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Hollywood Changeup

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This waiting room is sparsely decorated. It’s very plain and while normally Boots’ take on interior decorating is live and let live, it makes it very awkward that there’s nothing distracting to look at. There’s his hands, sneakered feet, jeans and anything else on his personage. There’s a window with closed blinds. On the dull carpeted floor is a cactus. And then there’s the nightmare on the couch. Which is entirely Jordie Jones’ fault and Boots doesn’t know how he gets himself in these situations.

See, as Boots and Bruno grew up and graduated, both applying and getting accepted at U of Toronto, Jordie grew up too. He Hardened to the exhaustion of being a superstar, and started falling into the Hollywood traps set for glittering youth. They keep in touch, have ever since the Academy Blues viewing party they were invited to. Boots has long since learned not to inquire about the latest tabloid claims. It’s no different than not probing Bruno’s frequent revolutions and temporary pet causes. When you care about someone, you let them be.

It’s been years since they’ve seen him face to face. Too much filming on location, too many interviews on late night tv. But there he is, knocking on their dorm room door. What’s Boots gonna do- not let him in? If Jordie stays in the hallway for more than a minute, he’s going to end up on Instagram.

Bruno pulls Jordie into a hug the moment he looks up and sees exactly who Boots has answers the door for. It’s a vastly different reaction than he’d have for a lost Uber Eats guy, or Winston from down the hall who’s always inviting them to ultimate frisbee, but of course Jordie is a friend. Bruno doesn’t care how much drama this might bring into their lives, because he’s literally never considered that a factor for any move he might make.

Within minutes they’re drinking and shooting the shit, packed in on the futon jammed into the corner between the cinderblock wall and Bruno’s bed. Jordie talks about the set of his last movie. He’s not bragging. It’s just his norm, this thing that sounds like a ridiculous pipedream to millions of people. Boots talks about his art class, and the shitty campus food, and the floor wide parties that keep going even when you want to sleep, and he knows Jordie is rationalising the same statement. Boots isn’t boasting, it’s just his norm. For the semester of Academy Blues, Jordie Jones was a teenager who desperately wanted a simple existence. It’s pretty obvious he still feels the same, under a layer of jagged jaded moviestar.

“We should play poker,” Bruno says nostalgically. “It’s been a long time since the Hall, and betting with food.”

Boots throws back, “do I get to attend this time, or does Jordie’s presence mean I’m alone in a trailer?”

“You’re better at directions, you have to come.”

Jordie frowns. “You want to go out? Can’t we just play with your hot female friends?”

Boots has no doubt whatsoever that if he advertised on any kind of social media that Jordie Jones of Muskrat Life indie comedy fame wants some sorority girls to show up for cards that they’ll come. Probably in miniskirts and high heels. But that way lies a party, and undoubtedly scandal, and Boots doesn’t want that for Jordie or his living space.

“Yeah, let’s check out a casino.” At least at a upperclass casino, people are more likely to mask their excitement at meeting a celebrity. Probably. It’s not like Boots has spent any time in an upperclass casino to know for sure. The closest he’s gotten to nouveau riche is Wilbur’s uncle’s restaurant.

Turns out the thing about appearing in public with a celebrity is people assume you’re hot news too. An hour later and they’re situated at a high stakes poker table, wearing the tightest jeans and sexiest button downs they own, Jordie having borrowed rather than go back to his hotel suite, or wherever he’s crashing. Boots isn’t surprised that a dozen women are standing around their table. What is surprising is how they’re also interested in him and Bruno. He can feel breasts pressing against his neck as someone leans over him to see his cards flirtatiously. And there’s a woman who’s eating a lollipop at him, for lack of a better description.

Boots doesn’t really want to get a hotel room with any of the women, but he can easily see Bruno or Jordie doing so. Hell, if the girls are friends too maybe they’ll both go. Maybe they’ll end screwing in the same room. As straight as Bruno is -liberal university is good for a man built on the sanctity of rebellion. There are a million different causes, and women from each one jumping in his lap after he gives a passionate speech about his issue of the week- he’s also a ‘you only live once, big picture screw the details’ kind of guy. He’d trade the presence of another dude for the certainty of sex, Boots is sure of it.

