Efrain and Cory Ch. 28

Cory had already helped me pick out a bracelet and a few charms to get Zoe started the night before, so shopping wasn't going to be that hard. I doubted I would be the first, or last, man to walk up to the jewelry counter at Macy's and throw down a shopping list. Indie, however, didn't even know where to begin. I doubted he would be the first, or last, man to fall victim to a Macy's sales clerk.

While Indie took his sweetass time, I turned around and leaned back against the counter. Macy's saw fit to group their female vices on the main floor. We had to walk through the cosmetics and perfume department, and a good deal of the women's clothing sections, to get back to jewelry. And I ended up looking out over the shoe department when I turned around. Fucking dozens of displays—heels, flats, boots, those stupid ugly as fuck Uggs.

But then tucked in a corner, were the men's shoe displays. My Sperry's were looking a little rough, but I knew I could get them cheaper at the base exchange back home. However, I figured it wouldn't hurt to look while I was there and was scanning the department for the display when bright colors and patterns drew my eye.

I tapped Indie's shoulder. "Hey, man, I'll be over there," I told him, and he nodded, the saleslady still yacking him up as I made my way over to what looked like an array of vintage ASICS trainers, despite the Onitsuka Tiger label. There were a couple styles, with different color combinations, but the prints were what really caught my attention. Just as I'd never heard of Tigers, I had no idea what tokidoki was, even though a quick search on my phone revealed that both companies had been around for awhile. The tokidoki Tiger prints featured little cartoon tigers in different outfits—from kimonos and business suits to street clothes and athletic wear.

It all screamed CORY.

Loud enough that I didn't hear the salesclerk sneak up until he was right on top of me.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, sure," I said. I picked up the electric blue trainers with brightly colored tigers on the side panels, and the black trainers with silver tigers in business suits and fedoras. "Do you have these in 11 and a half?"

By the time Indie strode over and plopped down in the seat next to me, the salesperson had come and gone, and I was in the middle of trying them on.

"For Kitten?" He pointed down at my feet, where I had a blue shoe on one foot, and a black on the other. They were in two different styles, too, but both fit well enough—plenty of room to fit his wider foot and lower arches. When I told Indie, he laughed at me for knowing how Cory's shoes fit. "Dude, you are so lost."

I waved my hand dismissively and looked back down at the shoes.

"Not sure which ones to get," I mused.

"Por qué no los dos?" he said, almost as if he were trying to rush me.

"Because both would be excessive."

"The black ones seem more your style than his anyway," he said.

"We agreed to not get each other anything..." I started.

"You lied, big deal," he argued, very let's-get-this-moving. "They're on sale—get both and trade."

I gave into his logic. I think this was what Juaquin had been going on about when he talked about racking up "honey points" with Jennifer in case he fucked up somewhere down the line. A couple pairs of shoes, on sale, just in case I put my foot in my mouth. Could work.

Indie pointedly looked down at his watch, like he hadn't been the one hemming and hawing over the jewelry counter and taking for-fuckin'-ever to shop. I made the split-second decision to buy the damn shoes, both pairs, and was once again thankful that my parents still thought I was young enough to continue to giving me money for my Christmas shopping.

But, in retaliation for the impromptu shoe purchase, Indie dragged me all over looking for something for Laurel's parents.

Now he was insisting on piling on further torments.

Seriously, fucking Spencer's. I'd rather have the collective verbal pollution that was the mall Santa que pumped into my ears in a five second burst than walk into the damn place.

The store was bad enough, but after Thanksgiving transformed itself into an even lower circle of hell than any level Dante could ever imagine—one that traded fire and brimstone for blacklight and patchouli. Those stupid enough to enter soon became trapped in a hellscape of smoke machine blasts, neon posters, poseur stoner culture, and terrible music.

And, my roommate wanted to drag my ass into the thick of it.

I looked back at the window, where he'd pointed earlier. A cream colored t-shirt, featuring a grayscale image of Val Kilmer in a flight suit with Iceman in Top Gun lettering underneath, sat with other movie-themed crap.

"I need that shirt," he insisted.

He said it would be a quick in-and-out since he was only picking up the one shirt, and I bought it long enough for Indie to find the shirt in his size. It wasn't until we went to get in line that I realized the extent of my stupidity—the damn checkout line filled the back half of the store as it snaked through the aisles. Indie, however, argued that he really did need this fucking shirt, and that it shouldn't take that long to make it through the line.

