tagGay MaleUnforgettable

Unforgettable

byMephisopheles©

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DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the result of my imagination or are used within a fictitious context. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, places, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

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WARNING: This story contains graphic descriptions of male-male sexual relations and acts. You must be of 18 years of age or older to continue. If you are offended by the material suggested herein, DO NOT read any further. You have been warned.

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--text-- = thoughts

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Author's Note: Aside from the --italicized text-- to indicate thoughts, I've decided to do away with the asterisk-marked *text* for emphasis. It seemed unnecessary and interrupted the stylistic aesthetics of my works. If any is necessary, emphasis will be noted in italicized text. Cheers!

~M

* * * * *

Brrrrrrriiiing! Brrrrrrriiiing! Brrrr—

"What?!" Maxwell James Becker IV all but bellowed into his iPhone, his snarled outburst jarring me to attention. I didn't have to catch the glower marring his otherwise perfect face to know that he was severely unimpressed with whoever had chosen such an inopportune moment to—in more than one way, figuratively speaking—put their ass on the line.

Once it registered that he wasn't addressing me, I took advantage of his momentary distraction to survey my surroundings, silently speculating the going rate for maid service on the Remembrance Day weekend. Since Becker prided himself on the perpetually pristine state of his penthouse, I knew better than to draw his attention to it now.

The place looked absolutely ransacked.

My gaze fell across the company letterhead, etched in elegant italics on the countless papers scattered haphazardly around us. Bookshelves lacked books; once level picture frames had acquired new angles. Being inclined to display the state-of-the-art everything that his status as a billionaire-slash-marketing-strategist practically entitled him to own, by some saving grace, all of his undoubtedly expensive possessions—like his eighty inch high-def and its custom-built surround sound system, among other things—appeared untouched.

I could see well cross the open-floor layout, noting the teetering torchière propped up by the sofa in the living room that cast wide shadows across the ravaged residence. It bathed a corner of the room with golden light, twinned in double-paned floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an uninterrupted panorama of Vancouver. The waning daylight of the late afternoon reflected off gray clouds, forming a brilliant orange halo that encircled the city. It was a stunningly beautiful view to get lost in...

"I'm busy."

...until that sultry Becker baritone guided me like GPS back to reality. Whoever was on the other end of the line was obviously trying Becker's patience; that he still hadn't hung up on the mystery caller was miraculous to me.

Curiosity piqued, I lifted my head to listen only to have Becker press it firmly back down to where it had been resting on the polished surface of his mahogany desk. Moving the iPhone to muffle it against his naked chest, he touched a finger to pursed lips in a 'shhh' motion, silently mouthing his next words to me: Not a sound.

Cradling his phone between an ear and a shoulder, Becker's hands returned to grasp my hips possessively, casually resuming the deep thrusts of our fucking as if we'd never been interrupted.

On typical Becker-whim, he'd cut short yet another work day to drag me upstairs for more sexual calisthenics, after the first round in his office. And the second in the elevator. When we reached his penthouse, Becker continued redefining both "stamina" and "sexually active." Slow, sensual love-making in his four-poster bed; sucking me off on the couch; mounting me on all fours on the kitchen floor; taking me up against a mirrored wall. Ironically, though, of all the places his penthouse had to offer, he seemed to prefer fucking me over his desk.

Not that I was in any position to argue at the moment. Literally.

--Story of your life, Alex. Stuck between your boss and a hard place.--

"I'll deal with it later." Becker's huffed response to whatever he was hearing jolted me from my deliciously distracting thoughts. He was proving more than capable of conversing coherently over the phone while he had me bent so vulnerably over before him.

Not that his lucidity was a pressing concern for me: I was fighting a losing battle with my own coherence. My brain was too hazy with pleasure to process anything other than Becker stroking my cock in time with his thrusts as he rode me into madness, the slap of his balls against my ass keeping time while he pounded into me from behind.

My cock started twitching in his grasp, a convulsive omen of my impending orgasm. The involuntary clenching of my ass muscles forced a carnal groan from Becker, which he tried to disguise with a fake cough over the phone. I snickered at his attempt, but then it was my turn to cover up for a pleasured moan as Becker retaliated with a deep thrust to my prostate.

