Bi to Who You Think You Are

After a few minutes he was grunting and squirming. I glanced at Samara and saw that her face was flushed with excitement. She was enjoying this just as much as Brent was.

Well, almost as much. Brent let out a cry and raised his arse off the floor, desperately thrusting into the Fleshlight as he came. Samara and I let him push his length as far into the tube as he wanted, listening with delight to his groans.

'Oh honey,' Samara cooed, when he was done. 'Is that better?'

He nodded. 'Thank-you Ma'am.'

She reached over and lifted his blindfold up. His face was red and his hair was messed up, but he was seemed very happy.

'Thanks Sam,' he added softly.

She nodded her understanding. Then she jerked her head in my direction, and asked him what they should do to me.

I squirmed a little as their gazes settled on me.

'Get naked,' Samara told me.

I glanced at Brent. He raised his eyebrow expectantly. He was still handcuffed, and his cock was still shiny with lubricant and semen but he was... no, I can't explain it. I can't justify it.

All I know is that I stripped naked, and when I was completely nude, I let her lay me on the floor. She took off Brent's handcuffs so that his movement was unrestricted, and told him to sit on my legs so that I couldn't move them. Then she removed her knickers, knelt over me, and sat on my face, so that her pussy was pressed against my mouth and she was facing Brent.

'Start licking,' she told me. 'Firm, continuous movements.'

I could feel the weight of Brent on my thighs, and the weight of her on my face. I'd never been into eating pussy. It had always seemed awkward and difficult. I understood that a clitoris existed, but I didn't really know too much about it. I never offered it, and those who asked for it usually pushed me away within minutes, frustrated at my lack of ability.

Samara, needless to say, changed that. She realised I was hopelessly lost, and gave me the sort of instructions I really should have been given - or asked for - ten or fifteen years ago.

Was I happy about it? No, not initially. I was extremely embarrassed that my inability to perform cunnilingus had been bought to light, and I was terrified that despite her instructions I wouldn't be able to bring her to orgasm.

'That's it, keep going you little slut,' she ordered, pushing herself back and forth against my face. 'All that wetness is because of you. Drink it. Drink up my arousal.'

That was when I truly noticed her taste, tangy and yet mild, pleasant and yet utterly unmistakeable. She was extremely wet, and her clitoris was now hard and engorged. I wondered how this must look to Brent. We must've made an interesting spectacle; an ex-league player laying beneath a beautiful businesswoman, trying to make her cum.

I wanted her to orgasm. I wanted her to climax not because I was sick of eating her out, but because I wanted to hear her cries. With newfound enthusiasm, I licked at her clit, hard and enthusiastic, and welcoming every moan she let out.

'She's going to come,' Brent told me. 'I'm playing with her tits. I'm going to start sucking them. She's leaning forward and I'm pulling them out of her bra. You should see her nipples, Leeam. They're fucking huge and they taste almost as good as what you're tasting.'

Samara leant forward slightly so that Brent could access her breasts. I was so fucking horny, but my primary focus was on making this voluptuous Domme come on my face while Brent sucked her nipples. Every ounce of energy I had was focussed on satisfying her. I wanted, no needed, to make her climax.

Less than a minute later, that was exactly what happened. I was almost smothered by her, and she wasn't quiet. Her moans filled the room and her juices filled my mouth and overflowed down my chin. My head was squeezed between her thighs and my cock was twitching uncontrollably. Was I aroused? I was more than aroused, I was so horny I couldn't think straight.

When she was satisfied, she lifted herself up and moved forward a few inches so that she was sitting on my chest. Her two round cheeks were in my face, and I couldn't see what she was doing. From the pressure on my legs, I knew Brent was still sitting on them. I felt displaced, as if I were not really in the room. The only thing grounding me was my arousal. I neither drink nor take drugs but this felt like a definite high.

She leant to the side and picked up the Fleshlight. 'You're going to fuck the Fleshlight,' she told me. 'Brent's jizz is still inside it, so you won't need as much lube as he did.'

