Page 11 of The Wickedness of Man

“Then let me help you.” She leaned forward, and without warning, kissed me square on the lips, her tongue gently probing my mouth.

The kiss was unexpected, and though my first instinct had been to protest, I found myself still unwilling to move away. Her lips were soft—softer than her age would have suggested, and she tasted a bit like spices and pomegranates. The scent of her, rich and heady, filled my senses. My eyes were open as she kissed me, and I watched, frozen, while she moaned against my lips and pulled away, breathing hard. I blinked. I’d only had a few sips of beer, but I felt positively drunk. Had her eyes flashedred? I peered up at the red and blue neon sign flashing above my head, and chuckled at my own suspicion.

Worried about a little old lady? She’s right. I must be overworking myself.

When I looked back to the woman, the old lady was nowhere to be seen. It was as if she had vanished entirely and was replaced instead by a buxom blonde woman wearing a thin pair of wireframe glasses.

“You are positivelybristlingwith energy, boy,” she murmured, touching her lips with her fingertips. “I knew I was right.”

Wait, is this my… target?

“You’re supposed to be at home,” I murmured, idly wondering why I felt like I wasn’t reacting properly; I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to be doing in the first place.

“Drink up tonight,” said the blonde woman, trembling as her hands drifted to her neck, fingers toying idly with her top button. She was looking at me like she wanted to devour every inch of me and had to restrain herself from doing so.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” She waved away my concerns. “You’re just… tastier than I’d expected, and I don’t want to despoil the coming fun, but…”

She touched my arm again, and as if she couldn’t help herself, leaned in and kissed me, dragging her hands through my hair and down my neck.

My cock twitched; waking up of its own accord. Desire spilled through me so quickly that if I could have, I would have taken this woman right there on the wooden barstool or even the floor. She withdrew, looking particularly pleased with herself as she fixed my hair and wiped my mouth of any traces of her lipstick.

“Forget you saw me,” she said, giving me one last touch on the arm. “Tomorrow’s a big day and I need you to be… fit. So don’t forget—relax. You can sleep in late; you have no plans.”

“Yes, I’m off tomorrow,” I responded dutifully.

“That’s right,” she said with a smile, pushing open the front door. “Good boy.”

As soon as I the door closed behind her, I blinked, turned back to my noodles, and discovered two twenty-dollar bills in my hand and a case of beer beside me with a sticker on it that readpaid for. I looked back to my bowl and finished the last bit of noodles.

The old man came back out, saw I’d eaten everything, and smiled. “Another?” he asked.

I stared at the twenties in my hand, then held out my bowl. “Yes, please.”

After two filling bowls of chow mien, I opened the case of beer once I’d gotten right outside the store. It was only about fifteen minutes to eight, but the “open” sign went off as soon as I’d left. I was thirsty as hell, and the beers, miraculously, were still ice-box cold. I popped the cap on one with the edge of a brick windowsill and downed it in a few gulps, letting out a contented sigh. I tossed it into the nearby trash, then popped the next one open.

By the time I’d made my walk back to the stakeout apartment, my world was a spinning, floaty, daydreamy haze. I staggered up the stairs, the case of beer now half empty, tucked under my arm as I moved floor by floor. I fought with the key to the apartment, then went inside, turning on the lonely single lamp in the room.

I kicked my shoes to the side, stripped out of my clothes, and set the case of beer next to the bed, opening the next bottle on the nightstand, leaving a little divot in the particleboard. The furniture was already so damaged, I doubted anyone wouldeven notice. I leaned back on the bed, downed that bottle, then reached down and opened another. I drank it about a third of the way before I had to set it aside, my eyes drifting lazily closed for a long moment.

Heat flooded through me—from my abdomen down to my toes—and I gasped as my cock hardened, painfully so—desperately in need of release. I grabbed hold of myself, gently stroking back and forth initially, but as the need within me grew, I moved faster. I pumped my fist up and down as quickly as possible, squeezing the shaft, but as badly as I needed to come, I just… couldn’t.

I jerked myself harder. The pleasure built, built—and then—nothing. I repositioned myself. The need to finish was overwhelming. I couldn’t recall being this horny since maybe the first time I’d discovered masturbation as a teenager. With a strangled cry, I moved onto my knees, pumping furiously into my fist for nearly five minutes. Sweat beaded on my forehead; my cock was so hard it was painful and my balls ached, but I simply couldn’t. It was impossible to come. Panting, I went to pull my pants back up. I had to go somewhere I could take care of this. The club, maybe?—

“No,” came a husky, faraway voice from the edge of my consciousness. Suddenly, the shadows around the edge of my vision went dark, and my body stilled.“I need you ready for tomorrow. For her.”

I fell immobile as the sensation of invisible hands removed my hand from my cock and pushed me back onto the bed, before pulling the blanket over me. I was still unbearably hard, and I whimpered. The desire was so strong that I was certain in that moment if I didn’t come, I might literally die. I wasn’t sure if such a thing had ever happened to a man before, but as my cock throbbed without the relief of orgasming imminent, I knew if it was possible, I’d be the first to make it into the books.

“Ready? Who…?” I gasped, not knowing if I was asking who was there or who I was supposed to be ready for, but already I was losing the fight for consciousness.

“You’ll know when you see her.I promise.”

Iwas woken up by the urgent buzzing of a cell phone, and without opening my eyes, blindly fumbled on the nightstand, knocking over a half-filled beer bottle in the process. I slammed my hand around until I found the offensive thing, and flipped the glaringly bright screen over, half expecting to find an alarm I’d forgotten to turn off. Instead, there was an incoming call. The name at the top was just one word: Home.

Even in my partially hungover, sleep-clouded haze, my stomach leapt as I struggled back to awareness. I answered and put the phone to my ear, heart pounding so loud I thought it might thump straight through my chest.

We’d been ordered to go no contact outside of texts, both for anonymity, and to reduce the chance of anyone overhearing or spying on a verbal conversation. If they were calling, something was either wrong or the situation had changed and I had to get the fuck out.

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