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Tom flings a cigarette out of the car window, tears welling in his eyes. It's because dust from the old files he just threw around is still burning in them, and ash from the cigarette, and because the summer sun is blinding him. Definitely not because he's about to start crying bitterly.
He squeezes his eyes shut to hold back the tears, but they escape and run down his cheeks as he starts to sob sitting in his car. No one hears him here in the parking lot, everyone is busy going about their work. He lets out a shaky sigh, swallows, and hiccups with almost every sob, and he shivers even though he feels hot, not cold. And he can't help himself, it happens almost automatically: when no one is looking, he opens his belt. His breathing becomes calmer and he does what he always does when everything becomes too much for him and he needs relief. Frustrated, he jerks his hips around on the seat of his car and loses himself, cursing quietly, in the sensation of fucking his fist. He smells the leather of the seat, rubs himself with one hand and enjoys the smoothness of the seat cover with the other. And in each thrust, he puts in all his anger, all his frustration. And he cries. Jerking off in his car always helps him calm down. He usually feels safe here, encapsulated in a frame of steel, his back and butt caressed by soft leather, and the elegant curves of the dashboard invite him to dream. But not this time. This time, Jack Marrowbone's face comes to mind. Tom thinks of his pale, depressed features, his unkempt hair, his dirty country clothes. And his £10,000.
With his cock firmly in his hand and his lips parted, licking the leather of his seat, Tom imagines himself fucking Jack hard and, for some reason, kissing him. He whimpers as he nears orgasm, any second now, almost, almost, almost, he's so close, over and over again. But he can't seem to climax. Still clutching his cock in his fist, Tom opens his eyes and his heart pounds wildly as he forces his bulging erection back inside the stiff fabric of his suit. Angry and with a sticky hand, he turns the key in the ignition, slams the clutch, and steps on the gas. He doesn't like to buckle up. A stupid invention, these seat belts, an eyesore in his beautiful car. Real men know how to handle their cars, they don't buckle up, that's for little boys and wimps. And he's no wimp. Not at all. He wipes away his tears and desperate anger boils inside him like never before. He has made his decision. He's going to get the money now. £10,000. Double that in dollars. He's going to get what he deserves.
Tom shifts into high gear, pressing the gas pedal all the way down. And he thinks about new shoes. Beautiful perforated dress shoes made of tangerine calf leather. That's the first thing he'll buy with the money as soon as he's out of all the dirt and cow shit, dog shit, pig shit, chicken shit, and all the other shit of this shitty little town he so desperately wants to escape. He shifts into top gear. Adrenaline rushes through his veins like a drug high, and the thrilling danger of driving too fast is a welcome distraction from his insecurities. If he crashes now, he'll smash through the windshield. But he doesn't care. He has nothing left to lose.
He hits the horn, twice, hard, as he drives past a few people on the country road, and puts on a confident smile, even though the corners of his eyes are still wet with tears. A loud horn was important to him when he bought the car. It shows confidence, power. He speeds the car around the curve, faster than necessary, more recklessly than he would like. But he wants everyone to hear the roaring engine, maybe even shake their heads at this young, dynamic lawyer who is racing through the area. He told practically everyone that he would soon be working in New York.
His smile turns into a pained grimace, but he forces himself to keep it up, runs his hand through his hair, adjusts his stylish tie, and enjoys the tingling sensation on his skin as his beautiful car picks up speed.
He knows he can hardly afford any of it. But he likes to pretend. He likes to wear nice suits, drive high-end cars, smoke premium cigarettes, hand out business cards with elegant lettering, and show off his success to ladies and men alike. And it was precisely because of this arrogance and the urge to portray himself as something better than he was that, half an hour ago during the phone call with Mr. Gouldman, his dream of soon working in New York at Parker & Jameson, together with the other wealthy, urban young businessmen, was shattered.
Tom races into the Marrowbone family's driveway. The road here is just a gravel path, so overgrown and neglected that he fears the paintwork of his car could be damaged. He stops the car, and with a heavy sigh, turns off the engine. Having just felt the exciting thrill of speed, his body now slumps down as everything becomes quiet again and he is alone with his thoughts, feeling once more as if he is about to burst into tears. His hand caresses the leather upholstery of the car interior longingly. A pleasant light leather, soft and white like a woman's delicate skin, yet resistant and braving his grip, his oh so often and desperately clawing grip on the steering wheel, in lonely moments full of frustration.