They retire from the table down an amount of money Boots is extremely grateful their millionaire friend is covering. Jordie surprisingly begged some space from all the hangers-on so they’re briefly alone at the bar, although Boots can see a few new women striking up the nerve to come over. It’s a never ending problem when you’re Jordie Jones.

Boots isn’t the only one surprised at Jordie’s restraint. With his hand around his newly received drink, Bruno comments “I really thought you’d go with the brunette in the green dress.”

Jordie nods. “Yeah, close thing. She looked like she’d have the perfect hands for spanking.”

Jordie and Bruno both let out a knowledgeable laugh before taking gulps of their drinks. Boots, meanwhile, is frozen and mute.

“You alright? Order the wrong thing? If it’s gross, pass it down. I can drink anything these days,” Jordie offers.

Worrying, but not shocking. Also not Boots’ actual issue. “You’ve done that?”

“Huh? Wait, what. Spanking? Don’t tell me you haven’t,” Jordie says, like it’s Boots who’s the weird one.

“Actually, possibly not. Boots is pretty vanilla,” Bruno chimes in.

“Okay, but there’s vanilla and there’s not eating any ice cream at all. Boots, that’s genuinely sad. We have to fix this immediately.”

Bruno snorts. “What did you have in mind?”

“I know a place.”

Bruno twists to look at Boots. He raises his eyebrows, as if asking if Boots is up for this. And maybe he’s not, but this is hardly the crowd to say that to. These are two friends who see every stupid decision as an adventure, and if Boots can’t keep the night going, they’re going to end up doing something by themselves. Hell, one of the women who was watching at the card table is whispering to the bartender. What are the odds she’s not ordering them a round of drinks? He goes back to the dorm and they end up leaving with her, doing something that gets them on TMZ.

Boots chugs his drink -a sweet and tangy Long Island Iced Tea- in a few large mouthfuls and slams the empty glass on the bartop. “Okay, let’s go.”

It doesn’t surprise Boots that Jordie knows the seediest upperclass places in Toronto. He premiered two movies here and is rich enough to buy passage anywhere. He rattles off an address to the taxi driver, and twenty minutes later they’re dropped off in front of a thin two story building with a brick exterior. There’s no advertising on the front of the building, but Jordie confidently strides towards the front door and Boots and Bruno have no choice but to follow.

On the immediate inside is a bouncer who checks their IDs before letting them pass. They have the choice of a closed door or a short hallway before a right turn. Jordie says he’ll deal with the office, and for them to go on to the lounge. Bruno swiftly moves down the hall. Boots stands there until he’s turned the corner and is out of sight. He could leave now, leave them both to their skewed judgement. He doesn’t have to do this. Except of course he does. Boots still cringes remembering bailing on Bruno during the war with Mr Wizzle. He takes his first step, and keeps going.

The lounge is nothing like Boots would have expected to see. Not that he’s thought a lot about brothel lounges in his life, but still. The walls are white, not red, and there’s no lusty music pumping. It’s downright minimal. Bruno is already sitting, a cute lingerie wearing Filipino woman tucked beside him. Boots resists the urge to occupy the space on Bruno’s other side, and sits on a white padded seat away from them. His chair, and several others, are loosely arranged around a coffee table that holds only a large album. For lack of options, Boots picks up the album.

He quickly realises it’s a menu of sorts. It’s an album with photos and brief blurbs about what each person employed here will and will not do. You’re supposed to choose prior to entering your studio, which are also pictured, otherwise whomever is available will be dispatched. Boots rifles through the pages. There are a dozen doms and half a dozen subs here, what he imagines are all easy tropes for this kind of scene, like Cranky Looking Headmistress and Shaved Bald Cone Bra Wearing Sci Fi Alien-Girl. None of them make the thought of what’s to come more delightful.