There I was, lying on dirty hotel carpet, with a face covered in her wetness, and with my cock inserted into a Fleshlight that was fouled with Brent's semen. I realised Samara hadn't been treating me as my equal. She'd been toying with me. She'd been letting me believe one thing, only to rip it all away from me. I was nothing. I was dirt. I was a toy to be used, something to leave on the floor and use for their sexual satisfaction. I wasn't even worth of a clean sex aid.

Did I care? No. I revelled in my current state. I rolled my tongue around my mouth, enjoying the lingering taste of her. I groaned with satisfaction as my cock was inserted into the Fleshlight. This abasement, this display of how low I was willing to sink, was a thrill.

I started to fuck the Fleshlight with gusto. I couldn't thrust much because they had me pinned to the floor, but that just made me even hornier. I knew how disgraceful I looked. I knew how pitiful and pathetic. The football star that women had once fawned over was now being abused. Samara and Brent knew I had desires that I hadn't dared dream about, and they were showing me who I truly was.

My balls were incredibly full. The Fleshlight was pulling at my cock, giving it the sort of stimulation you need to try to believe. I already knew I'd be buying one on my way home. But for now...

'I'm ready,' I cried out. 'I'm ready, I'm...'

And then, just when I started to orgasm, Samara removed the Fleshlight.

'Fuck, put it back, put it back,' I screamed, thrusting upwards. 'I'm coming, put it back, I can't feel anything.'

Even though I was asking them to put the Fleshlight back in position, I was desperately trying to move them both off me so I could touch my cock. Samara stayed in place just long enough for it to be too late for me to salvage my orgasm, at which point she neatly stepped aside and fell onto the carpet, laughing sadistically. Brent stayed on my legs but he, too, was exploding with mirth.

I reached down and grabbed my cock, frantically milking the last of the semen out.

'Oh shit,' I swore. I shut my eyes and tilted my head back, intensely humiliated. 'I was coming when you took that away.'

'I know,' Samara spluttered with laughter. 'You should have seen your face.'

I didn't know how to feel or react.

'You did that on purpose?' I asked.

She looked at me expectantly. 'Is that how you refer to me?'

It took me a few seconds to realise my error.

'Did you do that on purpose, Ma'am?' I asked.

She smiled at me with good humour. 'Indeed. Did you enjoy it?'

I burst out laughing. 'No! Fuck.' I buried my face in my hands and tried to make sense of what they'd just done to me. 'Jesus. Talk about shit I never saw coming.'

They laughed with me, and together they helped me to my feet. She and Brent took exceptional care of me that evening. They bathed me, they made me green tea, and they laid in bed with me and cuddled me. We barely spoke, but none of us needed to. There was an understanding between us.

It was a wonderful night. When we left I was on an incredible high, and couldn't wait for the next day. All I wanted was a repeat performance.

~~~~~~~~

The conference ended at lunch time the next day. Before we made the journey back home, Brent took me shopping.

'What do we need to get?' I asked.

'Something for Samara. Something to say 'thank-you'.'

'But if she's expecting payment, doesn't that then make her a sex worker?'

Brent shook his head and continued to walk down Queen Street Mall. He obviously knew where he was heading. 'No. It's a thank-you gift, not payment. There's no minimum spend.'

Brent might not have been concerned about money, but I was. I was earning about a twenty percent of what Brent was, so money wasn't exactly something I had in plentiful supply.

'How much is this going to cost us?' I asked.

'I'll pay,' he corrected. 'And I have no idea what it's going to cost. It'll depend on what I find.'

I followed him into an estate jeweller's. He seemed to be reasonably confident on what he was searching for, and it took him less than fifteen minutes to locate a pair of earrings he was happy with, negotiate the price, and purchase them.

'Did you want me to give you some money towards them?' I asked, as we headed back into the Mall.

'No, I told you I'd pay.'

I mulled over last night, and the present Brent had just bought.

'Does Samara see a lot of men?' I asked.

'No.'

'But she sees you.'

'On occasion.'

'Why?' I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.

'Are you asking why I'm special?' he inquired, bemused.

'In a way I suppose I am,' I agreed. 'No offence meant.'

'None taken. It's a reasonable question and one I'm probably not equipped to answer. Women like her are a rarity. Am I worthy of her time? No, I don't think so. That's why I always try and find her a gift I hope she'll like.'

'Why did she agree to let me get involved?'

'It probably amuses her to think of a rugby player who could have any number of beautiful women lying at her feet.'

'Do you think she'll tell anyone?' I asked.

'Never. It's a personal joy for her.'

We stopped at a kiosk to buy water for me, and Coke Zero for Brent. I paid, not that it would ever go anywhere near repaying what he'd done for me.

The Mall has always seemed grimy and dirty to me, but it seemed even more dingy after my time in Toowoomba. I realised this was no longer my home. I was changing, and in a way I felt was for the better.

On the way home, Brent asked if I was straight.

'I don't think so,' I replied, thinking back to last night, when I was sandwiched between his and Samara's bodies.

'I thought as much.'

We didn't talk any further on the topic. All the same, I felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I was ready for whatever the future held.

Or so I thought.

