If It Fornicates (A Market Garden Tale) by Aleksandr Voinov, L.A. Witt

fingers went to the top button of his shirt.
    Nick watched Red Tie the entire time. The john glanced up occasionally, eyeing him as if to ask, Are you still watching? And Nick would smirk. Of course I’m still watching, he didn’t have to say. And it’s making you nervous, isn’t it?
    Of course it was.
    Somewhere between the car and here, the man’s erection had softened, but as he faced Nick, stripped bare, his cock started to harden again. His nipples stood out too; the room was cool, after all.
    Nick made no small gesture of looking Red Tie up and down, scrutinizing every inch of his body. All the smooth, defined muscles. For a businessman, he certainly hadn’t let himself go, and he was just the right combination of contours and hard lines. Judging by his barely contained frustration in the car, he had a temper, and judging by his body, he blew off steam at the gym. That outlet had done him good, that was for sure.
    Nick stepped a little closer, and let the john’s body language tell him where his comfort zone was. When Red Tie’s breath caught and his posture stiffened, Nick was right on the edge of that zone. So, of course, Nick took another step and grinned as Red Tie fought a losing battle not to show his discomfort.
    Squirming and looking down at Nick, he swallowed hard. “What do you want me to do?”
    Nick looked him straight in the eyes. “For the moment, you’re already doing it.”
    Red Tie may as well have had Oh God oh God written across his forehead. His eyes were wide, his body still tense. He probably would have preferred Nick circle him like a shark rather than just corner him. And Nick loved the fact that he could corner someone in the middle of a room; there was no wall against Red Tie’s back, just the knowledge that he wasn’t allowed to take a step back. An actual wall couldn’t hold a submissive in place better than a Dom’s command.
    Or lack of permission, in this case, since Nick hadn’t told him he couldn’t move. Red Tie obviously understood there was no such thing as permission by omission.
    Good. Very good. Maybe he wasn’t such a brat, after all.
    It surely wasn’t pride. There was no belligerence in the man’s posture. And his dick was hard, which was a dead giveaway.
    “Down.”
    The john went to his knees, tentatively, carefully, still staring at Nick.
    “Open your legs wider.”
    The man shuffled his knees apart, quite a bit further than was necessary, though Nick assumed he was getting into it, overcompensating into the other direction now.
    “Much better,” Nick said, noticing that the praise made the client relax a little. “I think you were interrupted.”
    The john frowned, confused, then Nick cupped himself, and he got it right away. His hand went back to his dick. “How do . . . should I do this?”
    “You’ve jerked off before, haven’t you?”
    Red Tie gripped himself and began stroking, slowly at first, then he closed his eyes and went for it, probably hopeful that this time Nick would let him come. And, yes, his arm muscles were very pretty this way—so was the tautness around his throat and neck, the tensing of his belly. A rich guy kneeling in the middle of a game room in his own very expensive house, trying to get off before he was ordered to stop.
    Nick prowled closer, and although the man was clearly aware of his presence, need was superseding that by now. Pushing a man’s buttons was one of Nick’s favourite parts of the job. It was subtle, but potent.
    The john was soon panting, and the vicious twists to the head of his cock made Nick’s balls tighten in sympathy. He closed the last bit of distance, then ran a thumb along the man’s open lips.
    The john’s attention flashed back to him, just in time for Nick to push two fingers into the man’s mouth and push one leg forward, boot tip sliding past the man’s balls, a cool, hard presence pressing against his perineum. As predicted, the john was thrown off his rhythm again, not sure