Page 9 of Wood

My brain keeps reviewing the day. I get mixed messages from him, and it’s confusing. One minute I think he is going to kiss me, the next he’s pulling away as if I am poison. Mac said the pros fuck with your mind, but he has no idea.

And what do I want? Do I want him to kiss me, to touch me? My cock twitches, and I know the answer. Yeah, I want that. I’ve never really gone there with a guy other than playing chicken in high school. That doesn’t count though, and I was the one to back away first. I wouldn’t back away from Ben’s. His lips are thin, strong… firm.

I’ve seen the twinks with daddies at the bar. Is that what I want? I am no twink, though, not at six-feet and two-hundred pounds of muscle I work for. Although Ben is definitely Daddy material. I’ve enjoyed enough women to know I like pussy. Wet and warm, sucking my cock deep inside them, drenching me with their juice. But I also know it isn’t black and white, pussy only. Ben makes my cock ache. And I have never found a real connection with women. We had fun, but it never went beyond a few rounds in bed before one of us moved on. I have never found one I wanted to keep.

I don’t mind men’s hands touching my ass at the bar, my shoulders. That’s oddly respectful, appreciative, not gross. There’s a huge difference between that and Gordy’s slimy gropes.

Ben is not Gordon, and I’ve felt a tiny jolt when our hands have touched in passing, when Ben has patted my shoulder with affection. I also know I am fucking helpless when he tells me to do something. Physically impossible to disobey. And his praise? Oh, fuck, yes, please, I’d almost do anything to hear that, to earn that. I hear myself whimper.

Now my cock is rock hard, pre-cum making my boxers damp. I yank them off and spit in my palm, wrapping my hand around my shaft. I pull a pillow over my face to muffle the moans.

Ben’s arms are muscular steel from so many years playing. Strong. What would they feel like wrapped around me? Pulling me up against that body that is still rockin’ hard. It’d be so different from women, no soft boobs or plush ass. He looks like he packs a six-pack, lean and hard. He is even a bit taller than me. I’d have to tilt my face up to meet his kiss. Would his mouth feel different than a woman’s? His lips are thinner, strong. They would control the kiss, force my mouth to open, let his tongue in to have its way. Fuck, I’m so turned on now.

His hands are softer than I expected, though, those custom gloves protecting his palms. He must use gloves in the weight room as well. My big, calloused palms want to explore his hard body. I want his fingers on my dick, tugging me, his cock against mine. God, I want to feel his cock, feel it against me. Hot and hard next to mine, against my belly… fuck, against my ass. I want to taste it, feel him on my tongue, the hot head of his cock against my lips.

Would he want to fuck me, too? Ah damn, just the thought of him inside me has me blowing, yelling into the pillow as I cum. I lay there for a bit, boneless.

My t-shirt is now covered in my cum, so I strip it off. My hand is streaked as well. I wipe it on my t-shirt, but it’s going to be sticky if I don’t rinse it off at least. Not that I haven’t slept with sticky hands before. I didn’t pack the baby wipes, I realize. Mental note for any chance for a quick stop. Lube too, if tonight is any gauge of the way the week will go. Jerking off to thoughts of my boss fucking me.

Carefully turning the knob to our shared bathroom, I ease the door open, not bothering with turning on a light. The bathroom has a frosted window, and it’s letting in enough for me to see the sink. I flip the faucet on, unwrapping the little soap and washing the jizz from my hand.

As I turn to find a towel, the door on Ben’s side opens and the light blazes on. I am frozen in place, so very aware that I am naked and Ben is right there. I should have put my boxers back on. I shouldn’t have jerked off in the first place. I should just get the hell out of there and let Ben use the damned toilet. But I can’t fucking move.

7

BEN

My god, he is so beautiful. Sculpted perfection. Dark hair mussed, so he looks so fucking young. His shoulders are caught mid-ripple as he reaches for a towel to dry his dripping hands, his lats flaring. The red, broken heart tat on his shoulder gleams. His ass is flexed with his single step towards the pile of towels, thigh and calf clenched. Pale chest and legs, tanned arms. A little soft. He isn’t a pro athlete, but the potential is there. Artists would weep to see this beauty before them.

I should back out, let him finish in privacy. I’m frozen.

His cock was hanging low when I opened the door, but rises as I watch, unable to look away, long, pre-cum now beading at the tip. He swallows but doesn’t move to hide it. My own cock is tenting my boxer-briefs and I don’t try to hide it, either. I was going to jerk off in the shower, rinse off the travel funk before going to bed. Now I’m rock solid.

“Ben?” he whispers.

Dammit, what am I doing?

I back out as fast as I can, closing the door and leaning on it, breath heaving.

Sleep doesn’t come for hours, my mind mocking me with the image of those gorgeous blue eyes locked onto mine, imagining his stunning body wrapped around mine.

I’m in so much trouble.

8

GEOFF

Stepping onto the high, elevated first tee box, the morning sun is low in the east, barely over the horizon. It casts long shadows across the rolling terrain, making the fairways and bunkers look deeper. The fog is still hanging low, making the chilly morning air wet and heavy. We are alone on this first tee, Ben having booked the first slot. Thank fuck for the breakfast buffet. I’ve at least inhaled some juice and a muffin before slipping on my official caddie bib, VANCE emblazoned on my back. I won’t try to name the emotion that came over me as I slid it on. His. Like, I belong to him. I actually shivered.

I had studied this course on my phone, but being here is a mindfuck. The Millford clubhouse is behind us, that iconic flag flapping from the southwest breeze. Getting my head onto this course, onto this tee, I study the hole and the pages in the course yardbook that Ben handed me earlier. Wet air, the ball won’t fly as far. If the morning dew is still on the grass, the ball might grab and stop rolling, but if the wind has already dried it out, any shot hitting the false fronts will roll twenty-five yards off the back. Will Ben want to go for it, try for over three-hundred yards or take the safer route?

“Thoughts?” he asks me in a low voice that won’t carry.

Clearing my throat, I summarize quietly, “Thick, wet morning rough and a fairway pinched by the bunkers… pass on the driver? Aim for the left side, maybe a three-wood or a driving iron to get a clean lie on the short grass? You could go for it, over three-hundred but if it’s not as wet as I think, it’ll go over. Birdie or par?”

He beams and pats my shoulder softly. His hand is warm, and I try not to shiver. I fail. Did he notice? I hope not. “You’ve been studying. Well done. Yeah, let’s try them both and see how it plays, see if we can get a birdie. If it’s not good, we’ll use the three-wood Thursday.”

A ripple of pleasure from the praise slides over me, and I can feel my face flush. Another player approaches the tee behind us, and we both tense up, game faces sliding into place. I step back, pulling both clubs as Ben does some mild stretches before he reaches out a gloved hand. I extend the driver, and he takes it without looking at me, his corded forearm flexing as his hand closes around the club. Swallowing, I step back fully and to the side where I can watch the ball’s path. As he bends down to adjust the tee, I have to force my eyes away from the curve of his ass. Jeez, Geoff, get ahold of your libido, I chide myself. This is a job. Stop chubbing up after the boss.