Side Bets: Chapter One
mm, ds, bd, hm
Set Up: "The Perils of Hubris"
My great passion in life is miniature war-games. Maybe you've seen them, maybe you haven't: in the back of comic shops or in specialty stores, the men and teens pushing little pewter and plastic figures over a big board with terrain. They collect the figures, assemble them, paint them, and take them to battle. Sort of like model trains or airplanes but with dice. I played in high-school and then in college. When I graduated, I took my modest savings and opened a game store. It would never make me rich, but it helped pay my bills as I did my night-school MBA. With my experience and my native intelligence, I became a pretty good player, active on the national tournament circuit for the sci-fi game Burning Planets. Yes, they have a national tournament circuit.
It's a very male hobby, dominated by men in their twenties or thirties, old enough to afford the trips to various cities, but before marriage and children force them to give up their toys. Being so male, there's a heavy dose of smack-talk, testosterone, and pointless aggression.
That's how my life took a very different turn, and I came to look on my fellow gamers from a much hungrier point of view.
I'd put my army case of beloved Space Crusaders and their Punisher tanks along with a display board, rules books, dice and templates into the trunk. My suitcase was ready to go. All that was left before I drove to the tournament in Philly was to check my message boards. I passed my workbench of resin molds -- counterfeiting Games MegaShop figures made me a tidy sum -- and sat down at my work computer. My Ebay auctions of painted figs were doing well -- the trick was not to put too much effort into them. A little dry-brush, a little inking -- sell them as "pro-painted." Somebody too lazy to paint their own would always snap them up, even if they looked like ass.
Then I logged onto the web forums. First the ones for my store, answering queries about sales and local events, then looking at my own forums and deleting any spam posts or people complaining about service. I checked the Games MegaShop pages; they were running the tourney this weekend. I wanted to see if they had any last minute announcements.
They didn't.
I got myself some beers and sat down to serious business -- talking smack on the internet. I loaded up the Imperator's Praetorians page. They were a group a bit north of me on the East Coast -- Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York, New Hampshire. I ran into them at a lot of tourneys but lived too far away for me to join. We had a kind of rivalry going.
I didn't know at the time quite how seriously they took it. Or the forum.
The latest army book was for the Red Knights, and the Praetorians were all hot about it. The game setting was a sort of dystopian future, where the Imperator's armies defended humanity against daemons, aliens and monsters. His brainwashed followers worshiped him as a god, which I guess was fair enough, since the dude was a ten-thousand years old genetically-engineered immortal. The Red Knights were an elite force even more elite than the usual elite, the regular Milites Imperatoris, the Space Crusaders. (Did I mention this was a very silly game?) There were all kinds of rules-breaking, crazy things you could do with the Red Knights
Me, I liked a balance between awesome and numerous and preferred the Space Crusaders. That's why, after a beer, the following post really burned me up:
RobotWulf (10:27 EST): With this new book, the Crusaders are dead. The Red Knights are just so much better, they are broken. No Space Crusader army will win a tournament till GM rewrites their rules. Sorry, SC players, but you LOOSE! The whole club is bringing RKs, and we're gonna prove that they BEAT everything!
I knew RobotWulf. His real name was Larry, an ex-army type who got way too excited about whatever he was playing.
I swigged my beer, logged on, and posted a reply:
SCrusader (11:21): BS! The SC are just as good as they ever were. Lots cheaper than RKs, too. 16 pts to 25! RKs suck. I `m bringing SCs, and they will FUCK YOU UP. You'd better hope we don't meet. My SCs will win the tourney. Your WHOLE CLUB (or should I say HOLE club!!!) can BOW DOWN and SUCK MY COCK! Better yet, you can bend over, and take it in the ASS, BITCHES!
I hit submit, then logged off and went to bed, thinking no more of it. That was just how I talked when I was online.
