Dean Walsh was happy with his new life, his job, his girlfriend. Until his boss, billionaire Salomon Ellis, discovers his darkest secret. From then on, he will hold Dean hostage to his whims in exchange for his silence.
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"Why do you do it?"
I didn't mean the helping me with the wet tissues. Plain to see he was doing it only to retrieve his tie.
"Why do I do what?"
"This. To me."
He looked up to meet my eyes. I still breathed heavily, and my legs were even shakier that the night before. Sweat trickled down from my temples and underneath my clothes. My brain still struggled to emerge from the foggy swamp of raw physical sensations where he'd drowned me. I didn't know why I'd asked, if my head was in no shape to process anything. Or maybe that's why I did it.
"I do it because I can," he replied, like it was obvious. His dark eyes slid down my face to my lips. "And because I want."
"No, you don't."
He didn't hide his surprise when I contradicted him and raised his eyebrows.
"Nothing you do turns you on," I added. "Or it would show."
He released my hands and headed to the restroom. I followed him, trying not to drag my feet, my drained junk still hanging out the fly that covered my ripped-off briefs, half my butt still showing out the back waist of my jeans.
"That's it, right?" I insisted, grimacing because my legs and the small of my back were killing me. "You can't get it up and this is your kick to make up for it."
He scoffed, dropping his ruined tie by one of the basins to roll up his sleeves. I came to stand by his side, before the other basin, grunting. My shoulders were killing me too. I unbuttoned my fly and grunted again, seeing my wasted briefs.
"That's why you abuse boys half your age," I grumbled.
My words seemed to touch a sensitive string. "What? How old d'you think I am?" he asked, half-amused, half-offended.
"Forty? Fifty?" I shrugged, covering my cock with soap. "You could be my father!"
"Don't play victim, Walsh. You ain't no boy: you're a wanted felon that deceived my company with a fraudulent ID to get a job. And I'm thirty-eight."
I glanced up at him in the mirror. "Thirty-eight?" I looked back down, shaking my head. "Man, life hasn't been kind to you."
He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and turned to me, wiping his hands.
"And I'm not abusing you."
"Yeah, tell yourself that," I replied.
I faced him, so over-strained I didn't even flinch when he leaned forward until his face was inches away from mine. Like he'd said, what's new.
He flashed his trademark smug smirk. "I'm rewiring your body, teaching it things your head doesn't even register, too busy hating my guts." He stepped back to throw the paper towel into the bin. In the mirror, I saw him sink his hands in his pockets. I hadn't expected him to engage in any kind of talk with me, and I sure didn't expect to see him rest his shoulder against the doorframe and scratch his eyebrow. "D'you know why they call me Big Ellie?" His tone was completely different, casual, like we were having a normal conversation in a normal situation.
