah, if I tell you …” I start to say, clench shut my eyes, then quietly resume, as if I’m worried that the other interns are hiding in our walls. “If I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t blow up, and that you won’t tell anyone else.”

  “Whatever it is, the secret’s safe with me and you damned well know that. Whether or not I blow up, I reserve that right,” Elijah fires back, hardness in his words. “Now spill.”

  I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m about to say this.

  “I’m ready,” states Elijah impatiently, pressing me.

  I lick my lips, then let it all out. “I’m involved with someone in the office. We went away for the weekend.”

  Ugh.

  Okay, so I let some of it out. Maybe this makes me a total wimp or a coward, but what Elijah doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?

  When I see the look of hurt enter Elijah’s eyes—genuine hurt, the kind that no humor can touch—I feel a deep and irreparable stab of guilt.

  “Who?” he asks, one little word.

  Fuck. I can’t possibly bring myself to say Benjamin’s name. I simply can’t. If Elijah knew the whole truth, it would destroy our friendship.

  That’s
what this is, right? A friendship? A friendship where I lie to him and keep vital truths from him, not trusting that he’ll be by my side? I’m so messed up suddenly.

  I owe him a name. I owe him a name and nothing’s coming. I’m frozen up, my throat tightened so much that I can’t even draw a breath for who-knows-how-long. Just give him a name, any name that isn’t the real one.

  Elijah shakes his head and backs away from me, giving up. “We’re going to be late,” he mutters, disappointment in his eyes, then turns to head for the door.

  He’s let me off the hook. For now.

  The whole way to the office, I feel my brain working at full speed. What hurts me the most isn’t the look of betrayal in Elijah’s eyes, or the way he confronted me, or the genuine fear that sits in my chest that I may have permanently damaged our friendship.

  It’s the fact that I’m still trying to construct a lie.

  Who’s name do I offer up to Elijah? Brandon? Isaac? Caleb? I’ve already denied having anything to do with a number of them each time Elijah fishes for the mystery bathroom bump-boy.

  I could offer him Brady, who would be first to deny anything’s happened between us, since he’s straight and all. But even I can’t stomach the amount of yuck in that lie.

  Not that it wouldn’t be the worst thing to be associated with that delicious straight boy and his perfect hair.

  Shut up, Trevor.

  When we step into the office, there is an immediate and quite alarming difference in the atmosphere. The computer wizzes rush around with worry in their eyes and files hugged to their chests. Stressed, tight-throated words are called out over the walls of cubicles. The intern table is completely empty, the interns spread out everywhere in the office.

  Elijah and I share a look of concern, momentarily forgetting we were upset with each other at all.

  Ashlee is the first one either of us see, standing over the copy machine. Together, we hurry up to her side. “Is something going on?” I ask first. “Something juicy with a client?”