Ben froze up at that. He’d played a lot. Had a lot of sex but that never did it for him. Not when he was doing it to himself. “I—”
“So we’re done then? One minute twenty seconds.”
Ben looked down at his hard prick. At the swollen head and the bead of pre-come there. He’d been in search of this for what felt like an eternity. Desire rewired all his thinking in this moment. Dante knew best. Dante could give him what he wanted.
He pushed his finger into his mouth and sucked before reaching down, under his heavy balls and rubbing his anus.
And then he worked his finger inside. It had been a long time since he’d had anything inside him—even a finger. Ben fought to relax his muscles.
“Fuck, Ben. Use your finger to fuck yourself. It’s what I would be doing if I were there. You have forty-five seconds.”
Ben started to fuck, his finger slid in and out of his hole. His other hand worked his erection.
“I’d use more than one finger if I was there and you’d like it. Maybe I’d even use a toy on you. What do you think, Ben? Would you let me fuck you with whatever I want? You would. I know you would. You like being a good boy for me, don’t you? You like doing what I say.”
He wanted to deny it, but Goddamned if he didn’t. His orgasm was right there, bearing down on him, ready to burst free.
“You’re giving up control to me, Ben. You like that too, don’t you? Not having to think about what you do or how you do it. It takes all the pressure off. It sets you free.”
Ben shook his head. Couldn’t find words. Was that what he needed? To lose what he always thought he wanted to gain?
“Ten seconds. You need to come.”
Ben curled his finger, rubbed his prostate and as soon as he did, he erupted. Come spilled from his head, ran down his hand as he continued to pump it. He groaned, nearly dropping the phone.
“That was very good. You did well. Such a sexy sound, hearing you groan out your own orgasm. Eat. Try to sleep and you can call again tomorrow night.”
Dante hung up without waiting for a reply.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ben had never been a real routine guy. Not outside of work, at least. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. He went where he wanted, when he wanted. He fucked who he wanted. Called Tristan at all hours of the night when he felt like it. Showed up in California when he got the urge—he lived by his whims and desires.
Suddenly he had somewhat of a routine. He hadn’t gone back to work, and exercised whenever he needed to get out. Ben drank too much, and didn’t take care of himself the way he should but every evening, he would eat. He still didn’t sleep enough but he managed some, because he knew that was the only way to get his phone calls. Somehow he knew he had to be honest to Dante, knew Dante would be able to detect if he lied about these things.
Every night he would call Dante. Sometimes he’d jack-off on the phone with Dante talking him through it. Sometimes they wouldn’t. Ben never knew when Dante would tell him to take off his clothes. He asked once and Dante had hung up on him. He didn’t make that mistake again.
Over and over he told himself he wouldn’t call. Then he made excuses for the fact that he did. He needed to get off. This was something different, another way for him to test boundaries and live life on the fringes, just like with the clubs and the whipping and all the fucking he’d done in general lately. It was nothing more than that. Soon what Dante did for him wouldn’t work and Ben would have to move on to the next thing.
It wasn’t that he liked it. It wasn’t that he sought to give control to someone else. It gave him release and something to take his mind off of everything. Nothing more, nothing less.
There was a good possibility it was all a lie.
Dante could be funny, which Ben hadn’t expected. A bossy bastard, yes, but also funny. He was born in Italy. His family still lived there. His parents were physicians. That’s all he’d learned about the man’s personal life. He didn’t know if Dante had siblings or why or when he moved to America. He knew Dante had moved straight to New York when he left his country.
It was little, so fucking little but more than he’d learned about anyone else in his life in a long time.
That’s the way it went for two weeks, phone calls, talking and jacking off. Ben tried not to let himself think about what he had become. Tried to forget the nightmares that woke him when he did manage to sleep, and the fact that he thought he’d seen Javier. That Ben thought he’d heard him.
And he hadn’t spoken to his mother since the day she threw him out of the house.