So here he is, in the barren lounge with a few waiting customers and available staff on display. Jordie’s in the other room, presumably dealing with the finances of this excursion. And Bruno is on a couch, getting his thigh touched progressively higher from a professional dominant slash possible call girl, and thanks to Jordie Boots gets to have the mental image of this woman hitting a naked and erect Bruno ten minutes from now. It’s unfair, is what it is. Being the best friend sucks sometimes.

Jordie bursts into the lounge with a kind of manic glee that Boots feels is pretty unwarranted. The only strong emotion Boots is feeling is awkwardness. “I booked all three of us rooms, but Boots, you’re up first! Room seven. Bruno, your and my studios are booked for another twenty minutes.”

“Gonna be with me, baby?” The dominatrix asks, caressing Bruno’s cheek before giving it the lightest slap.

“How could I say no?”

Happy to leave the scene in front of him -he’s never particularly liked witnessing Bruno hook up, it reminds him of the things he can’t have- Boots swiftly moves to the mahogany door labelled seven. He can immediately see three things. One: Jordie rented him the dungeon room. Two: the money management saved by not decorating the lounge was blown in here. Three: Jordie has assumed he’s never gotten over Cathy Burton.

Boots is able to close the door, but that’s just about all he’s got. He has no idea what to say to this eighty three percent match to a teenagehood friend everyone always expected him to date, and for that matter what does he say to Jordie about being this nostalgic? And Boots certainly can’t take more than a step or two forward. In every direction is a nasty looking piece of sex furniture. There’s a human sized cage, and a big wooden X and a leather studded swing, and the black painted wainscotting terminates in dozens of hooks holding various implements. If he moves towards anything, he’s showing unconscious bias towards it, or at least this dominatrix might think so.

“I’m Mistress Calluna. If you find yourself unable to groan the whole thing, I suggest you shorten to Mistress. I don’t like feeling disrespected.”

“I’m Boots,” Boots offers, out of place in all this.

“Because of a certain kink of yours?” Her crop traces down her thigh to the top of her black leather boots, and aesthetically, Boots gets it. Gets how this could be stimulating.

“No. It’s a long story, I got it from my best friend in grade eight, literally the first time day we met.”

“The individual that paid for you indicated you want a spanking. Would you like to discuss safewords and positioning now?”

Boots finds himself suggesting Sidney. After all, if there’s anything more likely to mean ‘I’m suddenly hurt in unexpected ways’, it’s his old friend. As for position, he’s got nothing. She’s the professional, shouldn’t she know?

Mistress Calluna winds up bending him over the edge of the cage. The top of it is padded, in black leather because nothing kinky is ever yellow or green. There are rings embedded in the side to tie ropes to, but she leaves him unbound.

“Your partner said you wanted to have fun.” She pushes her fingers through Boots’ wind tousled hair and pulls. He arches his head back and tries to focus on the sensation, not the deliverer, or how she’s come to the assumption that Jordie’s his, his boyfriend or something. “Here’s a fun game. I hit you, cane you, paddle you, crop you, with whatever I happen to find. If you guess correctly what I’m using, I’ll only give you five strokes. Guess wrong, and it’s ten. Then we move on to the next round.”

She doesn’t wait for his okay before letting go of his hair and showily moving to the line of hooks to run her fingertips over all her toys. Of course she doesn’t. Unless Boots safewords, Mistress Calluna can do what she wants. He watches her watching him as she moves her hand, waiting for his subtle cues to a favoured toy. Boots can’t give her that information, but hopes for something simple.

It takes his fingers clenching on the rings nearest where his hands land on the cage to realise he can’t do this. Boots can’t do this. There has to be a line, somewhere. Maybe it shouldn’t have been Wizzle reacting poorly to the student newspaper, and maybe it shouldn’t have been getting kicked out of Tamil’s Eatery during wage protests, but spanked by a heterosexual stranger because Jordie Jones says so is fair. He shouldn’t have to bare down and take this because his dumb friends are dumb.

