Page 19 of Steam

Part III

Bet Your Ass

Later, if you were to ask Jonah Wescott what the best meal of his life had been, he’d tell you without hesitation that it was the 32-ounce bottle of Texas Tim’s Ancho BBQ sauce he drank in under two minutes out in front of the Fair N Square Food Store, resting on the hood of his boyfriend’s Ford Fiesta.

Yes, it had seared his esophagus raw on the way down and—a few minutes later—on the way back up into the sand on the side of the freeway.

Yes, he had burped up the taste of ancho and cumin for what felt like eons afterwards.

Yes, it had utterly ruined Texas-style barbeque sauce for the remainder of his ribs-loving life.

But he had won his own stupid bet—and won it spectacularly.

With a grin and nary a hiccup, Jonah had tossed the empty bottle to Rich, scrubbed a clean hand over his lips, and told the man to clear his schedule for Saturday.

* * *

The loserof the bet got tied up. Those had been the terms.

When Jonah suggested it, pushing his sandy hair out of his eyes and brandishing the enormous bottle, Rich hadn’t hesitated to take the bet. Jonah was almost two decades younger than him and the textbook definition of a mouthy bottom—but they didn’t always stick to their roles. And they’d never tied each other up before.

Rich had deemed the situation as a win-win: if his boyfriend couldn’t actually drink the whole bottle of barbeque sauce, Rich would get a restrained Jonah at his disposal—and if he could drink it, Rich would be granted an indulgent session of bottoming where he wasn’t asked to do a damned thing.

Easiest bet of his whole life.

He hadn’t hesitated when Jonah suggested it—but apparently he’d underestimated his boyfriend’s sadistic streak.

Now, two days later, safely tucked into Rich’s bedroom, his fingertips are starting to go all pins-and-needles feeling from being above his head for so long. There’s no clock on the wall and no real way to chart the passage of time, but it feels like it’s been at least an hour since Jonah had marched them into Rich’s bedroom, ordered him to strip to his underwear through a smirk, and made quick work of securing Rich’s wrists comfortably to his own simple bedframe.

“Color system, alright?” Jonah had asked brusquely as he started to shed his own clothes.

Rich had frowned.

“You’re gonna make me safeword? With what?” he’d asked, teasing. “Where are the whips and chains? I think I left the spreader bar back at the office and your mom never brought my ball gag back.”

“Rich. Be real. Green, yellow, red. We good?”

“Never in a million years would I have pegged you as a stickler for safewords,” Rich said. Jonah had stopped undressing and fixed him with a death glare. “Yes, ok, Christ, color system. Call me a traffic light—just don’t stop taking off your clothes.”

Hindsight is 20/20. Rich gets it now.

Jonah doesn’t need any sort of prop to push Rich to the edge of his sanity—not when he has quick hands, a talented mouth, a perfect frame, all of that stupidly soft skin, and an in-depth knowledge of every physical cue that indicates Rich is close to orgasm.

* * *

Sometimes Jonah’smind wanders when he’s giving head. Not today. This is art, this is the performance of a lifetime, this is sweet revenge for every stupid joke Rich has ever made.

The first half hour had been leisurely: standard foreplay, third-base type shit, slow and even a little sweet. He hadn’t even taken Rich’s boxers off. But after the 30-minute mark, he drags the garment off of Rich’s hips and the preface to the whole affair is over.

Jonah lies with his bare belly against the comforter between Rich’s thighs, holding his cock gently, appreciating the weight of him and the clear bead of precum that he’s going to taste in a moment—and Rich groans into the air above him as if he can read Jonah’s mind. Jonah squeezes him by the base, in no hurry as he shifts a little further up the bed.

He starts with dry lips on skin, each kiss escalating imperceptibly as more layers of stimulation come into play—pressure and noise and wetness. A silent kiss at the base of his balls, a quiet kiss against the skin of his inner thigh, a brushing kiss against his shaft. The room is silent except for them: Jonah’s mouth working and Rich breathing audibly.

Jonah wets his lips and starts again, following the same path with a measured pace.

Of course the denial is mutual at this point. Jonah’s own neglected hard-on strains against the front of his boxer briefs. The hands-above-your-head surrender position looks good on Rich, emphasizing the width of his chest, the taper of a waist gone a little soft with age, and the flare of hips that are already fighting the urge to buck off the bed.

Jonah smothers the impulse to drag himself up the mattress and kneel over Rich, opening himself up with fingers and lube and then riding relentlessly until they’re both out of breath and granted release.

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