My face flushes with shame, and I quickly redirect. “I mean in the bodega.”
He’s silent for a while. I watch his hand where it rests on the table. He’s so still. Strangely still. Most people shift around or drum their fingers. He doesn’t move at all.
“I’m prospecting,” he finally tells me.
“Oh,” I reply. That makes sense. Wealthy investors have been buying up property in the Bronx for years, gentrifying old neighborhoods like this one.
There’s a part of me that wants to stay out here and keep talking to him. I want to know his name. I want to know why he’s spending his time on me. But I feel too awkward.
“I should get back to work,” I say, standing up. I bite my lip at the way the plug shifts inside me. I should have been ready for that, but I wasn’t. I turn away sharply, terrified that my erection shows. Shit, it does. Goddamn it!
I hurry toward the door, fiddling with my apron tie, too worried to think about the fact that I’m being rude, too distracted to hear him behind me.
He catches my elbow. I gasp, lurching to a stop. His harsh grip loosens by degrees, like he’s making himself relax his hold, like maybe he’s angry. Or maybe I’m imagining all of that because Iwanthim to be angry. Because I want … bad things.
“Listen to me,” he says in a low tone that makes me shiver. “If this happens again, remember to breathe. Try to relax your body. Will you do that for me?”
At first, I can’t reply. I’m silenced by his voice and his nearness. But he waits me out.
“Yes,” I promise when I find my voice.
He whispers, raspingly, “Good boy.”
He lets me go. He lets me walk away, back through the bodega, past the deli to the aisle where I left my broom.
I hear footsteps on the other side of the shelves, in the next aisle. I hear, I think, a soft,Mmm, before the footsteps move onward.
I glimpse him as he walks out the door.
Good boy.
I shiver. I try to breathe, to relax my body like he said. I want to obey him.
I get through the day, even though it’s long and agonizing.
I get through my walk home, even though I’m nearly sick with arousal by the time I reach my door.
I make it inside, close myself in, but that’s my limit. I unzip my jeans as I lean down on the counter. I imagine him behind me as I clench on the plug.
Good boy.
That’s what I hear when I shove down my briefs and get my hand, finally, around my aching, leaking cock. I bite my lip, choking on my own desperation, but I imagine that’s what he wants, for me to be like this.
It doesn’t take long for me to come. I need it too much. But I’ve been edged all day, so when it happens, my body seizes so hard that I clamp my teeth on my own arm to stifle my cry. I clench on the plug, straining through my orgasm until I’m dizzy.
Good boy, I imagine him rasping in my ear as I slump against the counter in trembling relief, with cum dripping over my fingers.
FOUR
Andre
I’m torturing him, and he loves it.
No, it’s more than that. This isn’t simply an indulgence for him. He’s not like most people who sign up to act out their fantasies. He needs this.
This isn’t an act. This is the truth of what he is, and it’s been buried, dormant, half-dead. Now, with me watching him, stalking him, needling him, he’s coming to life.
It’s fucking beautiful.
