Page 27 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

“Why?” I whisper.

He’s been nibbling his lip, but he lets it plop out, and it’s all wet and glossy, just begging to be . . .Christ.

“Seeing you hit him did things to me.” He licks his lips, getting them even glossier.

I cup his cheek. “Good boy,” I whisper. His jaw is shaking, and I’m pretty sure it’s from nerves, so I press my hand to his heart to calm him. “You’re always such a good boy for me.”

“Miles,” he whimpers.

“You’re okay, baby.” The endearment is out before I can stop myself. When Darren whines, it’s enough to send my heart slamming in my chest.

“Straight is great?” he asks, his voice soft and frail like he’s worried what my answer will be.

“Something like that.” I stroke his cheek.

On the way to church, I crank up the volume, too scared to let silence fall between us for fear of what I might say to fill it. I know when we get to church, he’ll be expecting me to guide him through his phony-baloney therapy session. I place my hand on top of his, not missing the way his body goes tense. It only lasts a second, but I know my boy’s reactions by heart, so I catch it easily. Then the tension leaves him quicker than an exhale, and I can feel his eyes burning holes into the side of my face.

We continue this way for the rest of the trip, my hand on top of his, my thumb repeatedly brushing his knuckles. When we make it to church, I hop out of the truck and rush around front. Once I’ve got his door open, I unbuckle his seatbelt and lift him out. He looks up at me with wide eyes, looking wonderstruck.

“Miles?” he asks. I can tell there’s more he wants to ask, but he just lets my name sit there, filling up the air around us like morning fog.

I quirk a smile. “Yeah?”

“Are we going to do my therapy today?” he asks. I swallow thickly, because his eyes drift down to his straining erection. I have to bite my lip when I see it. “Miles?”

I blink, feeling dazed as I finally tear my eyes away from his bulge. “Huh?”

“I asked if we’re going to do my therapy. I could really use a session.” He lowers his hand to his bulge and curls his fingers around the shaft.

Jesus Christ.

“Yeah,” I squeak. “Yeah, we can do a session.”

His hand slides down, then up, and then he lets go.

Once we’re in my office, I have him sit in his usual chair. He’s already unbuttoning his jeans as I tie the tablecloth around his neck. I haven’t drawn a stick figure for him to masturbate to yet, so I grab a scrap of paper and scribble a woman down, not really giving a dang if he pictures her as he pleasures himself or not.

Actually, strike that, because I think I do care. I’ll care if he strokes himself imagining a woman. I’ll care if he isn’t picturing me. I look into the mirror behind my desk and see Darren stroking himself beneath the tablecloth. His eyes are locked on my butt, and I arch my back to give him a better view. As soon as the doodle is done, I hold it up for him to look at, and once he’s seen it, I toss the picture behind my back, letting it fall to the floor.

“What’s her name?” he asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Just call her Sandy or something.” Who cares what the hell the fictional figurine’s name is? Darren’s erect penis is on the other side of that cloth, and it needs release.

He must be pouring pre-cum, because Darren usually masturbates dry, and there’s an obscene sound of slick friction filling the room. His technique is sloppy. It’s like he’s got no real rhythm, and he’s just trying to bust a nut rather than enjoy his masturbation session. That doesn’t work for me. He deserves his pleasure. Looking down, I realize I’m just as hard as him.

“You’re doing it wrong,” I say, mouth dry, my hands shaking.

He arches an eyebrow. “I’ve been jacking off for over a decade. I think I know the lay of the land by now.”

I shake my head. “Your rhythm is off.” It’s not, actually, but I can’t think straight when my cock is practically screaming to be touched. There’s another tablecloth on my desk and I grab it, wrapping it around my neck like a bib and tying it in place. Once it’s secure, shielding my front from him, I unbutton my jeans.

Darren’s eyes bulge. “What are you doing?”

My breathing is heavy, and it feels like my heart might leap out of my chest. “I’m showing you how fast you should be stroking yourself. You could end up hurting yourself if you’re not careful.”

“By masturbating too erratically?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. Curling my fingers around my cock, I give it a gentle stroke. His eyes lock on my bulge beneath the tablecloth, his mouth hanging wide open as I pump myself. “Like this, Dare. Do you see? Do you see how fast I’m going?” I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip. “Tell me you see it.” As I open my eyes, Darren nods, looking dazed, completely silent as I pleasure myself. I move closer to him and kiss his forehead, just needing to feel him. “I’m so proud of you.” My nose touches his, and a pop of static ignites, making me grunt like a caveman. “Do you see me, baby? Do you see how fast my arm is moving?”

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