The following excerpt is from Open House, which is available exclusively for purchase on Kindle.
“Long time, no see.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Look, I’d prefer to keep this strictly business, if you don’t mind. I’m not the same person I used to be when we—”
Jordan took slow steps toward me. My voice trailed off as he got closer. He had no more than three or four inches on me, but his attitude might as well have added another foot. He firmly clenched my chin and forced me to look up at him.
The tingling sensation in Eric’s underwear increased to the point that he could practically hear the garment hum with erotic intensity. The successive waves of pleasure began to extend beyond his cock and balls, radiating outward in all directions from his crotch and making his body hypersensitive to even the slightest touch. The waves snaked up his spine, and as each one approached closer and closer to the base of his neck, Eric could only paw in vain at his encased bulge. Unable to free himself from the tight, smooth underwear, he attempted to dry hump his sofa as a poor substitute for masturbation. The result was incredibly unsatisfying.
“Come on, man,” he whined, frustration rising in his voice. “Just let me get in there, man.”
The feelings inside his underwear were unlike anything Eric had ever felt. When he would beat off while chasing profiles on DateMaker, he was in control. As his DMs escalated, he would adjust his grip and the pace of his stroking accordingly. The intensity of the pleasure was his to control, and he could choose how long he wanted the experience to last.
Thirty minutes later, Didrik pulled into the driveway of a nondescript ranch house at the end of a dead-end suburban street, exactly the type of place he imagined someone like Steve living. The guys’ firm handshakes and offers of whiskey and cigars put Didrik at ease, and after playing a few hands, he felt less like their interloping boss and more like one of their peers.
“Hey, do we have any more chips?” Doug called from the kitchen during a snack break.
“Don’t ask me,” Bill said. “Jim was supposed to do this shopping this week.”
“No way, man,” Jim said, returning from the garage with a fresh bottle of whiskey and a bag of ice. “I mowed the lawn this week. It was Steve’s turn to go shopping.”
Didrik was confused and intrigued by the conversation. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You all… live together?”
“Matt!” Oscar barked. “You’re getting the carpet wet. Go change.”
Matt scurried down the hallway into Oscar’s bedroom and opened the door to his walk-in closet. He flipped through some shelves of neatly folded T-shirts and shorts, but then his gaze settled on a row of suits, collared shirts, and ties. Matt remembered how, when he first moved in, he would sneak glances of Oscar shedding his business attire at the end of a long workday, but he was no longer thinking about what Oscar looked like. He was thinking about how amazing it would feel to put on one of Oscar’s suits.
Matt touched the fabric of a navy blue suit jacket and shivered as a wave of pleasure radiated outward from his cock. He was certain this wasn’t what Oscar meant when he said “go shopping” in his closet, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the smart-looking suits. The mindfuck of Oscar looking and acting more and more like Matt over the last several days now had Matt thinking what it would be like to flip the script on his sexy roommate. He wanted to try the suit on, and his cock agreed.
Didrik liked his job. It was challenging, the pay was great, and it was a bit of a coup for an early-career guy like him to land it. He was only 29, and he’d never managed a team before, but his years of experience with SalesFarm, the software platform the company recently adopted, had won him the job.
He was young, full of energy, and eager to prove himself. There was just one problem: He didn’t fit in.
When he was introduced to his team on the first day, Didrik expected to meet a group of recent college grads, with maybe one guy in his thirties who’d changed careers. Instead, he found himself awkwardly shaking hands with Bill, Doug, Jim, Lou, and Steve. Every guy he managed had at least 15 years on him, and their attitude in the workplace was unorthodox, to say the least.
Eric was a practiced hand. Each night after work, he sat on the couch for hours in nothing but socks and underwear and scrolled profiles on DateMaker. Any time a new match appeared in his inbox, the response was always the same: his standard opening line—Hey, hot stuff, you know you want this!—and a picture of his naked body with the head cropped out. He’d sent the same sentence so many times that his phone’s autocomplete had learned it, and all he had to do was tap the words on the screen. In a typical night, he’d send his dick pic to dozens of men and women, most of whom would never respond.
On the off chance that he did get a response, Eric immediately directed the conversation toward sex and was relentless in his pursuit of his quarry. The conversations usually ended with the match going silent, or more frequently blocking him, but that didn’t stop him from beating off with one hand and typing explicit things with the other. Every night, Eric continued his chase undeterred, widening his search radius and even installing an app to fool DateMaker’s location settings. Each new conversation filled him with the adrenaline of a new chase, and when he was inevitably blocked, he pouted.
Harry tapped his fingertips against his desk, growing more impatient with each passing minute. He’d never had to wait ten minutes for an employee to respond to his emails, and the lack of response had gone from inconvenient to irritating. He scrolled through the list of his direct reports on the company’s instant messenger client, and his brow furrowed when he saw a small, yellow circle denoting inactive next to each of their names and portraits.
“It’s ten-thirty in the morning,” Harry said to himself. “Where the hell is everybody?”
Norman parked his gray SUV in front of the rundown storefront and then lifted his sunglasses to get a better look at the surroundings. A feeling of unease rose in his gut. It occurred to him that this whole thing could have been a setup, but it was impossible to tell. The building’s windows were all papered over, and aside from an old camper that looked like it had been abandoned for months, the parking lot was empty.
“Are you sure this is right, Dave?” he asked, turning to the passenger riding with him. “This place looks deserted. Check the group text again.”
Rick tapped a stylus against his tablet screen, closing out the notes he’d taken about the new client sitting in front of him. While he looked like any other middle-aged man going through an identity crisis, Stephen was an unusual case for a life coach like Rick in that he wasn’t looking for professional mentoring or goal setting. Stephen had sought Rick’s help to overcome a very specific, and very embarrassing, problem.
“I just can’t bring myself to go to a therapist,” Stephen said as Rick looked up from his tablet. “It’s too humiliating. Do you think you can help me?”
Rick puffed his cheeks out and exhaled sharply. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I want to help, but I don’t know if I’m the right kind of professional for your, shall we say unique situation. I’ve never even heard of findom before. I’ll need to do some research.”