Abruptly, he stopped stroking my cock and stilled his movements, snapping something dismissive into his iPhone. I whimpered at the loss of our delicious friction. Ending the call, he whipped his iPhone over to the leather recliner in the corner, muttering something unsavoury under his breath about the caller's "wonder-fuckin'-ful" timing.

"Whassat all 'bout?" I slurred dazedly, nodding towards his discarded phone.

"Nothing you need to worry your pretty little ass about."

"I think the noun you're looking for is hea—" I was cut off from the thought as, with an unexpected powerful motion, Becker flipped me over on his desk, raising my legs and slipping both over his broad shoulders. The position made me feel open, closer to him, and gave him better access—which is, I suppose, why he chose it. Placing himself at my lube-slicked entrance, Becker entered me in one smooth motion, sheathed to the hilt. Leaning over my body, he pushed his forearms under my back so his hands were cupping my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. Our gazes met: mine, heavy lidded with lust; his, teasingly warning me to brace myself for the invariably hard and inevitably pleasurable fucking I was in for.

"Makes no difference to me." His sultry whisper sent chills up my spine as he began with slow, driving thrusts, which as I expected quickly escalated until every pistoning push of his hips started lifting me from his desk. Soon, his movements became deep enough that each one would strike my prostate, causing me to clench convulsively around his cock. Squeezing my eyes tightly enough to see little Fourth of July fireworks, I started moaning passionately; loudly enough, too, that Becker leaned over to smother my mouth with his, still thrusting firmly to strike at that magical little pocket of nerves in me.

My inner muscles tightened their hold on his hardness as I came, hard. His lips and tongue worked effortlessly to capture my cries of ecstasy as he thrust powerfully into my constricting tightness once, twice, three times. His mouth opened on a wordless shout and I could feel him pulsing deep within me as we came together. Minutes passed like hours as my body milked the final few spurts of release from his stiffness.

After some time like this, he reached between us, carefully holding his condom at the base of his softening member as he pulled out from my body with a groan of sated desire. Suddenly, he was gone from my sight and, distraught, I moaned for him, my semi-conscious mind struggling against sleep as my eyes fought to keep him in view. No sooner had he gone, though, did he return to my side, gathering my pliant form in his arms and carrying me to his bedroom.

Settling me into his bed, he crawled in beside me, touching butterfly-light kisses on the hollow of my neck, trailing them up my rough, unshaven jaw towards my lips as he drew the goose-down comforter over our bodies. Taking care not to crush my slighter frame, Becker molded himself to me. He held me securely in his embrace, his fingers lightly caressing my arms as our breathing slowly returned to normal and the pounding pulse of my heart resumed its measured lub-dub tempo.

He said something to me then, something my drowsing consciousness didn't quite register on account of our making love rendering me unintelligent, as was the standard. I think I might have mumbled something back at him to that effect. His warm laughter echoed into the silence, and the last thing I remembered before darkness finally claimed me was his long, lingering kiss.

* * * * *

Brrrrt! Brrrrt! Brrrrt!

Three sudden, staccato vibrations from the glass top of Becker's nightstand jolted me into consciousness. Disoriented by the star-peppered darkness of the sky outside, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes in halted zombie-like movements, glancing to the alarm clock bathing the room in a baby blue light: 5:37. I couldn't immediately remember falling asleep, or how or when I'd gotten to his bed, but if the warm body behind me was any indication, my imagination could fill in all the sordid details my short-term memory lacked, and then some.

Another longer buzz and a musical note, this time from Becker's iPhone, drew my attention back to where both had been placed on the nightstand. I made a halted movement to retrieve mine, briefly unable to comprehend my restricted mobility before I realized that Becker and I had fallen asleep with his body possessively curled around mine. I attempted to squirm out of his grasp for my phone, gaining maybe half a centimeter before he tightened his clutches around my waist.

"An' where d'ya think you're goin'?" he purred, lazily rasping five-o'-clock shadow along the nape of my neck. I shivered involuntarily at the sensation, but kept trying to escape his hold, grinding my teeth in frustration.

"Cell phone," I grunted. "Gotta check."

"Bed," he retorted. "Check. Later."

"Not later. Now." I managed to reach over and snatch my Sony Ericsson from the nightstand, squinting against the LED backlight to read the calendar reminder I'd set a week ago: Dinner w/ G'ma. Genevieve's @ 6:30. Dress nice. A feeling of dread chilled me as I checked my phone for the time, mentally kicking myself for having forgotten my plans. It was now 5:40.

