Page 3 of Stroke Rate

“Mmmm,” Chris moaned. Tongue still in Bran’s ass, as he rutted into the sheets until he found his own release.

Bran pushed up onto his elbows. Looking down at Chris, still panting, eyes glazed, lifting a hand like he wanted to touch him, maybe brush his hair off his face. Chris shook his head, a gentle “no” whispered from his lips. Bran nodded and waited, taking a few deep breaths in and out.

“I’m going to shower,” he whispered, his eyes full of affection.

He left Chris there to stew and settle. Bran knew him well, knew he needed space after sex. He lay there with an empty brain, better yet empty balls, until Bran called him to shower.

Chapter two

Chris

Chris and Bran entered the bar to find it deserted and quiet, and met Jackson, who had just begun his shift. He sported his customary cut-off graphic tee—this one said, ‘Don't yell at me, or I’ll cum’.

“Love your shirt, man.” Chris laughed as he shook Jackson’s hand.

“Yeah, you like it? I make them,” he shared as he made finger guns at Bran and Chris. “I could make you guys some?” Jackson resembled an overeager puppy, bouncing a bit with expansive green eyes that had a soft, searching edge to them—like he was always looking for some kind of validation.

Chris snickered, and Bran’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Um, yeah, maybe, man,” he said, shrugging, not sure what else to say. The shirts weren’t Chris’ thing, and if Bran’s face was any indication, he did not want one, but Jackson was so sincere he didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

An attractive man with a slight build, Jackson's effervescent personality made him the perfect bartender. With a vibrant energy and a voice that seemed to emanate from his very core, he was constantly bouncing on his toes, captivating those around him. A multitude of tattoos decorated his light sepia skin. He had two sleeves bursting with a colorful kaleidoscope of clouds in every hue billowing around his arms, swirling with patterns of wind that mimicked a tornado, a radiant sun, and falling raindrops. Jackson kept his head shaved tight to his scalp and dyed it in various bright colors. He had a face dotted with piercings that some might have found off-putting, but they seemed to accentuate all of his features so well Chris couldn't imagine him without them.

Jackson’s throaty voice rumbled through the bar. “What were you guys having?”

“Dude, are you sure Barry White isn't your dad?” Chris snickered. Jackson looked at him, puzzled; the ring on his brow flexed as he chewed on his lip piercing.

His face contorted in shock, as though Chris' question had physically struck him. "No. My dad was Cash Baker. Who is Barry White? Why would he be my dad?"

“Oh man, I was kidding. You know Barry White, the singer? He has a really deep voice? You know what, never mind. I’ll take a Dr. Pepper, and Bran will take a bourbon neat.” Chris tapped the bar top, pivoting to face Bran.

“So, what happened today? Your text was vague, but you clearly needed a distraction,” Bran said, wiggling his eyebrows. “I love being that distraction, but I’m always willing to listen if you want to talk things through. We don’t always have to play. Ya know?”

“I know Bran, and thanks. It was just the usual bullshit with my coach.” Chris hunched his shoulders a little, unease settling in him as he shared parts of his outside life. As Bran listened to Chris complain, his eyes reflected both sorrow and understanding as he reached out a hand, squeezing Chris' thigh. Chris’ muscles went rigid at the touch, and he almost tumbled off his stool. "Can you not?" He growled as a hot flush crept up his neck. He knew Bran was attempting to soothe him, but his touch—any uninvited touch—had the opposite effect. Even a simple brush of hands on him set Chris on edge, and Bran's grasp felt rough, like sandpaper scraping his skin instead of a gentle caress. With a soft, uncertain sound, Chris mumbled an apology, sensing he might have hurt Bran's feelings.

“It’s okay, Chris, I touched you and didn’t ask.” A compassionate smile played beneath his full beard.

Chris scrubbed at the spot Bran had touched, the rough fabric scraping against his palm as he tried to banish the memory of a hand on his leg. “It’s just, you know how I feel about being handled. I know you meant well. I just…”

“It’s fine, dude. So your coach yells? Why?”

“Well, today he didn’t like my tumble turns, and he kept on my ass about having to work harder. I work hard. I’m just never enough for him. He gets so aggressive with me if I don’t perform to his standard. He shouts, and I shut down. He shouts more, trying to get me to react, and I just freeze. It’s not great.”

Bran frowned, “Okay, so what are you going to do about it?”

“Well, I’m going to fire him. I guess? After that, I’ll need to find a new coach, one I gel with? I honestly don’t know. My parents usually help, but I don’t want that either.”

“You need someone who’s not an asshole.”

Chris huffed a laugh because, yeah…that would be nice. “I’m stubborn and I don’t take criticism well.”

“I mean, you're not great at talking. Maybe you need to tell him the yelling bugs you?”

“I have,” Chris replied, letting out a harsh exhale. “He didn’t listen.” Chris spoke in a low voice, ashamed that he couldn’t defend himself. He had attempted to stand up for himself, but his statements always landed flat. You're not worth listening to, his brain argued back.

Bran nodded, understanding written all over his expression. “Okay, I get it. I really do. If he hasn’t listened to you, then you just need to get rid of the man. Yeah?”

“Yeah, I know. I just hate confrontation. It makes me so nervous.”

“It will be fine.” A deep voice remarked next to them as their drinks slid across the bar top. Chris had forgotten Jackson was even there; he'd been so quiet. “I don’t know you that well, but you’ve got this, man.” He said, bouncing on his toes, nodding his head; moving around so much he almost looked like a bobble-head toy.