Page 25 of Poetry On Ice
“No,” I say calmly. “I don’t think my socks are a power move.” There’s something a little off about my tone, which is concerning, and added to that, I have no idea where I’m going with this. Like none. Literally not a fucking clue. I have a bad feeling about it, a worrying flutter just below my navel. It’s a feeling I recognize—a feeling that I’m about to be as surprised by what I say as he is. “Thisis a power move.”
I watch, removed, as my hand drifts through the air, wraps itself securely around his throat, and applies pressure. Facial hair and hot skin singe my palm. Under his skin, ligaments and muscles work in concert to send cartilage up and down the column of his neck. Other than that, he doesn’t move or react. He considers me carefully, eyes notably without fear, and says, “Careful, Princess. Keep this up, and you’ll end up on your knees with my dick in your mouth.”
My entire system shuts down. Body, brain, all of it goes offline, leaving me in a strange, dreamy place. A warm place where thoughts are sluggish and my heartbeatis so hard and loud I feel the thump in my hands and face.
I come back online with a slowwhooshthat settles in my knees and my groin. Rampant arousal floods my senses, drowning everything else out.
I don’t move. I still have Decker in a chokehold, and I’m increasingly aware that one of my knees is pressed against his. It’s warm where we’re touching. There’s a light pressure that seems to be getting harder. Bare skin against soft cotton fabric and solid bone.
His hand moves, a considered, laborious trail as it makes its way to me. His fingertips graze where we’re touching, drawing a line up and down the join, and then travel up my inner thigh. Slowly. So slowly I feel the joints in my arms and legs going lax and my head becoming heavy. Hair is disturbed as his hand moves up my leg. Soft, sensitive hair. Hair that grows on pale skin and spends most of its time hidden from others.
His hand continues moving to the smooth, hairless skin a couple of inches from the seam of my underwear. It doesn’t stop. I can’t breathe. His fingers find the seam in the fabric and follow it, blunt fingernails curling and drawing three parallel lines on the underside of my scrotum. Light, barely-there lines that set me on fire.
I jerk my hand off him in shock.
He doesn’t move his.
He keeps fondling me gently. So gently, my eyelids become weighted and my head threatens to flop back.
He must sense that I’ve entered a trance of sorts because he wastes no time yanking me out of it. “Hey, Pretty Boy,” he croons. His words ruffle my feathers, but he quickly subdues me by dragging a single finger up my shaft and tracing the indent of my piss slit. “Are you going to kneel for me?”
I badly want to say no. Every part of me connected to things like pride, prudence, and sound judgment screams at me to step back and laugh in his face.
I don’t.
It’s not that I decide to kneel so much as my knees buckle and give way. He spreads his legs wide so they’re caging me, and I slither bonelessly onto the floor at his feet.
My heart pounds as he tugs at the drawstring of his sleep pants and pushes them down just enough to give me an eyeful of his cock and balls. The lust it invokes is extreme and immediate. A hard kick of arousal that makes me feel winded. A deep, tight coil of want that snakes its way through me.
His hair is dark and neatly trimmed. A perfect, almost innocent-looking setting for his raging erection.An erection that’s veiny and thick, curved aggressively back toward his navel.
On top of everything else, Decker’s a liar.
Above average doesn’t begin to describe it.
He’s cut, so his head is fully exposed, and to me, that makes him look even more threatening. Even more enticing. His head is red and swollen as he takes himself by the base and angles his cock toward me.
Saliva pools under my tongue. I swallow hard and consider my options. My mind is slowed-up, thoughts thick and cumbersome, sluggish, as they wade toward me through a murky quagmire. I have options. I do. I know that. I can do this. I can open my mouth and let Decker slide his dick into it. I can suck him off. I can taste him. Make him come and swallow his load.
I can do that. It’s a definite option. Let’s call it option one.
I have other options too. I’m sure of it. I must. It’s just that I can’t think of any. I wrack my mind, searching every recess of a vacant lot, a tumbleweed street in a ghost town. I come up with nothing.
By that rationale, going with option one seems like the only sensible thing to do.
I let my bottom jaw drop open and wait like that, on my knees, hands on my thighs, palms flat, until Deckerwraps his hand around the back of my neck and guides my head down to his dick. He holds himself firmly as he feeds me his cock. I take it into my mouth gratefully without thinking. I don’t need to. He controls every moment. His. Mine. Nothing happens without his express direction. I don’t blink or swallow. All I do is stay open and lap at his cock every time he lets me come into the slightest contact with it.
I feel crazed. I feel calm. I feel crazed and calm in a way I’ve never felt before. I’m still not thinking. There’s no voice in my head criticizing or questioning what I’m doing. There’s no running commentary to distract me or bring me to my senses. There’s nothing but an endless sphere of bliss. Thick and dense, a circular swirl of desire that winds its way around me and drowns out everything but the heat of the man in front of me and the salty burst that hits my tongue every time he gives me a taste of his dick.
He teases me like that until I don’t know the day of the week. Until I don’t know what city I’m in. Who we just played. Whether we won or lost. The only thing I know is that I want more.
He has his fingers in my hair, curled tightly, holding me in place so I can’t move unless he lets me. He gives me his head, fat and bulbous, letting it push my tonguedown, and takes it away before I’ve had my fill. He does it until I’m drunk. Dizzy. Arching my neck and fighting his grip until my scalp stings and screams in pain.
Only then, when I’m less than half human, does he concede and release me. I fall upon him, jaw as wide open as I can get it, and jam as much of his cock into my mouth as I possibly can. It’s pulsing and hot, so thick, there’s something almost comforting about having it in my mouth.
I bob my head with urgency, hands still on my thighs, desperate and ungraceful, grunting as I take him into my throat. I can’t get enough. I want more.
“Slowly,” he warns as a burst of precum hits my tastebuds. My dick leaks in sympathy, empathy, envy—all three.