Jerrod

We were leaving the small studio, one of those cheap $10/hr places, at the end of a hallway that looked as if it would be cast as a hospital in a horror movie. Yellowed walls, soul-sucking lights, black scars running along it from furniture having been moved from somewhere to somewhere else.

I gave an extra jiggle of the door knob to make sure I had locked it, turned, and Jerrod was looking at me. Looking at me in

that

way.

"Are you sure there's nothing else I can do for you?" he said, and moved in with tilted head and eyes closing, for a kiss.

I instinctively held my hand out to his chest and stopped his advance, his face inches from mine. He opened his eyes and looked at me with a little surprise and embarrassment: had he just expected this to happen? Actually, wait. Hold on. Back up: what was

this

? Our rehearsal went fine, I wasn't throwing off any vibes outside of the usual nervousness of being in a rented studio space, since the last time I had worked a dance piece with nudity some presumptuous woman just swept into the space with three students

fifteen minutes

before our time was up (more correctly, fifteen minutes before theirs began). Chaos, stammered apologies, several extra stolen glances upon retreating at the dancers, who were more than happy to confront their stupidity by standing casually, panting and red, dicks and balls and tits and asses sweating. I now make sure to lock the door when renting a space, and then the PTSD hits and I check to make sure I've locked it about 23 more times before the end of rehearsal.

But Jerrod: he was shooting his shot here, and I needed shake off my shock and make a choice. Quickly. And I needed to, perhaps, make it look like I wasn't trying to get up to speed and match his energy. Play it cool. Jerrod was impetuous, like all 20-somethings, a little more flirtatious, sure, which makes someone like me (who is always concerned with any performance group at large) nervous that he'll bring the whole thing crashing into drama due to some unfiltered, offensive comment. So maybe I should have seen this coming. Maybe? I hadn't given any signs (that I knew of), I hadn't engaged in any of his lures via the texts we've shared to coordinate rehearsals (seems as though he called

everyone

"daddy," while would I take it any differently than "dude" or "buddy?").

But it was hard not to admire Jerrod's body, in the architecturally-soundness of youth; the piece we were committing to meant I was spending three days a week watching his every muscle and sinew work through its motions, and he was adept, confident, and more importantly, didn't shy away from the work. And while I shrugged at his suggestion he start rehearsing nude at the outset (nudity in the arts is just a shruggable thing after a time), and yes, my brain's initial reaction was

lock the door

.

Check the door. Recheck the door,

I couldn't help but look forward to time alone with Jerrod and marveling at his shapes, his sizes, and his strength writ large against this piece.

Maybe he was just feeling randy. Maybe he was just playing around. Either way, an opportunity with a remarkably fit young man presented itself, I was free from any other romantic encumbrances, and I was not above indulging dancers in heat. There were no other cast members to gossip with, and once this production was over with I was going to take some time off out of town...all the things were in the right position.

Of course, I

was

nervous for being in this public hallway. I would like to profess the same happy-go-lucky nonchalance that most people seem to have in relating these sorts of stories, but no. I'm not one for public shows, and it being 9 PM didn't mean anything to a city where someone always seemed to be ready to pop around the corner.

And no, I'm not going to bring this 20-something back to my place. I'm experienced enough to know that inviting potential drama into your home is like inviting bedbugs.

I tried to give myself some time to think of what to do here, my hand still on his chest. I looked him right in the eye and smiled, in order to not let him down, to not convey a distinct

no

. But I had to slip into some character, somehow, and quickly. "What are you doing?" I said.

His confidence shaken, words stumbled out of his mouth like drunk sailors on leave. He finally steadied a few: "I just...you know. A goodnight kiss."

"A kiss? What are we? Boyfriends?"

More word-stumbling.

I went from a flat fist against his chest to gripping his jacket. I pulled him slightly closer so my face was just over his shoulder, and I whispered in his ear: "I'm not here to be your boyfriend." Okay. That seemed good. Let's try this character and hope my brain catches up. "You asked if there's anything else I could do for you?" There was a pause, and I jerked my fist, full of his jacket, to hopefully distract him from the fact that I didn't, exactly, quote him correctly, that he asked if

he

could do something for

me

...whatever. I was just riffing.

I glanced back down the hall, wondering: does a ratty old building like this have security cameras? A guard who patrols the halls? Cleaning staff? Some little old lady who somehow still has an apartment she first rented in 1918?

"Here's what you can do for me," I said, still hovering by his ear, and honestly I don't know which of us was breathing harder, so I tried to slow my speech and take control. Or at least act like I was taking control.

He was still facing the door, his back to the hallway, so I lowered my bag to the ground and used that hand to hold his arm, and let go of his jacket with my other hand, sliding it down his front, and felt around for his groin.

Not difficult to find. Of course he was hard as a rock, his cock a small, little bit of wood under his skinny jeans. I cannot tell you how accustomed I had become to its tiny flaccidity poinging around on the sprung flooring. It wasn't what I was watching, anyway, but I was absolutely overjoyed at the discovery that he wasn't much of a grower. I love small cocks.