The next day I drove the hours to Philly. I pulled into my Holiday Inn just after dark. I was too cheap to spring for the Hilton where they actually held the conference. It was Thursday night and the tourney started the next morning at 11:00. I checked in, dropped off my stuff, and went off to Waffle House for a late dinner.
I wandered into the convention center early. There were Napoleonic games, WWII games, Fantasy Games (Games MegaShop made a game called Burning Elves -- I didn't like it as much; maybe it was all the Star Wars growing up), medieval Games, ancient Games, anime Games, etc. The Burning Planets tourney occupied a small part of the overall floor.
I turned in my army list to the coordinator, a guy named Bryce who headed Games MegaShop US for his corporate masters back in the UK. I looked at my watch. 9:00. Plenty of time to kill before game one.
I headed downstairs, to the dealer room. I used to sell here, but my new little counterfeit operation had put me into the black, and I no longer went after such small sales. I'd rather play.
As I was wandering the aisles, that's when I ran into the Emperor's Praetorians. It surprised me to see them all together -- even though I knew they carpooled and rented a suite for the con in which to hang. At this point in the day, most people would be off doing their own thing. It was like they were looking for something.
As it turned out, me.
Larry strode up, leading the group. I didn't see his kid Andrew around. I'd had to hear enough on the message boards about how proud his father had been when Andrew got into SUNY Nowheresville. Maybe now that Andrew had finally grown up and gone off to college, he wasn't attending cons with his old man. God knows, I knew I wouldn't voluntarily hang out with Larry. The ex-soldier wore khaki shorts and a grey tee that had a big red RK on it, with a background picture of the Knights killing aliens. It showed off his aging man-muscles, as if there were any chicks around to care about him or his "I'm so cool" salt and pepper pony-tail. Behind him strode Paul, Erik, Chris, Greg, Matt, Don, Tim and some of the other usual suspects. (I only bothered to learn the names of people who were genuine competition.) I waved to Paul. Of all of them, only he and I gamed together regularly, and I considered him a buddy.
"We want to talk to you," said Larry.
"Uh, okay," I said. "What's up?"
"We're tired of you talking smack about us on the forum," Larry declared.
"Is this about the damn pansy Red Knights? Get a life, Larry; it's a free country."
"Some things just aren't funny" he said.
"What's all this about?"
"I .. do ... not .. suck ... cock," he said slowly.
"Could have fooled me," I said. "Who else's whole club plays the Red Knights in a tournament?"
"I don't care what you play," Larry hissed. "But some things are not okay. You don't talk smack about us on our own boards."
"Suck my dick!" I declared, grabbing my nuts through my pants and pulling emphatically.
Larry's forehead veins almost popped. His whole head turned red. I thought he might punch me. (As if!) Chris and Tim had to hold him back. The whole club exchanged looks and nodded.
"I think we should talk somewhere more private," said Tim. He held up a figurine of a Red Knight, but it wasn't one from Games Megashop. It was one of my counterfeits.
I swallowed hard. Games Megashop had some real Nazis for IP lawyers. If they traced a counterfeit resin back to me, I'd be in deep trouble. They'd sued game shops into bankruptcy for a lot less. "I'm listening," I said.
"How `bout over there?" Tim pointed towards the far end of the vendor space where there were no booths.
I led the way, eager to get this over with. We found a corner, partially concealed by accordion-fold walls.
Tim said, "I think we agree that it'd be really bad if I took this over to the Games Megashop booth and showed it to Bryce.
"Why?" I asked. "Nothing to do with me."
Tim said, "I bought it from you online. My name was GunDragon. You were hard to track, through your phony IDs, but I did."
"Not possible," I said. "I don't do counterfeit." My heart sank though. I remembered the name GunDragon.
Larry snatched the miniature from Tim's hand. "Cut the BS. We know you do. Probably Games MegaShop does too. They just can't prove it. We can."
Tim handed me the envelope. I opened it. Even a quick perusal of the contents made me realize how thorough his work had been. If GM ever got a hold of this packet -- I was through. The liabilities would bankrupt me.
