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Authors: Walker Cole

Ruthlessly His

BOOK: Ruthlessly His

Ruthlesslessly His


© 2016 Walker Cole.


All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.




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Leo nods his head towards one of the large bathroom stalls inside of the high-end Manhattan sushi restaurant, and we go in. He starts to nibble and suck on my neck, but I’m not ready to give in just yet.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“You know exactly what I’m doing,” he says, glaring.

“You don’t get to doubt us and then get some.”

“I get whatever I want,” he says, going for my neck again. I push his body back and pin him against the stall.

“You get whatever I give to you,” I say. Leo starts to pant as he tries to push back against me, but I’m leaning into him with all of my weight. He can’t move.

“Let me kiss you,” he begs.

“Maybe I don’t want to be kissed,” I snarl. “Maybe I want you to listen to me instead.”

Leo grabs my cock through my pants and squeezes it. “You act tough but you’re just as weak as me,” he says, and licks his lips. “I want your cock in my mouth. Are you going to deny me that? Are you going to deny yourself?”




Ruthlesslessly His





* * *



I hate when I forget to masturbate. As soon as I remember that it’s been a few days, my junk starts to feel heavier, and I become very aware of my cotton boxers hugging everything. And this warm, red vinyl seat is only making matters worse right now.

The train announcer says we’re pulling into Cold Spring soon. I don’t know where we are right now. Not near any cities, that’s for sure. The vibrations of the train are not helping my junk-awareness issue.

Outside, the fields are full of horses. They look up to watch us rumble by. And I do mean rumble. Jesus, it’s like sitting on a dryer with a pair of sneakers in it. The rickety track is shaking my legs and my balls are being jiggled around.
Jiggle, jiggle. I can’t stop wishing I was riding some huge cock right now.

The last thing I need on this train is an erection but I don’t think I have a choice. If only I could stop my imagination from running wild. I’ve always liked the way my cock bounces up and down as I grind into someone—when it tenses and twitches upwards.

I open my MacBook to distract myself. I run over my next job. A family photo spread for a fashion magazine contract: take pictures of the head college football coach of the
Albany Jaguars, and his family, yada, yada…

I never much cared for football. Even still, it’s hard not to respect that this coach’s team is apparently ranked number one on the AP’s preseason list.

I can’t take my eyes off his picture.

Coach Colt Smith—fuck, does he look rugged.

His hair is brown, crew cut. I don’t much go for jocks but this guy is something else. That jaw, too. The kind of jaw where you just know he has a big cock. I Google ‘colt smith in a shirt’ and holy hell does he fill out that fabric!

My cock is straining against my boxers and jeans now. I pull my MacBook closer to me to hide my erection. The computer is lopsided. God, I’d love to grind into his lap, slide my hands inside that shirt to feel his chest. His soft eyes are offset by his sharp cheekbones. Half of his picture says, I’ll kiss you, the other half says, I’ll kill you.

We pull into Cold Spring, a
small, rural town true to its name. It doesn’t look like any sparks are flying out here. Everyone is clean-cut and proper. They look so rich, all driving home to their five bedroom homes. I feel out of place in these black skinny jeans. Everyone is getting up and grabbing their briefcases and whatnot. I stay in my seat waiting for my cock to soften. There’s no hope though, I cover my crotch with my bag and awkwardly step off the train.

Even the taxi drivers out here look fancy. None of them are smoking—the total opposite of New York City. My driver looks more like a geography teacher than a cabby. I hand him the address on a note.

I start thinking about Colt again. I always prefer appointments with people of his stature, individuals who have Wikipedia pages. In other words, I like to do shoots with people with some degree of fame just to add a little spice to my line of work- people like Colt Smith- even if I don’t care much for sports. He seems to be a very accomplished coach, and then some. I pull up another picture of him on my phone. If I weren't already late, I’d be in the stall at the station, jerking myself silly to this man’s picture.

Fortunately, or not, I can’t find any pictures of him from behind. I remember in college, the football players used to have the nicest butts. Let’s just say that after hitting the gym I would take a very long time leaving the changing rooms.

We drive to the edge of town. The houses are large out here and the roadside trees are bushy. Everything is lush, like it’s one giant golf course, trimmed and maintained. This is some conservative country shit going on our here.

I get dropped off at the top of their driveway.

The thought crosses my dirty
mind, I wish this were a solo shoot.

I’m sure his family is lovely, but I want to just hang with him. Get tipsy together. These conservative guys like to act all proper but they love fucking just as much as the rest of us. The wildest dudes I know are polo-wearing golfers. They bottle everything up and then give you hell in the bedroom.

Especially the guys that have only been with women before. When they have a partner that fights back a little it, catches them off guard and it gets dirty. All messy and primal, and soon, you’re both sticky all over and someone’s cock is pulsing cum into your ass.

The Smith family mansion is large and white and there’s a gardener out front riding a mower. There are four floors and the windows are crystal clean. I head down the crunchy driveway. I’m sweating with all these photography bags and this leather jacket feels tight. Why am I dressed so trendy anyway? They’re
gonna hate a city-guy like me. I’m like half Colt’s age too. How am I going to relate to them?