However, within five minutes of waiting, Indie found something else he had to have. I was handed the stupid fucking shirt that he needed and asked to hold his spot while he checked out something on the far wall. After the line had shuffled forward a few feet (How the fuck do you only have one clerk at the register? Did they all just go on smoke break en fucking masse?), he returned with two small boxes containing strips of patterned cloth—one in sage with taped-up nerd glass, and one in navy blue polka-dotted with tiny yorkies.

"Bow ties? Didn't realize you were into fashion statements." I deadpanned. "Or have you and the squeak toy had progressed to the gift-giving stage?"

"It's just what we do," he said. "He gives me shit, I give him shit, and whatever."

"Since when?"

"That's how it's always been." He gave me a funny look. "Cory didn't tell you about that?"

"Nope, I just assumed you became a thing because he maddogged you."

Indie shook his head. "After that whole blow-up, he'd been sneaking into my office and leaving hate gifts on my desk."

My eyebrow lifted, and he filled me in.

"Fucking fake snow? You're shittin' me!" I laughed.

"No lie. A metric fuckton," he said. "Preston was even thoughtful enough to include a little toy snowplow and a brick maker."

"And you had no idea it was him?"

"None."

"So, why keep this up?" I said, pointing to the ties.

Indie shrugged. "It's not like we're going out of our way to do it. Just 'I saw this and thought you'd get a kick out of it.' That kind of shit."

Could he really be that oblivious? It didn't seem like he was being dishonest, almost like he truly had no fucking clue about what was really going on. God, all those times he razzed my ass about Cory and motherfucker was just as blind as he claimed I was. The potential for roommate torture grew exponentially the more he ran his mouth.

"The fuck you leering about?"

"Nothin'," I said, knowing I lacked the kind of wholesome good boy face to pull off the innocent look as well as Cory could. I think I made a decent go of it, regardless. Indie rolled his eyes and moved on with both ties still in hand.

Holy fucking hell, I was going to have fun with this.

"How was he even getting in? Pick the locks?"

"Apparently, the woman who cleans my building thinks they hung the stars by Preston and Cory."

"Oh, you pissed off the attack twink and the cleaning lady," I said.

He sobered. "Mrs. Gail cornered me the other day and patted me on the face and said Listen here, Frosted Nuts, be good to my boys or I'll make your life hell." I snorted and then laughed outright when he hissed, "She used my full name."

"Indiana?"

His eyes narrowed. "Laurel told you?" I nodded, and he sighed. "Goddammit."

"Though, not what the J was for," I said.

"Thank fucking God," he said. "Don't know how, but Mrs. Gail knew my middle name. Scared the piss outta me."

"Man, it would be hilarious if your middle name was Jones or something," I mused. "Like, I know that's your mom's..."

I trailed off when I noticed Indie's face paling.

"No way!" I gasped.

"Well, fuck," he muttered.

"It is, isn't it?"

He grunted.

"It really is..."

"Don't say it."

"Indiana Jones Norman!"

Indie folded his arms over his chest and glared at me.

"Where's your bullwhip?" I snickered.

"Very fucking funny, asshole," he muttered.

"You should get one; I'm sure your squeak toy would love it."

Indie tried to glare at me again, but got distracted by something over my shoulder. He reached over and pulled small package off a rack.

"I'm sure your chew toy would love this," he smirked and slapped the package into my chest.

I fumbled the box, and almost wished I'd left it on the floor instead of stooping to pick it up. The checkout line's slow as fuck crawl through the store had dropped us at the adult novelty section—a symbol of everything that was wrong with this store. I had spent enough time as a teenager giggling over this section to know what was behind me. Just as there was a wall of pot leaf crap, there was a wall for plastic penises. For some reason, no bachelorette party ensemble was complete without penises. But why stop at the tiara decorated with hot pink marabou and topped off with a plastic penis? Penis ice tray, penis cake pan, penis pasta, penis cookies, penis pens. Of course, this was all available with titties on 'em.

Then they had the "for couples" shit. Fucking lover's coupons and edible underwear (God, if my sexlife tanked so badly that I needed fucking naughty dice to get out of the vanilla range, I hoped someone would be nice enough to drag me out back and put a few bullets in me). This was the place to be when I was a little shit 'cause this little rack was where my friends and I had our first exposure to sex toys. It was the coolest place ever when we were high school freshmen and were clueless and desperate virgins.