“Sidney, Sidney, Sidney. Stop, I can’t, I’m just-” Why is he even saying anything to her? He doesn’t have to stay here. He’s not tied down. No one can make him stay here.

Boots shoots out of the studio as fast as he can, and barrels back to the lounge. Things have changed in the ten minutes he’s been away. The Filipino dom has gone somewhere else, but the lounge is full of people now. Beyond Bruno and Jordie are a male and female couple, as well as a group of girls all dressed in pink with silver rhinestones. One of them has a bride sash on. Thankfully that’s not the one Jordie is kissing.

“I don’t like it!” Boots shouts. He feels mortified that his distress comes out in such a childish way, but his chest is feeling tight and his skin has lightning in it.

Jordie breaks his making out with the bridesmaid. He’s got a grin on his face, clearly proud of himself to have bubblegum pink lipstick smeared across his mouth. “The Modern Dungeon not doing it for you? I thought it was the most classic, but if there’s something else that tickles your fancy, I can rebook.”

“I don’t-”

Bruno speaks over Boots, gesturing to the photo album on the floor. “Jordie’s got me for the Medical Clinic, wanna trade? It looks nice.”

“Fucking fuck off, Bruno!”

“Boots. What’s going on? What’s up?”

“I’m leaving. Have fun with this bucket list bullshit, I’m going home.” He manages to keep his tone even, but he can’t stop his body from shaking.

To his credit, Bruno leaps to his feet, instantly ignoring the huddle of pretty women around him. “You’re really going? I mean, I’ll go with you-”

“Bruno, do what you want. You always do.”

“I’m not letting you go home alone. Jordie?”

“If it’s all the same, I’m going to party with the Sinclar group for a bit. I’ll meet up with you later, alright?”

Boots is dismissed, not with a gavel on a podium, but a professionally manicured hand on a fishnetted thigh. He can’t say he’s surprised. He’s always surrounded himself with people who do what they’re gonna do, other people and rules and societal expectations be damned.

The cab ride from the brothel back to the dorms is quiet. And expensive, but Boots has an emergency credit card for a reason. No, it’s the quiet he doesn’t like. He’s upset- No. He’s miserable, and Bruno isn’t trying to jolly him out of it, and Boots knows he should be feeling respected right now, but it just bothers him more. Bruno doesn’t care enough to turn that solid charm on him? Everything is terrible.

They kick their shoes off at the edge of the doorframe. It’s a wet mess from snow melting off their boots in the winter, but for now Boots doesn’t have to worry about wet socks as he passes and crashes on his bed.

When they were fifteen, Bruno launched Operation Popcan. Jim Duffy and Fred Johnston were the saviours of the night, officially, bringing in over five hundred cans after being stranded in Stouffville until six am. But a different kind of saviour were Anthony Ovidson and Jean Luc Marchand. As they biked through the country beyond Chutney they wound up stumbling upon a pot farm, and awake owners. They’d ended up with a side business at Macdonald Hall, plus a few dozen cans. Boots partook, as did Bruno, and Larry, and Wilbur. Honestly, he can’t remember anyone who didn’t try it at least once. Even goddamn Elmer tried it, for science. A few years later, just in time to attend university, it was legalized. Boots doesn’t do it often, but sometimes you need to shake up your perception. When your best friend of ten years and your millionaire superstar friend conspire to get you spanked and you justifiably freak out, and then said best friend offers you a joint, you move to the couch and take it.

Boots inhales the smoke, and watches the glowing red cherry work its way up the joint. If it makes him a little cross eyed, well, so what? Bruno’s seen him much worse. He’s seen him worse tonight. Boots is so occupied with the view that he doesn’t notice at first Bruno smoking his own. Only when he goes to stub the roach in their ashtray does Boots see the coil of smoke dissipating around Bruno. Well, good. If they’re both stoned it’ll make it easier to plaster over his stress and get back to normal.