I handed it back.
"What hell do you want, Larry?" I asked.
Larry said, "You've impugned the honor of club. You called us all fags."
"That was just a joke." I said.
"None of us found it funny," said Larry. Most of his club followers nodded solemnly. A few of them, like Paul, rolled their eyes behind his back. "It's time for you to back up your talk -- or pay."
"What... in... the shit... are you talking about?" I asked.
Larry said, "We've come to an agreement among ourselves. You think you can beat us all? You think we're your bitches? Prove it!"
"I intend to," I said.
Tim interjected. "Here's the plan. A little side wager. Say yes, and we dump the mini and all the receipts that proved you sold it to me. They were hard to get, but for a true winner, we'd do that."
I felt a little surge of hope. Maybe my livelihood wasn't doomed after all. "What's the bet?" I asked.
"You said we should suck your cock. You said we'd take it up the ass. Well, now you're gonna take it." Larry waved the figurine at me like some kind of pagan idol of wrath.
Tim said, "What Larry means is -- you made a statement. Now you gotta back it up. If you can beat our Red Knights with your Space Crusaders, then you've proved yourself. But it you can't, you should do unto us like you think we should do unto you."
"What do you mean?" I asked. I already thought I knew, though.
"If you fight us -- any one of us -- in this tourney, you have to beat us. If you don't, then that winner gets to fuck your ass or mouth or both. Before the next game."
I looked them from eye to eye. They glared back at me. Some, like Larry, were really mad, I could tell. Some, like Paul, seemed merely amused. "You can't be serious," I said.
"Smack talk has consequences," said Larry. "You can't diss the Praetorians like that and get away with it."
"Forget it!" I said.
Tim looked at Larry. He held out a large manila envelope. "Take this to Bryce, will you?"
Larry nodded.
"Wait!" I said. "Wait."
Larry paused.
The Praetorians had closed around me, an eager circle, gathering for the kill. I felt my heart beating in my chest and (perversely) my cock hardening in my pants. What did I have to do? Beat them all? I'd already vowed to do that! Didn't I believe in myself?
"Okay," I said. "You're on, bitches."
Tim grinned. "There's one more thing. You didn't just say you'd beat us. You said you'd win the tournament too."
"You said you'd beat us all," Larry steamed.
Tim continued. "If you don't make it into the top ten for the tourney -- if your army well and truly sucks -- then you owe us all. We're having an after party. If you don't break the top ten, we get to use you anyway you want. Ass, mouth, tongue, hands. From 10:00 till 3:00 am. Naturally, if you want more than that, we'd give it to you."
"That's fucking sick," I said. "I thought you just called me a faggot."
Tim nodded at Larry. "Take it to Bryce, then."
Larry began to walk.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I looked the Praetorians up and down. Somehow, I began to see them not as opponents but as a collection of curves and bodies. I thought of them all fucking me. I thought of losing my income while I had student loans to pay.
"Okay, okay!" I said. "Sure. If I don't make top ten, you can all fuck me."
"And anyone we invite," said Larry.
"Yeah, and anyone you invite. Sure, whatever! Because it is not going to happen! My Crusaders will kick the lot of you!"
"Fine," said Tim.
"Bet's on, bitch" said Larry.
The Praetorians strode off.
"Use you later," Tim said. Several of the others snickered.
I leaned against the wall. Could I do this? Could I beat all the Praetorians and preserve my dignity? My ass-cherry? Hell, my mouth cherry? I'd never sucked a guy, either.
Fuck, yeah! I considered what a lot of losers they all were. Of course, I could. Stupid Red Knights!
This is not a problem, I told myself.
Friday: The First Round: "My Buddy"
I spent some time wandering around the dealers' room in a daze. The Praetorians had turned my whole life around, threatened my livelihood ... and awoken something in me. I imagined cocks fucking my ass, my mouth. My heart beat in a terrified thump. I found I was hard, and wouldn't go down.
