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“I said shut up.” His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re still on the clock.”
I stare at him.
“You think you’re the only one who’s been losing it? I can’t close my eyes without seeing your face on my cock. Those blue eyes all teary, choking on it, and you just kept going.” He shoves the covers down. His cock is straining against his boxers, a wet spot spreading near the tip. “Nobody’s ever taken me like that, Dyl. Nobody. And I’ve been hard thinking about it ever since.”
My own dick kicks under the skirt. “Brandon—”
“Did I say you could talk?”
I close my mouth.
“That’s what I thought.” He leans back against the headboard, spreading his legs, letting me see the full outline of what’s waiting behind that thin cotton. “You want to play maid? You want to follow orders? Then get back over there, bend over, and finish picking up my shit. I want that hole spread open while you’re doing it.”
8
“You missed a spot.”
I’m on my hands and knees on the cold linoleum next to Brandon’s bed, scrubbing at a stain with a rag. The skirt has ridden up to my waist, everything on display.
Brandon’s on his third cup of coffee, still propped against his headboard, watching me crawl around our room with my ass out. I’ve already dusted the shelves, organized his games in alphabetical order, and picked all his sweaty laundry off the floor, bending over exactly how he told me to. He’s getting into this. Every few seconds he reaches down to adjust himself in those gray boxers that are doing a piss-poor job of hiding how hard he is.
“Where?” I look over my shoulder.
“Right there. By the bedpost. Looks sticky.” He points with a foot.
I lean forward to scrub the spot, arching my back way more than any cleaning task requires. The position spreads my cheeks apart. I can feel the cool air against my hole, and behind me Brandon makes a sound that tells me he sees everything.
“Yeah, get it clean,” he mutters. “Earn your keep.”
I can’t explain why this turns me on so much. On my knees, scrubbing the floor, degrading myself for my best friend’s entertainment. It should be humiliating, and a week ago I would’ve called it the gayest shit on earth. But being at his mercy in a costume two sizes too small, doing whatever he tells me, has me hard as steel under this skirt. Every shred of pride gone, and fuck if that isn’t the most liberating feeling. All I want is to please him.
“You’re dripping on the floor, you nasty fuck.”
I look down. A clear string of precum is hanging from the tip of my cock, swaying with every move I make. A small puddle is forming on the linoleum I just scrubbed.
“You’re supposed to be cleaning, not making a bigger mess.”
“Sorry.” I swipe at it with the rag.
“Don’t be sorry. Be better.” He sets his mug on the nightstand. “Come here.”
“I’m not done with the—”
“Did I stutter?”
I drop the rag and crawl onto his bed, thigh-highs sliding down. I settle between his spread legs, hands folded in my lap like a good little servant, trying not to stare at how he looks right now. Brow pinched, jaw tight, abs clenched, those boxers tented and dark with a wet spot at the tip.
Then his face cracks. That familiar Brandon grin pushing through. “How am I doing? The whole dominant thing. Am I nailing it?”
“Ten out of ten. You’re a natural.”
“And you really like this? Being ordered around?”
“Apparently. I’m as surprised as you are.”
“Even when I call you a nasty fuck?”
“Especially then.”