The car had witnessed so much of him: his tears, his sweat of rage, his saliva when he kissed the leather, even his cum. Of course, he took care of it and cleaned it regularly. He had often bragged about his car to his colleagues, and they had sometimes thought he was talking about a lover. A stubborn girl who causes trouble when she wants to, who constantly costs him money, but who does a good job if he just gets a little rougher with her. He slaps the dashboard with a sad smile and gets out of the car. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, a whiff of country air hits his nose. It's disgusting. He takes a cigarette out of the pack and lights it. The smoke in his nose and lungs makes the air more bearable.
He reaches up to check his hair again and plucks a piece of lint from his suit. One should always appear presentable and look one's best, even when planning to blackmail a cheating youngster for £10,000 in his decaying farmhouse. The path to the house seems even more overgrown than last time, and brambles catch on Tom's suit sleeve. He doesn't bother to ring the bell at the gate and heads straight for the front door. No one is in sight, no one is expecting him, and just like the last time he was here to certify the contract signing, everything looks neglected and deserted. But Jack had served him some damn good cake. And then he forged his mother's signature, who was obviously long dead. Tom frowns. Jack, that rotten little bastard, had made a fool of him and taken advantage of his good nature.
Tom takes one last drag on his cigarette and presses it against the wall of the house. The tiny hole he angrily burns into the peeling paint is hardly noticeable. He would love nothing more than to burn down this damn property and sue Jack into the ground, squeezing every cent he could get out of him. But he wouldn't be able to get £10,000 that way. Besides, if word got out that Thomas D. Porter, highly esteemed notary and lawyer, hadn't even recognized a simple case of document forgery because of sentimentality and good cake, how could he ever look people in the eye again? The threat of a lawsuit should be enough to get Jack to give him the money. Not the most noble way, but if there's no other way, then so be it. Ruthless, merciless and ambitious, just like the big boys from New York he aspires to be like. And for some reason, Tom enjoys the tingling anticipation of showing Jack who's boss. He sits down on the porch swing. It squeaks and creaks as he can't help but nervously start swinging. He waits and looks out at the grassy landscape. It's so terribly quiet out here.
There's no money. Jack claims he has nothing, and there is such despair in his voice that it turns Tom's stomach, as he realizes it could be true. Jack begs him to let him offer some other form of compensation. Something about him makes Tom feel kind of scared. They stare at each other, and Jack's gaze is tormented by unknown years of suffering, and there is this spark in his eyes that is disturbing, as if several people were looking out of them. A hidden, restless, self-destructive fury. And Tom realizes, as they stand there facing each other, that he is only at eye level with Jack when standing on the porch. Physically, he's no match for this young man, who's almost still a boy. It's hard for Tom to accept, but he's half a head shorter and less fit than Jack, after spending years working behind a desk. A primal fear wells up inside him. This boy could easily knock him down if he were provoked any further. Tom gulps. He'll get the money tomorrow, he thinks to himself, not wanting to witness Jack's true state of despair. Tom is about to leave when he turns around once more and asks, more out of curiosity than anything else, what Jack could possibly offer him in return that would be worth £10,000. His cake is good, but not that good.
All of a sudden, Jack falls to his knees and says with unsettling determination that he will do anything. Really, anything Tom wants. Starting with a blow job. Right here and now. Tom gasps and stares in shock. Does Jack really think he's the kind of man who gets a kick out of humiliating others and dominating young men? Because deep down, that's what Tom wishes he were. Just like the big boys from New York. A real, ruthlessly ambitious man wouldn't pass up this opportunity to prove his superior masculinity, would he? No, he wouldn't.
The wind rustles through the leaves of the surrounding trees and across the overgrown grass, and a breeze cools Tom's painfully hard cock. Jack's hand wraps around it and gives it a gentle squeeze. His fingers circle Tom's glans, testing the moist warmth of its opening, while Tom lists increasingly humiliating things he could do to Jack and warns him that he will fuck him however he wants, any day he wants, because for £10,000, he deserves it. Tom desperately tries to act dominant and show Jack how much he enjoys standing over him, with his exposed cock waiting to be sucked. But Tom's vulgar remarks do not reflect the reality of his feelings, in fact, he doesn't even have the nerve to touch Jack's face. All he can bring himself to do is gently caress Jack's dirty hair.
While Tom is still hesitating, Jack opens his mouth and presents him with his willing tongue, his hot throat, while he looks at the cock, which seems to move on its own and shows with a twitch how much it enjoys being looked at. The look on Jack's face is almost frightening as he starts sucking on it. The feeling is overwhelming. Tom flinches at the sudden warmth, clenches his teeth, and shivers. He doesn't want to whimper, but goddamn, it feels so good. Better than his hand. The tongue circling his glans and the gurgling Jack makes as he tries to take him all the way into his mouth is so damn hot, despite his clumsiness. The eager sucking involves too much tooth contact and occasional coughing, causing Jack to pause frequently until he can catch his breath. But Tom also has no idea how to move, where to look, or what to do with his hands. This is definitely the first time for both of them.