“You think he’s going to come back tonight?” Boots has ten years of experience never knowing when shits going to get wild. He’s always thought that just this once it’d be nice to have some mental preparation for Bruno, or Cathy and Diane, or Scrimmage, or Sidney, or who or whatever is fucking up his normal day. This time he really means it. If Jordie is coming back in the next few hours to send shit spiraling, he’d really really like to know.

“I think he’s going to take things too far doing stupid shit in public after he’s done at the fetish space.”

“All those women... Someone at that party is going to sell their photos to a tabloid.”

Bruno puts down his joint end, wet from his heart shaped lips. “We can give him a place to hide, if he needs it.”

Boots isn’t excited by the idea. The longer Jordie stays, the longer the campaign of crazy runs. “Or he could go back to, uh, shit. What’s the name of the newest publicist? Eric?”

“Wasn’t he second to last? It’s hard to keep track.”

Boots nods. Ever since Goose passed, Jordie hasn’t kept a publicist for more than a few months. Luck him Hollywood is full of them, he can’t run out. “Well, he could go back to whoever, back to his mansion and home comforts and favourite restaurants. Recuperate his image there. Until the next time.”

“Yeah, until the next time.” Bruno takes a breath, then continues, “you mad at him? At us?”

“I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal. I get how it got to that point, and it’s not like I said no at the bar. I just- It’s not even like it’s a joke that got taken too far, because you both meant it, didn’t you.”

“I’m sorry Boots.” Bruno reaches out and claps his hand against Boots’ jean covered thigh. He always has bombastic body language, but he gets more touchy when he’s stoned. It always results in this; Bruno all over him. Boots likes it more than he should. “We shouldn’t have- Just because spanking is totally awesome doesn’t mean everyone wants to experience it. It’s like not liking mushrooms on pizza. ”

“Did you not see that freakin’ room though? In that fucking picture book of options? There was an X the height of the ceiling with cuffs on it. The wainscotting had like eighty different things to hit people with hanging from it. There was a cage.”

“It’s not always like that!” Bruno protests. “Sometimes it’s just being laid over someone’s lap, ass getting pinker and more sensitive, feeling the heat as you wait for him to slap again. And it’s so good when it finally happens. Like Arizona at noon.”

“Did you just say him?”

Bruno flickers through expressions as he goes through the stages of realising he’s outed himself. It’d probably be worse emotionally if he wasn’t stoned, but sober him is going to be pissed at his stoned self.

“It was a girl first, okay? Do you remember Jessie from Hole In The Brick? Well, we went out, once or twice. She gave me a spanking, and then told me her boyfriend could give me an even better one. The idea freaked me out for a minute, but I had to know. So I tried it, we tried a threesome. Well, I tried. They had one more in a succession that I’ve heard has continued until this day.”

“Why did you never tell me?”

“I... don’t know.”

Boots shakes his head. “No. No, that’s not true. We’ve been roomates for ten years now. If you’re not telling me something it’s a very big choice not to. So why Bruno. Tell me why.”

“Because I wasn’t ready to be gay yet, okay?!” Bruno shouts. He’s sitting up straight now, no hand on Boots’ leg anymore.

“Bruno- You must be bi, at least-”

“My dick, sure. Women are hot. But there’s one thing my brain is attracted to, and it’s a dude, and if that’s all I want forever, I’m gay.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“That’s how it works in every straight person’s head. My parents, my cousins, the people I do five am group projects with. And I wasn’t ready for the shit that comes with that yet.”

Boots can hardly judge him. Boots has been into Bruno for years now, somewhere between Bruno hollering ‘armed robbery’ at Miss Scrimmage and dishwashing duty for the parrot prank. Declarations of love aren’t quite the same as declarations of labels, but they can both change your life.

“Well, this is me officially fucking coming out too, I guess. You’re not alone, Bruno.” He’ll never admit the second part of it, the long time crush, but Boots can at least share the queerness of it all.

