Free Talker by Amy Lane

I’ll do anything
    for it. C an you imagine the guy of your dreams, on his knees in
    front of you, his hands behind his back as he takes your cock into
    his mouth to the back of his throat? That’s me. I don’t need too
    much foreplay—but I do like to play with your body. C an I move my
    hands now?”
    Brian made another helpless sound. He wondered what it had
    been like for the others—did this have the same effect on someone
    who didn’t know that the boy of his dreams was attached to the
    dreamy, throaty voice on the other side of the stal ?
    Talker | Amy Lane
    64

    “G ood… I’m going to cup your bal s. I like the feel of them.
    They’re soft and furry….” Sudden uncertainty. “Unless… you don’t
    wax, do you?”
    “No.” His first full word—and it was so gruff that Tate wouldn’t
    have recognized it if they’d been in their apartment together.
    “G ood.” Talker sounded honest. “I like natural, you know? At
    least where I can touch. I’ll jiggle them a little, ’til they’re nice and hard and round, and then open my mouth and take them in. How’s
    that sound?”
    “Mmmm.” Brian tried not to let his head thunk too hard when
    he rested it against the side of the stall.
    “So glad you like,” Tate said dryly, and Brian knew Talker was
    laughing at him. That was okay. He was an idiot. He needed a good
    laugh at his own expense. “Because once they’re good and hard,
    I’m going to take your cock deep into my mouth. I practice with
    bananas, you know”—Brian did know—he hadn’t eaten a banana
    or a cucumber since they’d moved in together, at least not without
    suspicion—“and I can take the biggest prick al the way down. How
    big are you?”
    Brian had no idea. “Big enough,” he growled. He certainly felt
    big enough, hard and aching and trapped in the damned golf pants.
    With a little desperation he unfastened the hook and eye at the top
    of his pants, and lowered the zipper, giving a sensual sigh when he
    had some room.
    “Wel , you feel pretty big to your dream guy,” Talker said with
    encouragement, and Brian rolled his eyes. Jesus, couldn’t the guy
    not be sweet to the stranger getting personal-non-phone-phone-sex
    in the stal next door? “You feel big enough that I’m going to need
    two hands to pump you off, how’s that? O r would you rather I snuck
    one of them between your legs, to your asshole—would you like
    that?”
    Talker | Amy Lane
    65

    Brian whimpered. He honest-to-god whimpered.
    Tate’s voice got sweeter. “O h yeah, you do like that, don’t
    you? I’m going to do that, then. Lots of spit, so it’s good for you,
    okay? I’l take you so deep in my throat, and I’l pump you so good,
    and I’ll slip right inside you, and stretch and make it burn… you like
    that burn, right?”
    Brian had no idea if he did or not, but he must have made
    another affirmative sound because there wasn’t a force on the
    planet that could stop Talker now.
    “So there I’l be, down on my knees in front of you, your cock
    so far down the back of my throat I’d better learn to swal ow or
    sneeze come, and my fingers wiggling around in your ass, and my
    hand pumping you hard and fast and faster and faster and…”
    O h fuck. F uck fuck fuck fuck…. Brian groaned and tried to get
    hold of himself, because Talker was real y going to make him
    come.
    “G ive in to it, brother,” Tate said, his voice so low and whiskey-
    smooth it sent more shivers up Brian’s spine. “Just take it out and
    stroke it, and imagine me, the boy of your dreams, my face al wet
    with pre-come, my fist slick and strong on your prick. You gonna
    come yet? ’C ause if you are, warn me… I wanna swallow.…”
    “Not yet….” Brian rasped, his eyes closed. He was grinding his
    crotch—stil covered by pants and underwear—into his own hand
    and trying to keep his harsh breaths to himself.
    “What are you waiting for, buddy?” Tate sounded surprised.
    “Man, I’m right here…