I ring the bell. No one comes right away. I look back at the driveway and the garden. I bet you can’t even order pizza way out here. I try knocking,
then I wave at the gardener. He stops the mower, but looks annoyed to have to do so.

“Are they in?” I shout.

“Just Mr. Smith,” he shouts back. That’s good. Now everyone else is late instead of just me.

I head around to the back of the house. The side gate is open and their back garden is huge. There are field goal posts at the very bottom; this guy must be a football nut. Someone is standing by the house with
their back to me. I think it’s Colt. He’s wearing a shirt and shorts, and there’s a football in his hand. He isn’t moving. I walk a bit closer, then I yell, “Mr. Smith?” He doesn’t turn around right away. When he turns, his eyes look red. I walk towards him. “Hi there, I’m Leo—the photographer.” I stick out my hand.

Has he just been crying?

He sticks out his hand. “Colt,” he says. “Colt Smith.” We shake. His hands are large and soft.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Smith?”

“Yes. Well, no. I need to call the shoot off. My family isn’t here.”

This guy has to be kidding me. I came all this way for nothing.

Or so I thought.

“Are they on their way?” I ask, not even sure what I want the answer to be. Colt is taller than me. He thinks before he speaks. He doesn’t um or ah.

“They just left,” he says. We stand there, taking each other in. Colt is built—from his toes to his shoulders. He’s got enough of a tan that I’m sure he vacations somewhere expensive. He looks like someone you wouldn't want to cross, except, right now he looks a little broken. What happened to him?

“Are you okay, Mr. Smith? You look upset.”

He forces a laugh and puckers his lips as though he’s fighting something inside back. “I’m pretty not okay. Would you like a drink? I’ll call you a taxi right after. I hate that I wasted your time like this.”

I hesitate, knowing I should decline his offer for several reasons. But instead, I say, “Sure, I could use a little something to wet my lips.”

The living room carpet is thick, and my socks sink into it. I follow Colt. He motions towards an armchair then opens the drink cabinet. “Whisky?” he asks. I nod. He pours us large drinks in crystal glasses and then swigs from the bottle. He takes an armchair next to me. There’s brown liquid about to fall from his lower lip, and he tongues it. “She left me.”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“My wife; she left me. She took my daughter with her. She said that we hadn’t been right together, not for a long time. Whatever that means.” He looks like he’s in real pain.

“That’s terrible,” I say, and feel guilty about my growing sexual urges around this gorgeous stud. I’d never guess a dude this buff would have a heart. I take a sip from my drink. I know enough about whiskey to know this is the good stuff.

“Here,” he says as he pulls out his phone. “Let me call you a taxi.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll call.” I take out my phone and play around on it for a minute. “There, I just booked an
Uber,” I lie. Seeing this big guy hurting, it’s like seeing an animal stuck in a trap. I can’t leave him like this.

“I mean,” he starts and then stops. “I knew this had been coming for a while. The chemistry had been decaying for years now.”

“I’ve been through that,” I say. “Don’t worry; I’m not
gonna lie and tell you that it’s easy.” He laughs at this.

“It’s the football. It consumes me,” he says. I can’t tell if it’s the drink, or if he’s normally this open. He doesn’t look like the feelings-type. He’ll be asking about my fake taxi soon. It’s time to take a risk. What’s the worst that could happen?

I get up I kneel down by his armchair, putting my hand over his.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “None of this sounds fair.”

“My job demands so much of me.” He squeezes my hand hard like it’s a stress-ball. He looks away, out the window. I study his hand, then his forearm. It’s thick with muscle. It’s not the time for inappropriate thoughts but, truthfully, I just want to hold him. Push my body into his and hold his heart, and if we both get hard then what happens, happens.

I look up from our hands and he’s staring at me. I let go. What the fuck am I doing? This guy is a client, and a conservative one at that. He’s going to hit me, for sure. He gets up real quick and I flinch but then he crosses the room. I sink back into my chair.

He tells me about his daughter, Maria. She’s a teenager—hates sports but loves him. He points at my camera and my bags in the corner. We’re a few drinks in now and the room feels warm. He picks up my camera and turns it over in his hands. “How long have you been a photographer?”

“Five years,” I say.

“Nice camera. Sony A7R II,” he says.

“You’ve heard of it?”

He laughs. “I was just being polite, sorry.” He pauses. “Anyway, you should probably get going.”

I frown at him and think of ways I can stay here. “Are you sure you’re okay to be alone right now?” I ask.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms.

“No one wants to be alone after a breakup,” I say.

“Look, you don’t know me. Like I’ve already said, you should go.” He’s sterner this time.

I stand my ground, hoping this rhino of a dude doesn’t just charge me down.

“Hey, it’s my job to recognize and capture emotion, okay? I know when someone’s in trouble.”

“I don’t share things,” he says. “Especially not with guys.”

“How cliché. The football coach doesn’t open up.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, saying that to me in my house?” he says, puffing his chest out.

I can’t hide a grin. “Now you’re telling the truth,” I say.

“I’m not going to fall for your little game. Poking the bear, or whatever it is,” he says, and walks right up to my armchair and looks down at me. “I’m not going to ask you to leave again.”

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