Shit, what had I gotten myself into?
It was around 10:45. I knew I should be getting back to the tournament area. Bryce or his minions would be announcing the first pairings. I let my feet lead me on autopilot back upstairs, to the GamesMegaShop area where someone had erected a life-sized statue of a Space Crusader in full wargear. About sixty contestants had gathered around the judge's table. Many carried their armies on their trays or in cases. Others, like me, had them stashed nearby.
Bryce stood up on a chair -- he was about 40, a bit overweight, and wearing the red and yellow official GM polo with a little logo over where a pocket would be -- if they weren't too cheap to put a pocket on it.
He read out the first pairings. Only the first round of the tourney was truly random. After that, a bracket took over, winners fought winners and losers fought losers, based on the number of points people had accumulated in previous rounds. For the first round, though, nobody had won any points yet. You could pull the best player in the tourney. You could pull a total noob.
Bryce read out the names, giving each pair a table. The tables had preconfigured terrain -- one was a city-fight, one was an alien spaceship, another was an agricultural paradise. Some people attended tourneys just to see the professionally-made scenery. A well-decorated board was privilege to play on.
"Ben Marner and Paul McDonnell on table 18," said Bryce.
I felt cautiously optimistic. On the one hand, Paul was newer to the game than me. I was pretty sure I could beat him. We'd been friends since high school before he'd moved up north and joined the Praetorians. I bet he felt just as weird about Larry's sexual fetish as I did. Even if I lost, I could probably convince him to leave my mouth and ass alone. On the other hand, Paul was a Praetorian now. If I lost, by the terms of my bet, I'd owe him a sexual forfeit.
Paul sauntered up to the table with his army in a case over one shoulder. About my age, he stood just a little taller, with light brown hair, pale, almost white skin and green eyes. He had a strong chin, and a straight, prominent nose. He wore a plaid shirt over a white Games Megashop tee. Sneakers peaked beneath long chocolate brown corduroy slacks.
We shook hands.
"What the hell is up with Larry?" I asked.
"Just don't even start," Paul said. "I tried to stand up for you, you know. But you went too damn far."
"Let's try to forget about it and just play," I suggested.
Paul said, "Yeah, man. This political stuff is too much."
Inwardly, I felt relief. It sounded to me like Paul wasn't so into Larry's sexual revenge thing. I began to relax.
Still, as Paul began to lay his army out on the side board, I found myself looking at him ... differently. Things guys don't normally pay attention to in each other. Like, when he reached for his models and his flannel overshirt opened, I found my eye tracing the curve of his pectorals and belly. His tee clung more tightly to him than I remembered, and he had better definition. When he bent down to pull some tanks from a tray, his thighs stretched the fabric of his pants. Did he work out, I wondered? He stood, and I found myself wondering at the size of his package -- the pants were perhaps too baggy to tell, but I could see a bit of a bulge and the flash of a zipper.
I shook my head.
This was way fucked-up. I couldn't let Larry's stupid threats get to me this way. They wouldn't go through with it anyway. I mean, I was a guy. Were they all faggots? I knew most of them had wives or girlfriends -- so that couldn't be true. No, this was all some sick joke. I was sure.
We rolled off to see who would attack and who would defend. Looking at the terrain and our two armies, I hoped I would defend. My Space Crusaders were a "shootier" army, whose advantage lay in destroying forces as they closed.
We rolled. Paul took up one of his red translucent dice in his hand. I don't think I'd ever paid much attention to his hands, but I noticed now that they were big and smooth, with neatly trimmed nails. What the hell was wrong with me?
I picked up one of my black and white Crusader dice.
We rolled.
I got a "4." When Paul's die hit the table a second later, it was a "2." Shit, that meant he was defending. Well, never mind. My army could attack too.
Paul got to pick the table side. He hesitated and then deployed his strong infantry forces on the hill and situated his tanks for good line of sight over the battlefield.