With a small sigh, as Jack grabs his butt to gently pull him closer, Tom tilts his head and finally, finally looks down. If Jack would use some hair pomade and wear a nice suit instead of those dirty loose shirts, he would look almost like one of those nasty stock market assholes Tom had met on the train to New York. That would make this whole thing really hot and fun. Tom thinks of the athletes on the trading cards he used to collect as a kid. He thinks of the men in the sports car ads in the morning paper. He even thinks of Mr. Gouldman's firm handshake. No matter how hard he tries, he can't see all these men he admires, the men he wants to be like, the men he wants to dominate, in Jack.
The handsome young man in front of him is soft-handed, warm, gentle, submissive - all things Tom likes in a woman, all things he tries to suppress in himself in order to be respected in this world. Jack's gagging throat feels insanely good around his shaft, but seeing how willingly Jack submits to him makes Tom feel embarrassed. The young man is ambitious, just like him. Ready to do whatever it takes. And even though his cock is deep in the other man's throat, Tom once again feels like he's being tricked by him.
Tom's gaze meets Jack's and he shivers at the despair in those eyes. It's true, Jack would do anything for him, endure any humiliation. The longer Tom looks at him, the more overwhelmed he becomes, filled with shame that eats him up, forcing him to look away and focus on the lips eagerly licking up and down his cock and slurping on it. Every now and then Jack catches his breath and Tom can't help but wipe the drool from his chin. Fuck, now Jack even licks his finger, smelling the faint scent of way too expensive cigarettes still on it, and tells him he can moan like a girl for him, surprisingly well, really loud and slutty, if Tom wants him to. Jack wants to be a good little cumslut for him. Tom shudders and gets ridiculously hard. Where did Jack even learn those words, where did he hear something like that? Surely not from...
Allie.
Anger rises in Tom again. And he thrusts. He thrusts into the lips he's so jealous of because they kissed Allie. He secretly hopes they'll kiss her again so she'll have the faint taste of his cum in her mouth. And it makes him half sick that he even has such thoughts about her.
Tom puts on a stern expression and declares in the most dominantly firm voice he can muster that £10,000 is a hell of a lot of money and that he's not going to settle for a simple blowjob. Jack nods eagerly and immediately stands up, and to Jack's great concern, confidently unzips his pants and pulls them off in front of him, clumsily kicking off his shoes. Then he sits down on the porch swing with his legs spread apart and holds on to the chains. Sticking his ass out and his alarmingly stiff cock, he begins to swing gently.
Tom stares at him, drops of sweat glistening on his forehead, but there is no desire in his eyes. Only tears welling up. It's because the dust flying around in the terrible country air is irritating them. Definitely not because he is on the verge of breaking down in tears from being overwhelmed. He blinks away the tears, and in his overwhelm, even Jack's twitching pink hole seems to be mocking him, winking at him. He is angry. At himself. At Jack. At Allie.
And he takes a step forward, licks his lips, and spits on the hole. When he presses a finger against the little rosy opening and feels the slight contractions, he's close to losing his mind. He's so turned on by the little twitches, even though his cock isn't even near it yet. He silently begs his body not to ejaculate right away, not to break down, not in front of Jack. He forces a smile, acts confident, and asks if Jack is ready for him, running a finger over the crack of his ass and teasing the hole. As an answer, he gets another inviting twitch of the anus and a nod. Grabbing onto the chains, Jack lifts his legs up in the air, spreading them wide, showing he's ready for him. And it doesn't feel at all like Tom is dominating anyone here, but rather like the young man is challenging him, daring him to show his strength.
And even though Tom is leaning down over Jack, his stiff cock in his hand, ready to push it into the tiny hole, Tom once again feels like he's being made a fool of. Using more force than he feels comfortable with, he rams his cock inside. He yelps and Jack also lets out a loud cry, sucks in air through his teeth, and then looks at him with a piercing gaze. It hurt them both. Too much dry friction, the hole is too tight and not wet enough. But Tom starts banging away, and the steady thrusting, so forceful and desperate, makes the swing squeak loudly. And just like he had promised, Jack starts moaning sweetly, just like a girl. It's almost unbearable for Tom, he's so turned on by it and imagines that Allie must have sounded just like that when she let Jack fuck her.
