Page 28 of Something So Strong

I gasp.

It’s almost too much.

My heart is pounding so hard I feel like I need to hold my breath so my lungs don’t take up too much room.

But I still want more.

I’m so close to coming, but I lower my grip and push through.

My free hand moves to my balls, tugging them gently.

I want Kai’s touch on me.

I need to know what it feels like to be jerked off by him.

He’d know when to speed up or slow down and—

I wanna know how his lips feel wrapped around my cock…

Suddenly, he’s kneeling between my legs on the bed.

His hand is around me.

He leans forward, the same cocky simper he always wears on his face as he runs the tip of his tongue over my slit.

Then he kisses it, the plump pinkness of his lips separating before circling his tongue around the head.

My hips buck, subconsciously craving him.

I want to know the warmth inside his mouth. What his throat feels like when I force my way deeper. If he’d gag on me. If he’d love being used.

My hand moves in time with the bobbing of his head.

Then he pulls back, licking his lips. “Come for me, Jess. My belly needs your cum.”

I’m there. He’s back on me.

I coat the back of his throat.

He thanks me for it…

I’m a panting mess.

My hand relaxes and hits the mattress as an eerie serenity washes over me.

My hand shakes as I bring a cigarette to my lips. It’s the seventh one in a row I’ve sucked down since retreating to my room after Jesse abruptly left me alone in the kitchen.

Things had been going so well.

We were close. He let me touch his hand without flinching away. Then I let a Freudian slip of the tongue ruin everything. So much for keeping my cards close to my chest. In five words, I went from total power to an overwhelming desire to grovel at his feet.

Fuck you, Dad!

My face scowls as I blow the cancerous smoke out the window. Six years away from him and my knee-jerk reaction to a question posed about anything slightly effeminate is still to spout his hateful rhetoric without thinking. It’s not even the words so much as their connection to him. Being called a fag by anyone else would gain their words no traction because I see no problem with a person being gay. They are no less than me, so I can find no insult, but from him…

At least once a day I’d hear him yell it at Mom, like he was terrified that even the walls of our house might consider him less than toxically masculine. And she only placated his hatred, smothering him with affection and supportive words like being heterosexual made him any less of an asshat. But, even when he’d call me Sissy or Nancy, I still couldn’t bring myself to lie to him. I wish I could have, just once. Just to see the homicidal gleam in his eyes. Just so I had enough reason to act out my ultimate fantasy of seeing him in a pool of blood at the feet of his accusedly homo son—my mother screaming over his body like her entire existence no longer had any meaning, and I really was the devil’s spawn Dad had always told her I was.

But that would have been my point of no return.

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