Page 38 of Oliver

He nods.

“Color?” I ask.

“Green,” he replies. I smile and stretch him for a moment before slicking the toy up and pushing it inside him. He swallows it greedily and moans as it fills him, his cock hard and heavy between his legs. I press a button that allows the head of the massager to rotate inside him and he mewls, his cock spasming as precum leaks down his shaft and his hips buck.

“Fuck!” he shouts.

“Good?” I say, and he nods.

“More.” His voice is so needy it has my cock growing hard.

“Repeat what I say and you can have more,” I remind him. “Ready?”

He nods again, but then his brows furrow when I say, “My name is Oliver Jones.”

“What?” he starts, but I hold up a hand. He swallows.

“My name is Oliver Jones,” he repeats, and I press the button on my phone, his cries of pleasure echoing throughout the small space as the toy goes off inside him. “Fuck,” he pants.

“I am thirty-six years old,” I say, and he looks at me as his chest rises and falls. I won’t make him say anything he doesn’t want to say. He can safeword at any time.

“I am thirty-six years old,” he says, his voice softer than the last time, and I press the button again. It goes off until I press it, telling it to stop, and he’s trembling, sweat clinging to his ivory skin. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he gasps.

“I am a queer man,” I say softly. He pauses longer this time, and I see the tears spring to his eyes. My Oliver. My sweet, beautiful, Oliver.

“I am…a queer man,” he stutters out, in between sobs and I press the button again. His cock spasms as I let it go on for several moments before pressing it again to stop. His skin is flushed, his cheeks wet with tears.

“I am good,” I say, and he closes his eyes and sobs, but eventually he repeats, “I am good.” The toy goes off again and he bites his lip hard, his body shaking.

“I am worthy,” I say, and he shakes his head. “I. Am. Worthy,” I repeat gently. He squeezes his eyes shut as more tears fall, but says the words, his voice unsteady.

“I am enough, exactly as I am,” I say, and tears are spilling down my cheeks now, too. There’s a long pause before I say, “You don’t have to believe it, Oliver, you just have to say it. Believing it will come with time.”

There’s an even longer pause before he chokes out, “I am enough, exactly as I am.” He curses and screams my name when I press the button this time. He cries more.

“I am allowed to disappoint my parents,” I whisper, and wonder if he heard me when he doesn’t respond. But then he says it, too, and I press the button again.

“Please,” he sobs. “Please, Hunter.” I don’t even know what he’s asking for and I don’t think he does either, because he can come whenever he wants, he knows that. His cock is straining, and I can tell he’s close, ready to explode as soon as I hit the button again.

But when I say, with my chest heaving, “I promise to chase my own happiness, even if it means I lose people in the process,” his eyes squeeze shut again, before his gaze locks with mine, and with a choked sob he says one word.

“Red.”

Thirteen

HUNTER

I go to him as soon as the word leaves his mouth. As quickly as I can, I undo the cuffs and let him free, then slide the prostate massager out, setting it aside. I gather him in my arms and hold him as he curls into a ball, sobs wracking his body.

“I’m here, Oli,” I tell him. “You’re safe, baby. I’m right here.”

I hold him for hours and he cries himself to sleep.

Fourteen

HUNTER

Oliver is quiet the next morning. I’m up first, like usual, and make his tea for him. He drinks it, giving me a small appreciative smile when I hand it to him, but he doesn’t say anything. We eat mostly in silence, him only breaking it to ask how long it will take to reach Atlantic City.

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