"We're going to go back into this studio. And you're going to take this thing out of your pants and I'm going to suck your dick so good, so slowly, that you're going to beg me to let you cum. And I want to hear you beg."

He moaned. His hips tried to work his cock into my hand. I made slow, pressured circles around his crotch.

"And before you cum, we're going to switch it up, and you're going to suck my cock too."

"You want me to suck daddy's cock?"

Whatever, kid.

"Yes," I said, trying to bring my whisper in his ear lower and lower. "You're gonna suck daddy's cock. You want to taste his cum?"

"I want to taste daddy's cum."

"I cum first, then you cum. That's what you can do for me." Seemed like a simple plan. It was at least having the effect: I got to enjoy the little shit, maybe take it up to a level he wasn't expecting.

He nodded, and I slid my hand from his crotch up under his shirt, and spread my hand all over every single square inch of his hairless chest and torso. I lingered at his nipples, feeling their hardness, and he buried his head into the crook of my neck; I slowly traced the long, tight expanse between his belly button and the waistline of his pants, and he moaned desperately. Then I went for his zipper.

A few fumbling moments, and I had his tiny pecker poking out of his pants. I looked down at it, and was elated beyond belief. A long, hairless, crafted belly of muscle leading to a shaved rod. I love, I absolutely

love

small cocks, and I let it stand there. I traced my hand down his belly, let it bob involuntarily.

"Then? We're not going to be finished. Then you're going to work me...you're going to work daddy back up so he can fuck you in your beautiful ass. You think you can give daddy another hard on? Keep the night going?"

(Big talk for someone who jerks off and then pretty much needs a nap, but whatever.)

His hips tightened, as if trying to aim his dick for my hand. He nodded. "Oh god yes."

"And then you're going to fuck me. You think you can get it back up so you can fuck me?"

He tried to turn his face to mine and I quickly leapt my hand to his chin to keep it aimed at the door. Another nervous glance from me to the surrounding area. Please stay away, security guards. Please stay away, little old (imagined) lady with your 1913 apartment, don't come home yet. I suddenly thought, what if all of it mixed together and it was a little old lady security guard?

My young friend's cock bobbled.

"You think you can get it up again to fuck your daddy? He needs to be fucked by this dick. Can you fuck your daddy with this dick?"

"Yes," he said, breathlessly.

I was still in the mindset that, at any point, this situation would dissolve; another glance down the hall, but I didn't know how this was all going to end. The space had only been rented until 9, I wasn't going to bring this kid home, but now

I

was getting away from sense. I worked some saliva in my mouth, and turned my head, trying to let a drop of spit drop out of my mouth onto my hand, down at his belly.

I missed, and it smacked against the floor. Internal eyeroll.

I worked more, and opting for certainty than smoothness, brought my fingers to my mouth and released spit onto them, then went down and touched his stick.

It flickered.

It lay exactly across the width of my four fingers, and I could easily touch my fingertips with my thumbtip as I wrapped my hand around it.

His breath escaped him, and he took a huge gulp of air.

Then a door slammed, its echo clattering up the stairwell.

The main entrance.

Shit.

I twisted my wet hand slowly around and down the length of Jerrod's cock.

Laughter, from a group of people.

But, I was suddenly strangely emboldened: there were three flights of stairs between the ground floor and this one (which floor would they go to? I'm not taking the chance), so I started jerking him off faster. I kept him to me, hissing in his ear while I worked him, slipping back and forth. "If we go back into this studio, we're going to suck and fuck for hours. Can you do that?"

One of the ascending group was in heeled boots, their sharp pings on the stairwell.

More twisting, more gulps of air.

Someone in the group added to the joke they had been laughing at before coming in, and more laughter bounced up the stairwell.

"I said-"

"Yes, please, please. I'll cum for you as much as you want, daddy."

The steps were getting louder.

I let go of his dick and picked up my bag and started to walk down the hall. I tried to quickly adjust my own burgeoning member, as it had grown at an odd angle, and I could feel its wetness from the tip in my pant leg. I pulled my coat over it.

Some confused sounds, and after a few moments that I imagine were occupied by replacing a little hard dick into very tight jeans, Jerrod caught up to me at the top of the staircase, just as three women were arriving at our floor, passing by with nods and laughter.

He said: "I thought...I thought...hello. Hi." Then whispered: "I thought we were going back in the studio."

The women passed us, and I leaned in. "We will. Next week."

The women collected at the door of the studio we had just passed, and one pulled out her phone, obviously searching for the code to the door.

"I want your dick," I whispered, and then out loud, "You go on ahead. I have a phone call I need to make before I leave. Same time next week?"

He looked at me, yearning, nodding confusedly, and bounced down the stairs. At the next landing he looked back up, smiled like a little devil, and then continued on down.

I pulled out my phone to call the studio manager to make another appointment.