"Oh, fuck me!" I shot out from Becker's hold, scrambling furiously to find my clothes.

"Already did, darlin'," he drawled, propping himself up in bed and eyeing me intently. "Many times, in many ways. Need a reminder?" Desire flared in his eyes, smothering all traces of playfulness as he reached for me.

"Nuh-uh, Becker," I dodged his outstretched hand, shaking my head. "I reeeally gotta go. I'm already going to be late for dinner, and my Grandma—shit!" I stared at him in panic. "Where are my clothes?"

Becker looked at me with half-lidded eyes, then around the room, pointing in various directions where he had discarded my clothes after tearing them off me once we'd gotten upstairs. I began retrieving what I could from wherever he pointed, throwing it on hastily. I was about to reach for my shirt when he cleared his throat meaningfully.

"What?" I turned to look at him.

"You're not wearing that to dinner, are you?" Eying me, he grimaced in slight disdain, and I followed his deliberately dropped gaze to where my dried cum stained a spot next to the zipper.

"Like I have any other choice," my shoulders dropped, defeated. "You're huge." I watched his eyes light up in arousal as he stood to stretch. "That's not how I meant it," I insisted, instantly reddening. "What I meant was, it's not as if you have anything lying around that would fit me, and I can't go home and..." I trailed off, immediately wary of the mischievous grin crossing his face. "Becker...?"

He shook his head dismissively, dazzling me with that smile of his he knew turned one part of me hard and the rest to Jell-O. Taking me by the shoulders, he brought his lips to mine in a soft, sensual kiss before spinning me in the direction of the bathroom, urging me towards it with a slap on my ass.

"Get in the shower, Michaels. You'll see."

* * * * *

"How in the holy hell did you get a tailor-made suit for me in less than twenty minutes?!" I asked, bewildered by how good I looked wearing what was undoubtedly the most expensive suit I might ever wear in my lifetime. After a shower and a fresh shave, when I'd stepped out from the steam-filled master bathroom, my eye caught the black garment bag lying out next to Becker on the bed. Before I could ask, he'd unzipped it to unveil a black, private-label, custom-fit Holt Renfrew masterpiece.

"Same way I get everything else I want: I asked."

His tone was nonchalant, but I could read the satisfaction in his eyes as they wandered my body. Earlier, he had teasingly pouted as I dressed before the full-length mirror of his walk-in closet, putting on a pair of his own grey sweatpants even as he was remarking how much better I looked taking off clothes than putting them on.

I caught his lustful stare reflected in the mirror, though the look I gave him was skeptical, to say the least. "You never ask." He simply shrugged.

"You know how it is: I know people who are people who can fire other people. Just made a phone call."

As if on cue, his iPhone rumbled on the nightstand, and he padded over to pick it up. I was fairly certain he was exaggerating, but with Becker you never can tell. I could only imagine the jobs he'd jeopardized in return for my new, this-could-probably-feed-a-third-world-country-or-two attire.

--On that note...--

I stared at myself dismally in the mirror. "This cost you a lot, didn't it?"

He waved a hand dispassionately, transfixed by his phone. "You ask too many questions. It's never a matter of money for me, Michaels. Besides—" Turning away from his phone, he let his gaze slide up my body, slowly, with a predator's grace, memorizing every inch down to the most minute detail. Possessively.

"—a better question for you to ask might be, 'How in the holy hell did I get your exact measurements?'"

It was a better question. --Jaw, meet floor.--

"Ho...b-bu... y... m...wha—?"Unsuccessfully attempting full words, I settled for syllables before giving up entirely on verbal questioning in favour of gesturing frantically up and down my expensively-dressed person. Becker reached over and shook me jokingly by the shoulders.

"Buh-buh-buh-breathe, Michaels," he teased in stutter. "I wouldn't want you to faint." He paused, a mischievous expression returning to his face. "Then again, my CPR is a little rusty..." He pulled me closer, leaning in, lips parted.

I shook my head to shake off the trance his sensuality imposed, denying the sexual heat stoked by his suggestiveness. "Dinner! I have dinner to get to, remember!" My hands defensively pushed against his chest to keep Becker at bay, with results comparable to pushing an eighteen-wheeler up Mount Everest.

