“That you did.”
Subjectively, I’m taken.
For me, it doesn’t take much to become so, but that feeling is all too quick to fade. In this case, it’s not so much fading, but escalating. Kit feels strangely untouchable. It’s taken him such little time to accept and settle into a dynamic he’s unaccustomed to, and in becoming comfortable, the scale tips in his favor. While my interest grows, his seems to wane. Outside of sex, I hold no weight in his world. He’s absurdly laidback, content with the impermanence of this experience.
I’ve never dealt with blatant disregard from a sexual partner. Let alone a partner that knows as much as he does. No matter that it’s disrupting the banality of my day, it’s unpleasant. More than unpleasant, I detest it.
“You can just drop me at the front, those pricks are already inside.”
The Monte Carlo Casino, a hotbed for tourists.
“Do you need some pocket money?” It’s half in jest, half a genuine offer I know he’d never accept.
Kit laughs, then appears startled at himself for doing so. Brows up, he lights with that wide, cheeky grin again. “Nah, then I’d feel like a prostitute. Nothing against it, but I take my loads to the face for free, like a real man.”
He’s incredibly casual about the sex he was mortified over only three days ago, going so far as to sneak off and take shelter in his suite for a majority of the following day. I wonder how he doesn’t give himself whiplash. Of course, there’s a very fresh memory in what he’d said, and it’s one I’m not unaffected by. Kit was the picture of hedonism less than two hours ago. Damp, toned back adhered to the passenger door’s gaudy paint. Shirtless, shorts trapping his knees together. He’d committed yesterday’s lesson to heart, snaking his tongue around my cock as though he were operating on a lifetime’s experience.
The first time, he was tormented by embarrassment. Now, he makes it a priority to find my eyes. To make certain I’m watching. I can’t say if it’s a proclivity he’s always had or one he’s recently discovered, but the concept of an audience electrifies him. With the dull roar of oncoming traffic descending around the bend, grinding on the opposite side of the Performante, Kit would flinch and shudder. He’d pinch off the head of his cock to try and keep from ejaculating prematurely, back twisting against the car’s door. With his head tipped back, the detail in his face was worth remembering: pink in the plateaus, mouth wide, eyes unfocused and heavy with desire.
Painted in cum, there’s never been a prettier picture.
Debaucherous. Breathtaking, and it frothed a violent appetite in me. His body’s as sensitive as his temperament, and to become so excited over the mere idea of being seen, it was a matter of extreme effort to keep from escalating our roadside tryst. Should I fix him to the Performante’s hood like a gilded ornament, chest searing against the superheated polymer, I can imagine all the ways he’d shatter with each passing motorist. He’d be so deeply ashamed of himself. Perhaps he’d cry, yell, or plead with me not to take it that far.
But, his body wouldn’t mind any of it. Pinned in place, my cock bruising the back of his navel, he’d be helpless against riptides of pleasure at the screech of brakes, the grumble of an engine, the swoosh of something large and fast barreling by. Perhaps there’d even be an orgasm per witness, and I’d absorb them all like his steadfast lightning rod. While I don’t doubt he’s had no prior experience with men, it’s sometimes difficult to believe.
Unfortunately, our ‘morning after’ is at its end. The Casino Square opens up between multistory monuments to the era of Bella Èpoque. Curvilinear forms chiseled from bone-white marble and granite, mortared together for the sake of those too affluent to appreciate it. Weeping palms, water arching dramatically from a fountain, and a roundabout that winds in front of Kit’s destination. There’s only the tedium of work once he departs.
“Oh, shit!” He squawks, attempting to make himself smaller in the seat. “Can you, uh, let me off around the corner, actually?”
Under one of the pavilions, a number of Kit’s companions are standing. One of them, his dearest Henry. Another is Charles Jonathan Kaiser, the aforementioned ‘fuckbuddy’ who’d planned and paid for this venture. It isn’t clear if they’ve been waiting for his arrival or had stepped out for unrelated reasons, but he’s not divulged a single truth regarding his lateness or whereabouts. Appearing in a car as conspicuous as this, with a man none of them have met, will prove challenging to explain. Which is why I ease the Performante to a rumbling stop in front of said pavilion, feigning ignorance.
“This is where you’re expected, is it not?”
Kit isn’t fooled, snapping through his teeth, “you asshole. See if I ever blow you again.”
“Shall I get the door for–?”
“No! God, no.” He unsnaps the belt, pushes the door ajar, and seems as if he’s about to throw himself at the curb without another thought or backwards glance. Though, before he goes, he traces reverent fingertips across the swooped script centering the dashboard. One of Lamborghini’s many, many logotypes printed, engraved, and stitched all over the car, as if it could be mistaken for anything but.
“It’s been fun, baby.”
I’m expecting that to be his final farewell, parting words withheld from me out of pettiness. He continues to astound, however: “Ah, good…luck?”
With the murder of Herr Bauer, he means.
Of everything, it very nearly earns a full laugh. He joins the trio waiting under the canopy without looking back, and I endeavor to do the same, avoiding the rearview mirror as the car tugs away from the curb. Doing so when he hadn’t would only add to his side of the scale. The Performante was a prop to invoke a reaction from him, and I’d say it pulled thrice its weight. Kit likes cars. Kit likes many things, more than he dislikes. He’s very transparent on social media, active enough to build a decent profile.
Kit Carrington. ‘Kit’ isn’t the shortened version of a longer forename, and he was given no middle name. Twenty-seven. Resides in Bend, Oregon as of five years ago, born and raised in Iowa. College educated, though coming out with certifications in lieu of a degree. He works in the fitness industry as both a trainer and nutritionist. Technically freelance, he outsources his service to several facilities in his city, as well as providing regimens and recipes to those online clients that can’t or won’t attend a gym. Reviews assert he’s good at his job. His body asserts the same, and he’s shameless in posting it.
It’s the product he’s selling, after all.
In twelve years worth of posts, he’s never shared the name or face of any romantic partners. Only friends, usually large groups. He goes out frequently, and alcohol is present more often than not. Social events, but outdoor excursions as well: climbing, camping, hiking, surfing. The only exception to his mastery of the natural Earth is anything that requires being more than a mile from land. There are no pictures of him on a boat without the shoreline or a dock clear and present in the background, and even then, he looks uncomfortable.