Hard For My Boss

Such agony.

Did I mention the endless service of any drink I could possibly fathom or any food I could possibly crave? I’m pretty sure I could request grandma’s fresh baked chocolate chip cookies on a platter of gold and find it brought to me within ten minutes. It may even literally be my grandma’s cookies. I have no idea how the magic of this place works; I simply know for a fact that it does.

When the spa treatments are complete, I’m actually expected to figure out how my legs are supposed to work. Seriously, a part of me expects the masseuses to carry me around the resort. How am I supposed to walk when my legs feel like two wimpy rolls of thrice-kneaded bread? Not to mention my arms. I can’t possibly be bothered to lift a glass to my thirsty lips, not after the morning of massages, treatments, and general pampering I just endured.

And some people get to experience this every day.

Like, I can’t even feel my muscles anymore. Every single part of me has been worked, pressed, twisted, pulled, mashed, beaten, and bent into flesh pudding.

I need to be poured onto a big dish and left in the sun to bake before I can call myself a functional human being again.

“Enjoying yourself?” asks Ben.

We’re in two reclining chairs shaded by an oversized umbrella with gorgeously garnished cocktails between us, a lavish pool to our right, a beach with calmly rushing waves to our left, and a cloudless sky kissed by the gorgeous, golden sun overhead.

And this joker asks if I’m enjoying myself.

“I suppose I’m alright,” I answer flippantly, going for another sip of my tasty cocktail. No, I don’t know what I’m drinking, but it tastes like happiness and everything right in the world.

“Oh? Everything not to your exact liking, Prince Trevor?”

He’s been calling me Prince Trevor all day. I can’t say I know where it comes from, but it seems to be some kind of inside joke to him, so I play along. “I’ll let you know when I am, in any way, dissatisfied. You’ll be first to know, in fact.”

I’m sitting here in just a skimpy pair of red trunks, by the way, courtesy of Benjamin Gage, who is responsible for this entire weekend’s wardrobe. I can’t really complain about it. Just like my outfit last night, the trunks fit me perfectly, cupping my cock and balls and cleaving my ass just right. Though it does make me feel a bit like a Ken doll on display for the whole world—Benjamin’s own personal trophy to show off, I suppose—it also makes me feel sexy.

I can’t remember ever feeling so damned attractive, sexual, and desired. Ben is making me feel so many things for the first time. And I don’t just mean the cucumber slices over my eyes.

The sun is overhead when Ben and I return to the cabana for a shower. This would be the second experience I’ve had in our giant, extravagant cabana shower, which makes me realize that I never bothered describing the first. Picture a walk-in closet, except it’s a glorious chamber of watery, soapy, showery delight. The mere size leads me to genuinely wonder why the hell a shower would need to be so big. Is it meant to house an orgy of eight at once? For the time being, I’ll ignore the sudden hot fantasies that spring to mind at that very thought—bookmarked for my next jerk-off session. This shower has a warm jet of water coming from every damned direction, so you don’t have to worry about scrubbing that spot between your balls and your butthole; rest assured, it will be thoroughly attended to by these invasive shower jets.

Not that any of that matters to Ben, whose hands are doing a plenty enough good job of soaping every single goddamned inch of my wet, slippery, sensitive body. I have never been so turned on for such long periods of time as I’ve been here in Mexico with Ben taking every liberty to touch me everywhere. He is all animal and a perfect gentleman all at once. He treats me like a piece of meat and a prince. How is it even possible?

Yes, I get and stay hard the entire shower. No, Ben doesn’t do anything about it except torment me worse and worse with each soaping and rubbing of hands against skin.

Of course, I’m allowed my turn to torture him when it’s my turn to lather up and rub my hands up his tatted body. Even for as slippery as the water and soap make us, his muscles still feel firm as marble. His abs are like rolling pins of meat. His pecs are two thick mounds of bread pinched at the end by nipples, which I give a teasing kiss to as I clean him. Yes, Ben bucks and moans.