Bruno looks surprisingly stricken for getting a confirmation of company. “Are you dating- I mean, do you have a boyfriend?”

Boots makes an one-eighty in a second flat. Maybe it’s the weed, making it easier to communicate, but out comes “how could I, seeing you hook up with girl after girl?”

“Boots. Are you-”

“I’ve liked you since I thought that getting to kiss you would be the be all and end all. I was so fucking innocent, and there you were. It’s only ever been you, no matter what stupid shit you do and I get dragged into. Of course I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“You do now,” Bruno answers.

He says it so simply, and Boots doesn’t know how to deal with suddenly being handled the thing he’s wanted forever on a silver platter. It’s not in his nature to just kiss him, like everything is wrapped up. Instead Boots knocks his left side into Bruno, before resting against him. Boots is the athlete between the two of them, but Bruno’s always signed up for everything Boots did. He’s firm against Boots, built from being on a beer league hockey team. Bruno’s head tilts to rest on top of his.

“You should spank me.”

“What?”

“It’s the only way it wouldn’t be awful.”

“Look, if you’re only doing this because-”

“Let me rephrase. Getting it from you is the only way it will be a turn on.” Boots has wanted Bruno for so long he’ll take him any way, even providing punishment.

“But you didn’t want to, earlier. It’s not like it’s a fetish. I don’t need it to get off. You don’t have to do it, to be my boyfriend.”

Boots huffs, body shaking slightly with the force of the expelled air. He twitches against Bruno’s side. “My entire life has been about facing crazy shit with you. I’m not sure we’re alive if something anxiety provoking and thrilling and eventually joyous isn’t happening. Maybe this is another thing that works when it’s me and you doing it together.”

“Honestly, man, I don’t get those feelings from this. For me it’s just hot. But I always hate doing things without you, and it was killing me that I couldn’t share details without putting my identity in danger. If you say you want to do this with me, then there’s no way that I can say no.”

It’s possible that Boots is fucked up, but Bruno not seeing a wild and crazy thing as wild or crazy just sends the soothing sense of routine through him. They’ve been here before -not this scenario but these bouquets of emotions- and they will be again in the future. This is who they are.

“I’m going to get on the bed now. Unless you think I should stand up or something.”

“No. Go on the bed, you’re right, that’d be beautiful. And you’ll kind of doggie position over me. But do me a favour...”

“What?” Boots asks.

“Take off your clothes.”

It shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, to get undressed in front of Bruno. They’ve been roommates for ten years, not to mention hockey, football, swim team, track, and baseball. The amount of times they’ve been around each other naked and Boots has caught a glimpse is in the high thousands. It’s not like he’s gotten a boner every single time, he’s not that much of a creeper. But there’s a different context to this than all those moments. This time, Bruno is looking at him.

Boots is yearning to touch his dick by the time he crawls onto Bruno’s bed. He could, he knows. He’s on his hands and knees, and he’s athletic enough that he can use one stretched back hand to touch himself while the other holds him up. He manages to refrain, not wanting to look so desperate. It’s the action of only a minute, because by then Bruno has slid under him. It’s positioning Boots approves of, if only because he can get some actual friction on his dick this way.

The first spank isn’t what Boots expected. It’s not a hammer smashing down on his left cheek. Bruno doesn’t go much harder than a high five. The second spank isn’t as expected either. Bruno doesn’t tell him to count, with weighty pause until Boots can bring himself to sniffle the number. Nor is the third, fourth or fifth, because seriously, there is no weighty pause. Bruno isn’t pausing. He’s spanking rhythmically, for all the world like an old man in a rocking chair listening to a tune.

Bruno’s tempo slows down slightly as he starts to incorporate Boots’ right cheek. It becomes no less a rhythm, it’s just back and forth, back and forth. Boots’ lower legs start moving of their own accord. His knees are planted into the mattress, but his calves and feet are going nuts. He can feel the muscles in his calves twitch.