When he was done, I had to consider how to attack. I decided my Punisher tanks would roll up the center and press the ruins from a distance. My infantry on either side would close on the objectives. In this scenario, Paul might remove either of them, but I could still go for the center one.
At first, things went well. Paul couldn't shoot at my infantry because of the heavy cover. And my tanks in the center were largely invulnerable to the anti-personnel weapons his troops in the building carried. Still, in this scenario, timing was everything.
Around turn five, my infantry were each in assault range of the objectives. I didn't just have to get there, though. I had to drive his forces off them.
That's where things went south.
I charged my infantry into combat, carefully measuring the distances. We rolled dice. And I lost, more heavily on the right flank than the left. The Red Knights were beasts in close combat. Damn, I'd known that, but still! I picked up two whole squads of Crusaders from the left and put them back on my carrying tray.
Turn six began. Paul smirked looked at the table. "Time to pull an objective. Which one though?" he said. He appeared to hesitate. He knew he was only joking with me. I had too few models on the right but had a chance on the left. He picked up the left objective and removed it. Now I would have to take the center, since both left and right flanks were impossible.
I had one chance, as I saw it. I could run my tanks in the center forward, across the field. He had little that could shoot them. But if I rolled badly, my tanks could be destroyed by the difficult terrain and Paul's infantry.
I caught Paul looking at the table. We had played many games, and we both knew the odds in this situation. If he was sweating it, he didn't look like it. Me, I was a bit nervous. I knew my ass was on the line -- literally, if I had misjudged the situation. I noticed the way Paul's crotch was just about level with the table. His corduroys loomed over the battlefield.
I moved in the tanks, and we rolled. I had truly awful luck. Two tanks rolled "1s", getting hung up on the rubble. Paul's Red Knight Captain killed a third with a Zap Grenade. Then I rolled for morale. A "2." I'd needed a "3." My little plastic tank drivers thought the better of it. I had to disengage.
The rest of the game was pro forma. My infantry tried and got shot up. Paul pulled the second objective. Then my tanks charged again, and failed again. With only three left, it was small wonder.
He had won.
Shit!
We filled out the results cards.
"I'll take those to Bryce," Paul said. "Wait here." I watched him stride off.
Now what? I wondered, Was this for real or not?
Paul hurried back, grinning. I had all my figs stored on the tray by then. Paul said, "Well, you know the bet."
"You can't be serious," I said.
Paul said, "If we don't go somewhere private, Larry and the others will be suspicious."
"He's that mad? It was just smack talk on a bulletin board."
Paul gestured towards a far part of the convention floor, where the hallway led to meeting rooms. "I don't think you know what a fucking repressed homophobe the dude really is. You do not want to make gay jokes about Larry."
I grunted. "Some people might say his attitude is very revealing."
Paul said, "Larry is one vengeful dude." We came to a room. He pushed open the door and turned on the light. "In here," he said.
I followed him. The room was set up for a lecture. Maybe some minor gaming celeb would be speaking later. Rows of plastic chairs faced away from the door. The far end of the room had a folding table with four chairs for speakers. A jug of ice water lay on the corner.
Paul sat on the table edge.
I said, "So this is a joke, right?"
"Not to Larry," Paul said. "Not to some of the others he's convinced."
I pulled up a chair and sat on it, looking up at him. "Yeah," I said. "But Larry's not here. If we sit here a while, you can tell him I blew you or you fucked me or whatever will shut him up. We don't actually have to do it. I mean, you're not gay, and neither am I."
Paul said, "If Larry found out, he'd fucking pummel me."
"So he won't find out. I won't lose any more games, and we'll all be fine, right?"
I met his green eyes. He stared back.
"So, I don't have to do this, right?" I pressed. "Right?"
Paul's brows furrowed, like he was considering. Something different came into his expression. "No, Ben, I think you really do." He stared at me. "I want a blowjob."