And it hurts him, everything about this, inside and out. The fact that Allie chose another man, not him, breaks his heart. The hot hole squeezing his cock overstimulates the sensitive skin on his glans. And yet he grabs Jack's legs and fucks him as hard as he can. He doesn't hold back. Jack's sweet moans fuel Tom's arousal, and he humps him like a breeding rabbit to show Jack who the real man is. But something isn't right. Tom's skinny body doesn't have much power behind it. The old squeaky swing makes every movement awkward and wobbly. Tom grits his teeth through the pain, and with every thrust, the blood rushes from his brain to his cock. His face turns pale, except for his bright red blushing cheeks. The constant friction on his groin becomes so intense that it almost feels like it's glowing. He tries so hard to be a big tough guy, disciplining a cheeky youngster, but in reality, he's on the verge of passing out. It embarrasses him even more that he has to glance at Jack's cock, which, as luck would have it, is longer than his and bobs up and down cheerfully, as if teasing him. The thought of this cock inside Allie's pussy makes Tom whimper with frustration.
He grits his teeth again, as if to force his vocal cords not to make those pathetic whimpering sounds, leans forward, holds on to the wood of the swing, and brings his face very close to Jack's. He whispers dirty, nonsensical things in his ear, switching between praise and humiliation, and for a moment he feels powerful as he brags to Jack that he's going to fuck his little hole raw and fill it up with cum. And just like earlier, when Tom was jerking off alone in his car, he can't help but purse his lips for a kiss. To his surprise, Jack grabs his neck, pulls him close, and kisses him, hard and deeply. A kiss meant to convince Tom to keep fucking, as hard as he wants, to actually cum inside him like he wants, and to forget about the money.
It feels so strange for Tom, he's almost vibrating with excitement. Even though he just face-fucked Jack and is now deep inside his asshole, feeling Jack's lips on his feels even more intimate than all the other stuff he did to him before. It's just a simple kiss. Tom has kissed before. But this time it's different. Jack's lips are soft, yet there is a pleasant roughness to them that Tom enjoys. And Tom realizes how much his body has been craving rough touch and closeness. He can't help but imagine how the other man's lips have kissed Allie before and will kiss her again, and how he himself will be nothing more than an abstract ghost in between, an unpleasant memory, a bland aftertaste. He squeezes his eyes shut and remembers her smile, and how it faded when he told her he wanted to be with her. And in his agony, he kisses Jack fiercely, wants to overpower him with his tongue, pushes his cock all the way into his hole, balls deep, trying to force him to give up so he can get Allie back and everything he has lost.
Then he feels hands on his back, grabbing his suit and pulling him into an embrace. Connected by a deep kiss, they both swing back and forth gently on the porch swing, weightless in the summerbreeze. Tom slowly breathes in and out through his nose and loses himself in the gentleness of the moment. It's like a dream, like in his fantasy. They kiss and kiss, then...
He starts to cry. He gasps for air, stands up again, and looks down at the young man. Tom's vision is blurred, tears fall down on his cock, which is still half stuck in Jack's hole. This hole, all red and sore from being fucked so hard, teases him, even in this state. And Jack, that naughty son of a bitch, has the incredible audacity to smile at him at that moment, damn it. Jack says he'll clench his hole extra tight for Tom, like a good little whore.
Damn it. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
All Tom can do is whimper in response and his hips thrust forward almost instinctively. This time, he clings to Jack and keeps pounding into him with a newfound rage and the urge to fuck that smile away. Tom can no longer hold back the tears that drop from his eyes with every hard thrust as his entire body, still joined with Jack's, begins to tremble. Just a moment ago, it was Jack's sweet moans that echoed off the rotten walls of the house, but now it's the sound of Tom's whimpers and cries of both frustration and reluctant arousal.
The swing stops. His face turns bright red and his lungs refuse to take in air, leaving him almost on the verge of suffocation... and then he ejaculates. He cries through his orgasm with a feral groan, his knees buckle, the swing can't hold him, he collapses, slips out of Jack and shoots his cum over Jack's ass and onto the floor. Tom's knees are in the dirt and he is breathing heavily. He can't enjoy the afterglow of this orgasm for a second as Jack's cock twitches right in front of his face.
Tom stumbles over brambles on his way back to his car, his trembling hands barely managing to light his cigarette. He falls into the car seat and slams the door shut. His tears mix with the sweat dripping from his temples and seep into his dress shirt. He takes a deep, slow breath, but the nicotine in the cigarette fails to calm his pounding heart. He knows he'll never get out of this town. And the hurt, deep in his heart, will never go away. But he will come back here tomorrow and either get the money that is hidden somewhere, or demand some other form of compensation.