Page 6 of For You, Sir

I recalled the hunger and desperation as the characters kissed and tried to picture what it must have been like on the set. Two actors pretending to make love beneath glaring studio lights, surrounded by cameras and snaking cables. And off to the side, Mr. Eriksen scrutinizing every action, telling them what to do…

I was getting hard again thinking about it. Weird, since the scene had been moreintensethan sexy. I shook my head. It was getting way too late, and I wasn’t thinking clearly.

I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t fall asleep. Just another task I’d neglected for too long. I sighed and opened my nightstand drawer and pulled out my silicon masturbation sleeve. Not a vulgar one designed to look like a woman’s parts—just a plain tube made of silicone with soft ridges in the middle. I squirted some lube inside and slid it over my erection.

My sexual needs had always been an odious necessity. I had never understood the guys who spent hours each day looking at porn or hanging around clubs just to pick up women. Wasn’t it more trouble than it was worth? After several failed attempts at relationships, I’d concluded that I would rather be a workaholic than try to chase down another girlfriend.

I preferred to get myself off fast by thinking about something kinky—usually sex with guys. It was an impulse I’d never act upon in real life, but the “wrongness” of it turned me on pretty reliably. I pumped myself with the stroker and flipped through my mental index of erotic fantasies. Maybe because I spent so much time serving fussy, rich people, I tended to fantasize about rough and uncivilized things. Brutish warriors from historic eras or jailors eager to abuse power over their prisoners—weird stuff like that.

That night, a swarm of Viking raiders took over my peaceful fishing village—all swords, muscle, and unwashed faces. One Viking singled me out with his weapon drawn, and when I froze in fear, he grabbed me and shoved me down onto my knees. His hard body was crudely clothed in gray-and-white wolf hides, pale blue eyes cold and cruel as frostbite.

With the tip of his blade at my throat, he bared his teeth at me in a wicked smile and barked a command in his barbarian tongue. I shook my head. Terrified of what he might want me to do. Aching for him to force me into it.

He planted the sole of his muddy boot against my crotch, then flipped back the flap of his wolf hide loincloth. His massive erection jutted at me in naked demand—thick, veiny, and angry red in contrast to his pale thighs. What choice did I have?

I reluctantly opened my mouth and touched my lips to the thick mushroom head of his cock, simultaneously disgusted and aroused. He grabbed me roughly by the hair and shoved me down until my throat gagged and my tongue struggled. He held me there, forcing me to take it all, my nose buried in the crisp blond curls of his pubic hair. The filthy musk and salt of him filled my nostrils as he used me. My saliva cleaned his dirty cock, and I had to swallow it down. This wouldn’t be over until he’d dirtied me further by depositing his full load.

I stroked myself to the fantasy, using the lifeless rubbery masturbator sleeve the way the Viking used me—a tool to be used and discarded without care. My hand slid up my chest and pulled roughly at one of my nipple piercings to help approximate the pain and humiliation of the moment. I twisted it hard as I came.

When the task was done, my relief, as always, was quickly eclipsed by a feeling of shame. The scenarios that got me off were always abhorrent in hindsight. I would never want something like that in real life.

Sir might, though.The thought occurred out of the blue.

I recalled the video I’d accidentally stumbled across on his laptop—masculine bodies and slapping meat. Did Sir do that kind of thing? My face got hot thinking about it.

Chapter 4 (Einar)

The butler’s brisk footsteps crunched along the gravel walkway to the front door, and my heart fluttered with anxiety. It was the third day he’d visited, but the anticipation before he arrived still stressed me out. A stranger would be roaming my house, touching all my stuff and judging me for the disaster my life had become. I considered retreating from my nest on the living room sofa to the master bedroom, but that would be admitting defeat.

The clock on my phone read 7:52 am. Christ. I never used to wake up this early. For the past few months, I’d kept the curtains drawn and slept my days away, losing all track of time. Now, instead of day and night cycles, my time was divided betweenJun’s-hereandJun’s-not-here.

Though, despite my doubts, I appreciated a few things about theJun’s-heretimes. Like a caged animal, I hungered for newness, and the butler brought that with him. There were hours again, and mealtimes, and clean towels in the bathroom. I guess that was a pretty low bar, but I’d grown accustomed to eternal sameness.

His keys rattled in the front door. I sat up, holding my breath.

Jun stepped into the foyer—a tall, slim specimen dressed in a black three-piece suit and a charcoal gray waistcoat—the closest thing to color I’d seen on him. Warm skin, glossy black hair. He looked like a character from a black-and-white film moving through a world of color—a walking anachronism, as if the butler profession wasn’t odd enough.

Who still kept a butler in this day and age, anyway? Leave it to rich twats to need someone else to do their laundry and answer their calls. But I guessed I shouldn’t talk. I was one of those rich twats now, letting a butler clean up after me like the goddamn failure I was.

“Good morning, Sir.” Jun was serene as always.

“G’morning.” I never knew what to say around him beyond basic don’t-be-an-asshole courtesies.

“Would you care for some breakfast?” He had the faintest trace of a Korean accent, an intriguing lilt I could listen to all day. In the fake-ass world of L.A., it made him more real somehow. Like the natural bend in a singer’s voice back in the ‘70s and ‘80s before all that shit was auto-tuned.

“Yeah,” I said, even though I wasn’t hungry, just bored. “Sounds great.”

He gave a little bow and headed into the kitchen, carrying a reusable grocery tote full of ingredients. I followed him, squinting against the harsh light streaming in from the kitchen window, and took a seat on a chair along the center island. Like a kid with a new pet, I was curious to watch every little thing he did.

“Eggs?” He took off his suit-coat and draped it neatly over the back of a chair.

“Sure.”

“How do you like them?”

“Over-easy.”

Using only one hand, Jun cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl. I hadn’t watched anyone cook breakfast since I was a kid. It felt weird to see two lonely yolks swimming in the small dish instead of eight. “You can make some for yourself, too,” I said.

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