Bruno stops for a second to massage Boots’ ass. There’s the slightest twinge of pressure as he digs his thumbs in, and Boots knows that doesn’t bode well for the future. But he doesn’t protest when Bruno resumes the spanking. In fact, he tilts his hips a bit, so his ass is more pointed up. Bruno goes back to hitting the same spot again and again. He makes deadly precise spanks fifteen to twenty times before moving his hand to another section of flesh and repeating the action. Boots understands what Bruno means now, about feeling the heat. When he’s been tackled or slammed into the boards he’s gotten the occasional flare of heat at the site of the abuse, but nothing that lingers. This is lingering. This is building.

Boots is hard. Despite all the traumas earlier, he’s hard as rock now. His squirming has as much to do with providing friction to his cock as it does the molten pain spreading over his ass. Bruno shows no signs of stopping, repetition drilled into him by a decade of cross sports training.

Things change, for a moment, when Bruno braces his feet against the bed and raises his knees. The sudden slope has Boots sliding inches down Bruno’s thighs, bumping into his belly. It’s a burst of embarrassing reality that’s like biting into a rotten peach. But he makes it through that moment because Bruno’s got him, because Bruno’s always got him. It’s irrefutable truth, that Bruno would rather jump off a bridge than abandon the sanctity of their friendship. Bruno shows it by using the new position to reach between Boots’ legs and grab his balls. Bruno’s thumb moves over them in a way that makes Boots groan. Not Bruno’s name, or some fragment of it that sounds ‘disrespectful’, just a gutteral unending noise.

And then, having given him that piece of bliss, Bruno returns to spanking him. The pain increases, burn going from lava to the surface of Mercury. “Bruno? Can you talk to me?” He’s not going to get through this without the sound of his foreverman in his ears. Way before he acknowledged his romantic feelings he already knew he’d grow old and end up 90 year olds committing pranks in the same old folks home. That homey comfort is what he needs now.

“Boots. Oh man, Boots. I love you, I always have, you know that. You’re such a cool guy, and seeing your ass beet red is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.” Bruno keeps up a furious patter of spanks as he speaks, and Boots legs start kicking. “Just think about all the times we could have had this. Imagine how much better litter duty would have been if your ass was bruised black under your jeans.”

That shouldn’t be sexy. Nothing about that should be sexy; being sexual in public, the implication of being in trouble, violence to the point of bruising. And yet Boots is getting a second flare of heat, not across his ass but in his groin. He wants to come, and he’s too sexually charged and emotionally fulfilled to talk himself out of it. As Bruno’s spanking boils Boots’ skin up to the core of the sun, Boots rocks his dick into the firm yet yielding thigh buoying him up. Everything is compressing and collapsing until his vision greys out and he comes without his dick being touched once.

“Okay, so that’s the hottest thing ever. You mind if I come on you? Return the claim?”

“Do it.” Bruno’s never not had him, but Boots can understand why the visual of spread ejaculate would be nice.

Bruno shifts out from under Boots and onto his haunches. Boots doesn’t twist from his hands and knees position, as much as he’d like to. He can hear the wet slap of jerking off but without Bruno’s say so Boots is surprised when come splatters his ass. You know you’re pretty abused when come feels cool and soothing on your ass.

“So what happens now?”

“Make out. Cool down. The couple I was telling you about had arnica for bruise relief but I don’t think we do, but maybe if we use an ice pack?” They have one in the mini fridge for sports injuries. “Not directly in your skin though.”

Boots hears the rustling of a moving body, then a pair of lying underwear hits him. Boots stands up and pulls them on, gasping when the tight elastic constricts on his purpled ass. Laying on his belly and letting a gel pack mould to his ass only makes Boots clench down at the temperature change, which does not feel good. He’s going to be pretty uncomfortable in class on a plastic chair.

As always though, discomfort turns out to be worth it with Bruno. Bruno lies on the twin bed beside him and turns Boots’ head. They kiss, a culmination of years of suppressed lust, and Boots can’t think of anything he’d rather be doing.