Yeah, I knew what was behind me; I didn't need to look back. I looked down at the white and pink box in my hands.

Now, that was a terrible idea.

"A fucking ball gag? I think you need this more than I do." I dropped the package onto his stack of ties. "Half the neighborhood hears him squealing about how big your fucking donkey dick is." Indie rolled his eyes. "Hell, even you'd benefit." I rolled my eyes up in an exaggerated "O" face and moaned, "Fuck, baby, don't stop."

"Piss off," he laughed, putting the ball gag back on the rack. "At least I can form coherent words. All you can do growl, grunt, and cuss."

"You've been listening at the door?"

"No, that's your weird as fuck fetish." He paused. "One of them, at least." He narrowed his eyes. "Freak."

"Hey, I wasn't the one laid out on the weight bench with a twink on my dick."

"Ah, you heard about that, then."

"Heard? Dude, try saw. Callin' me a damn freak and you had the fucking door wide open."

"Well, you were giving Cory a hand job under my dining room table."

"We won't even discuss what you two were doing on the dining room table."

"You had him on the washing machine."

"And, you had Preston on my kitchen counters. I hope you disinfected them."

"Like you were supposed to clean all the couch cushions."

"Which I did. If they're dirty, it's yours and the cheerleader's mess."

"I prefer to keep my messy activities to non-porous surfaces."

"Was that why you were playing Naughty Professor: Home Office Edition?"

"At least I'm not running up the water bill trying to stage some kinda locker room shower fantasy."

"So you putting Squeak Toy in the bathtub was your attempt at a bathhouse scene?"

Indie paused, as if thinking through an idea. "Yeah, you're totally right. You two are getting enough mileage out of jizz rags." He started scanning the racks behind me. "Maybe they have a muzzle Cory can strap on you."

"On second thought," I said, grabbing the ball gag he'd handed me earlier and slapping it back into his hands. "I think this is yours."

"Nope, it's yours," Indie said. He picked up the package and pointed out the label. "See, it has his name on it." For some reason, the box was printed in English on one side, and Spanish on the other, so while Indie pointed to Kitten Ball Gag, I saw Gatita Mordaza de Bola.

"Oh look." I picked up a gag dog toy someone had abandoned and gave it a sarcastic squeeze. "For when you miss your fuck toy over the break."

"I wonder if Cory got him to make that noise," he said innocently. "You know, they totally fucked around before we got to them. In fact, I remember watching them make out this one time. Fuckers were all over each other."

God help me, but I growled. I guess I was okay with Preston and Cory being a thing at one point, but I sure as fuck didn't like being reminded of it.

"I sometimes wonder what it woulda looked like. Maybe..." He pulled out his phone and started thumbing and typing. "Ah, here—a dramatic reenactment."

Indie turned the screen to me, showing a video he'd pulled up of a fluffy tabby kitten wrestling with a yorkie puppy. The little kitten had puffed itself out was doing that stiff-legged hop thing, while the puppy darted in and out, taunting the cat.

"Kinda ruins twink porn, huh?" he said over the sounds of outraged yips and meows. Soft, cute little things that couldn't do any damage to something half their size, but not even the sense God gave a dishrag between them to keep them from trying. Yeah, I could see the connection.

The kitten let out a particularly fierce meow when the yorkie puppy bit its tail. Indie laughed, "Oh, he's angry. I bet Chew Toy makes that sound when you bite him."

"You and your dick-wanking water jets can suck my left nut, tub boy!"

~*~*~*~

I should have known I was in trouble when Efrain claimed to be doing research.

No undergrad had any business "doing research" three days before the end of the semester, and only the most depraved did so while listening to chillstep and stroking a growing hard-on through thin cotton lounge pants. As I had no sense of self-preservation as far as my boyfriend was concerned, I didn't think fast enough to hightail it out of there.

I was in more trouble that I could handle. I'm talking deep shit, here.

The kind of wood Efrain was popping spoke to how thorough his research had gone. I imagine very few college students got erections over their studies. Even fewer still issued orders for their boyfriend to strip down and get in their lap. Others would consider it well outside acceptable methodology to shove three fingers in said boyfriend's mouth and ask, "How does a ball gag sound?"