I stood up, knocking the chair over. "No fucking way!"
Paul said, "We all know about your side business. We all have copies of the documents. If you fail to satisfy any of us, any one of us can ruin you."
"But we're buddies!" I said.
"I don't think putting up with your arrogant shit makes us friends, Ben. What did you used to call me, when we were learning how to play in college? Your gaming bitch?' I have to go kill the gaming bitch tonight.' `The gaming bitch always loses.' You said that to my girlfriend in the fucking dorm lounge. And she left me! Well, now I want a blowjob."
I stared at him. He was serious!
"Kneel!" he commanded.
Numbed, stunned, I knelt. The orange rug was not particularly comfortable. I found myself looking up at Paul's corduroy-covered crotch. He rested half on the table, half on the balls of his feet. He shuffled his ass on the table and spread his legs.
"Paul," I begged. "Please no."
"Do it," he said. His hand went to his package. His fingertips grazed slowly upwards. The zipper gleamed. His hands rested on his belt. "Get over here and get started."
Reluctantly, I did as he said, shuffling forward on my knees till I was so close to him that his thighs rested on either side of my face. His crotch hovered less than two feet from my eyes. This close, I could see the outlines of his package. That swell against the table: it was his balls. And that lump to one side of the zipper. That was the head of his cock. Could I see a tiny drop of moisture through the fabric? Fuck. I could feel the heat from him, even smell him slightly.
Paul shifted again, thrusting himself forward. I took that as a cue to reach up to his belt. My hands shook as I began to unbuckle him.
I considered the alternatives. Was being sued all that bad? What would happen? Would I go to prison?
Then I might just be doing this again, only for someone with a lot worse hygiene.
As I pulled his belt out, my fingers brushed the soft cloth of his pants. Corduroy is slightly fuzzy, like a teddy bear. Maybe it was that old story that made me think so, but there was something non-threatening, even desirable, about it. Nothing that lay under corduroy could be that bad, not even another man's cock and balls.
I felt myself harden in my pants.
I pulled Paul's belt open. I considered leaving it like that. I didn't want to strip him, just do my business and go. Right? But I thought of the buckle slapping me in the face, and that sounded inconvenient and painful. I pulled the belt with one hand. In order to slide it all the way around his body, I braced my right hand on his knee. I felt his patella flex under my palm. My own cock throbbed again.
What was wrong with me?
I cast the belt aside. Paul's crotch hung before me. His pants had one of those long tabs with a button in it. I fumbled with the button. His labored breathing pressed it forward. Once I had it loose, I saw that there was a second, interior button. It proved even harder for my shaking fingers. As I worked at it, my fingers slid beneath his waistband. They felt the elastic and silk of his boxers and the hard flesh beneath. When the second button had come loose, I faced the brass zipper. The tension on his basket had already pulled it part way loose. I took hold of the metal and slid it down.
Paul moaned as I released the tension on his cock. The shaft pressed forward insistently against his blue boxers. As I worked the zipper down, his cock-head slipped out of his boxers' fly. It seemed so pale, and a drop of precum lingered on the slit. I was about to pull it all the way out, when Paul hopped off the table.
His corduroy pants fell to his knees, and he shoved his boxers down over his thighs. They were almost white, but flecked with freckles and light brown hair. His cock bounced and settled into place. On the long side of average and quite thick, the head was pinker and flared a thumb's width wider.
"Suck me," he ordered.
I leaned in and tentatively thrust out my tongue. Heat radiated off him. Scent too. He smelled good, too.
I licked up from below, and over his slit. The drop of precum tasted strong, pungent.
My heart thumped at a ridiculous pace.
I licked a second time. His shaft tensed and clenched, rising against my touch.
I thought I was doing pretty good, and being really pretty brave about it, considering. Paul must have thought otherwise.
"Not like that, dammit!" he said.