"Ugh. Killjoy," he groaned with mocking emphasis, sizing me up before nodding sharply and releasing me, idly sweeping the floor with his eyes. "You'll do. Where're your shoes?"

"Somewhere in the den, I think. You know, when we...uh..." I reddened significantly at the memory of the various positions I'd been in just hours before, quickly making a beeline for the other room.

"Riiiight, the den." Becker intoned knowingly, stalking me lazily, his footfalls silent on the dark hardwood. I retrieved one shoe from under the recliner and another from beside his desk, trying hard not to think about how they got there.

"I don't think I'll look at a La-Zee-Boy the same way ever again," I muttered.

Becker laughed, a rich, warm rumble, and shadowed me from the den to the foyer where I knelt down to tie my shoes. His iPhone buzzed again, and I looked up to watch him read something on the screen, his expression unreadable, before he began texting rapidly. I raised an eyebrow and he caught my questioning look.

"It's nothing, just an appointment I made that's been rescheduled." He replaced the phone in the waistband of his sweats as I finished tying my shoes. Standing, I smoothed the wrinkles out of my suit and adjusted the matching tie.

"How do I look? Good?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but words never came. It was obvious from the way he eyed me now that he'd intended to say "abso-fuckin'-lutely" or something along those lines, or maybe say nothing at all and haul me back to his bed, over-the-shoulder, caveman style. Instead, he settled for snatching a set of keys from the small table in the foyer, tossing them to me. "P5. Silver Bentley on the left. Don't worry, I won't make you bring it home with a full tank," he grinned, and I couldn't help but grin back.

"You never cease to surprise me, Maxwell Becker."

"I would hope not, Alexander Michaels. I don't plan on stopping now."

Before I could turn to leave, he grabbed me by my tie and dragged my lips to his, claiming me in a possessive soul-stealing kiss, which slowly tapered off to a soft peck on the lips as Becker ushered me towards the elevator in the penthouse's antechamber. Blissfully dazed by how wanted he made me feel, I missed the 'call' button three times before successfully pushing it, and just as the elevator doors opened, Becker called after me:

"Save some room for dessert."

* * * * *

Thanks to Becker's ability to prepare for anything that required high-end attire well in advance, I'd made it to Genevieve's in good time, arriving shortly before six-thirty with just enough time to hand the Bentley's keys to the valet and zip through the front doors.

"My Alexander!" My grandmother Rosalina Wyndham greeted me enthusiastically. It had taken mere seconds to spot her: she had chosen her favourite seat by the magnificent gas fireplace centered in the middle of the restaurant's lounge, and she waved me over to her cheerfully. I caught the gaze of a very attractive dark-haired woman in a red dress eying me from the bar across the room, but I came to Genevieve's for the one and only woman who mattered in my life.

"Grandma! God, I've missed you!" Seeing her smiling and healthy, a warming happiness filled me as I greeted her with a gentle hug and kiss to her cheek. Having lost my mother at a young age, and never having known my father, both my maternal grandparents had no hesitation taking me in and raising me. I'd been brought up by the most loving people and in the most loving home in the world and, as a child, couldn't think of any greater source of my happiness.

Ever since I could remember, our little family would come to Genevieve's for all sorts of occasions, special or otherwise: getting my braces off; passing Driver's Ed; my high school graduation; my first house. Now, it was just me and my grandma, and since the special occasions were getting fewer and farther in between, we'd make up some reason to treat ourselves to a night out every once in a while.

We didn't have to make one up this time. Her doctor called a week ago to refund her last hospital bill, as the debt had already been repaid in full a month before. I hadn't realized we'd balanced the books so quickly. A few years back, my grandma wound up with a broken hip and fractured ribs after an icy slip. As my granddad had passed away three years prior, I'd taken it upon myself to pay for my grandmother's physiotherapy and other medical bills. Already weighed down with construction shifts and a crappy gig at HMV, I'd never thought I'd find another job to fit my already packed schedule, let alone one that could help subsidize bill payments. But ever since I started working at Becker Advertising, my bank account had gotten a little larger. I vaguely recall confronting him about it, but I think I dropped the subject altogether when Becker dropped my pants.

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