Which was how I found myself straddling Efrain's rippling thighs in nothing but my trunks as he showed me different sex toys and walked me through various scenarios featuring assorted toys in increasingly complex and absurd combinations. The longer I listened, the more I realized the danger to both my ass and my sanity. The one he was currently whispering in my ear had me strapped to the bathroom door with over-the-door wrist and ankle restraints, and involved a blindfold, a ball gag, two cock rings, and a rather evil-looking stainless steel butt plug.

And included his lubed-up fingers in my ass, for demonstration purposes.

Since both of his hands were occupied, I had to take over navigating through product specs and zooming in on images. He'd already made me add the ball gag, a roll of sex tape, and these weird plunger things called "lube shooters" (that he promised would be my new favorite thing in the world) to the shopping cart. I swallowed hard around the three fingers still rammed in my mouth, holding my tongue down, even though I'd long since given up on not drooling. The shivers running up and down my spine had nothing to do with the cold air on my bare skin, and everything to do with the low voice weaving lurid images in my ear.

The pad of Efrain's thumb caressed my jaw. "...imagine how the nubs at the base would feel here," he murmured as he angled his knuckles over my prostate, causing my vision to tunnel until he reminded me to breath. I was pretty sure my whimpers and shivers would be enough to show him that I already had a good picture of what he was selling, but he still felt compelled to keep attacking. His fingers worked in and out of my hole, knuckles tapping into the tight little knot of nerves inside, and my eyes rolled up. "Focus, Cory," he growled. His grip tightened between the fingers pressing inside my mouth and the thumb on my jaw as he roughly jerked my head. "Fuck. Here I am trying to share about how much I want to worship your ass, and you can't even concentrate."

He made me go to the next tab, where another toy awaited my consideration. The black silicon vibrator looked much friendlier than the ten-inch wand of stainless steel on the previous tab, until he pointed out the e-stim mode that would hit my prostate with mild electric shocks.

"Perhaps that would get your attention."

I whined.

He laughed.

The rich timbre rumbled against my ear and I had to tighten my grip on his shoulders before my jerking hips could buck me off his lap.

"You want it," Efrain whispered, the slight hitches in his breathing the only acknowledgement of my thigh grinding against his erection. "Admit it."

I would have agreed had I not been too distracted by the six total fingers stuffed in my ass and mouth.

"You know, I think the whole idea is starting to grow on me," he said, his lips nibbling from my earlobe down my neck. "Having you bound and gagged, while I work your ass over, and the only thing you can do is whine and tremble. I bet I could make you so desperate for my cock that you cry." I moaned. "How does that sound? Hm? Want me to make you beg for my dick?"

I nodded.

"What was that?"

I pulled his hand out of my mouth. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Do it."

"Do what?"

"Please, 'Rain."

"Say it, Cory." His half-lidded green-gold eyes and wolfish grin made me tremble and whimper harder. "Tell me what you want."

I took a deep breath and met his gaze. "Make me cry."

"Good boy," he said before slamming his mouth down over mine and shoving his tongue past my lips. He pulled back long enough to give me specific instructions on how he wanted me on the bed—on my knees in the middle, with both hands on the headboard—and sent me off with a sharp slap on the ass. I dropped my trunks and crawled onto the bed, but he still hadn't moved. Only after I complied with his sharp "eyes forward," did I hear the slight sounds of him getting up and moving about the room—quiet footfalls and susurrations of fabric that only served to make me more anxious.

I held myself still, even when I felt the tell-tale dip of the mattress as he crawled up behind me, but yelped as his tongue lapped at the small of my back. Lips, teeth, tongue, rough stubble, panting breaths climbed my vertebrae like rungs on a ladder, and fingertips skimmed my flank, until his chest and stomach pressed into my back. Smooth, hot skin, with a nice dusting of body hair and the smell of his cologne. I earned myself another slap on the ass when I flexed my hips back against the hard length nestled between my ass cheeks and leaking pre-cum all over the small of my back.

Out the corner of my eye, I caught him unwinding a folded strip of black cloth from his hand—one of the bandanas he wore under his helmet during games. My hands gripped the headboard until my knuckles turned white, but I couldn't still my trembling. The bandana looped over my head, and I let it slide between my teeth. Efrain knotted the gag and ensured that it wasn't too tight.