He grabbed my hair with his hands and pulled my head forward with a jerk. His whole cock went sliding into my mouth, coming to a rest somewhere on my tongue. I struggled, but he held me in place. I think I tried to say something, but Paul didn't much care. He held my head tightly, and began a firm, slow rhythm. His cock went out to my lips, then back inside my mouth. Thankfully, he did not try to thrust into my throat. I felt him sliding across my tongue. His cock-head brushed against my soft palette.
Paul became more aroused as he worked. His cock-head swelled.
After a few minutes of this, he paused. Keeping his cock in my mouth, he released my hair. He shrugged off his flannel shirt and pulled his tee over his head. He was pale, but better built than I had imagined. His flat stomach was covered in fine hair and freckles. His nipples were dark against his broad chest. He stretched and seized my head again. He thrust.
"Less teeth," he commanded. I tried to open farther.
Paul said, "I have been thinking. Should I cum in your mouth or on your face?"
I groaned. I felt my face flush.
"Oh?" Paul said. "Hadn't you considered that far ahead?" He clearly enjoyed my humiliation.
What had I been thinking? That'd he'd shoot politely into a towel when he'd finished?
Paul went on. "They each have their advantages. On the one hand, if I fill your mouth and you swallow, you'll always know I'll be part of you. You'll have my taste and my scent."
I groaned again. My cock was quivering now. I felt so hot and flushed, and I hated myself for it. Paul kept thrusting in and out. I felt his skin grow taut with each stroke, silky and loose over his shaft's hot, hard core.
Paul's voice broke as he went on. He seemed to have trouble speaking over his arousal. "Or, there's your face. I could -- unh -- mark you. How would like to be marked? I don't see any towels in here. You'd have to clean up somehow, though. Or everyone would know. Not that they won't know anyway. Unh. Maybe you'd miss a spot. It would be just like. Unh. That movie. Something about Mary."
I felt his cock-head swell. He gave a harder thrust, and I knew he was nearing the edge.
He said, "Maybe I'll give you the choice, huh? Which one do you want?" His thrusts became insistent. He pushed in with his whole body, and I could feel his ass-cheeks flexing.
Me? I was so gone, I could barely think. But I knew I didn't want his cum on my face. I didn't want to walk around that way.
"Mmmth," I said between thrusts. "Mmmth. MMMMTH!"
Paul looked down at me. He grinned evilly. "Mouth, huh? You want it in the mouth?"
"Ythh," I moaned. "Ytth, mmmth!"
He said, "Do you promise to swallow?"
Shit, I thought. How much would he draw this out?
I felt his insistent strokes beating at my tongue. "Ytth, yh prmmth! Smmmlw!"
He said, "Good? Uh? You promise to swallow if I cum in your mouth."
"Mmmm! Yttth!"
"Face it is, then!" He declared. He yanked his cock out of my mouth, aimed it at me, and jerked twice.
Cum jetted from his cock-head and landed in hot, hard splats against my hair and cheeks. I flinched and closed my eyes. My face was so hot, it actually felt cool wherever the cum ran. When I was sure he had finished, I opened my eyes again. He pulled out of my mouth and slapped my face a few times with his dick.
He ran his hand roughly over my face, scraping up his semen. He his fingers into my open mouth. I licked at them. He seemed surprised, but only for a moment. He jammed my mouth shut and clamped my nose.
"Swallow," he commanded.
I did.
"There," he said. "I think that's the best of two options." He looked down at me. "Maybe next time we play, we can do this again. "
I sat back. I watched him as he pulled his tee back over his head. He threw his flannel over his shoulder and hefted up his army case. I was only half aware that I was stroking myself with my hand between my spread knees.
Paul looked at his watch, then at me.
"No time to beat off, now, bottom-boy. Next round starts in five minutes."
He strode out of the room.
That shocked me back to myself. I pulled up my shirt and hurriedly wiped my face. Then I grabbed my case and ran after him.
Tournament Games 3