~~~~~~~

Sometimes you develop feelings for someone without ever realising exactly what it is you're doing. That's how it was with Brent. What I thought was admiration was lust, and what I classified as 'respect' was something more.

He assures me that if I'd asked him to dinner, or made a move on him, he would have said 'yes' without any hesitation. In fact, when he asked if I was straight, that wasn't just a simple question about my sexuality but an opportunity for me to talk to him about taking our relationship from 'friendly and professional' to 'sexual and romantic'.

But I missed that opportunity. And, to be frank, I wasn't ready to ask him out. I needed to take it more slowly, more cautiously, to feel comfortable. I knew my sexuality was shifting, but making the change from 'clean living, heterosexual white man' to 'kinky bisexual' was cognitively difficult.

It wasn't until he did something that left me feeling incredibly hurt that I truly realised I wanted him as more than a professional mentor.

What did he do? A month after the convention, he found another job. Or, rather, he was headhunted and accepted a 'new and exciting opportunity, which we regret means Brent Alwood's employment with our company will cease immediately', as HR put it as they stood beside Brent half an hour after he'd quietly submitted his resignation letter.

'Leeam will be reassigned to Roger Mitchell, who in the interim will be acting in Brent's position,' the HR representative continued.

That was news to me. All of it was news to me. Why hadn't he told me he was leaving? These things didn't happen quickly, so it must've been in the pipeline for weeks. Maybe it started before the convention, or maybe after. I didn't know.

I tried to appear happy, but inside I was seething. What happened to loyalty? Fuck, I'd thought he respected me. How could he possibly respect me if he was so eager to jump ship without even bothering to give me the heads up?

There were informal farewell drinks for him that night, which doubled as a celebratory event for Roger, who was being temporarily promoted to a level well above his current one. Plenty of people attended, including Samara, who had just finished her first week as a business owner. She and Brent were thick as thieves, laughing and talking between themselves. They gestured for me to go over, but I ignored them.

I was livid. Like, what the fuck was Brent playing at? We were in the middle of several important projects. We were supposed to go to a meeting together the following morning. Roger had already made it clear to me that he expected me to do most of the talking, but how could I do that? I couldn't.

The betrayal was felt both personal and professional. Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. There was no way I was going to have a drink with him and his Domme friend and pretend that everything was hunky dory.

Instead, I had a drink with a few of the other boys. I rarely drink, but that afternoon I did. I wanted to be part of the new team and I knew that in order to do that, I couldn't stick to mineral water. Brent was one of the few men who would tolerate a non-drinker in his midst.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe I'm just using the booze as an excuse, but either way, the evening soon took a downward turn. The men I was with had started talking about Brent, and were asking me how I found working with him.

'He was great,' I admitted.

'How was the conference?'

'Oh, yeah, it was good,' I replied.

'He didn't try to put the moves on you?'

The men laughed, as if this was a hilarious joke. I forced myself to laugh with them. I wasn't surprised they knew he was bisexual, because although he wasn't one to announce it in a parade, he didn't hide it.

'No, I'm not joking,' the man continued, red-faced from the alcohol and sweating heavily in his suit. 'He asked one of the analysts from Huntington Edwards out to dinner after a seminar they both attended in Sydney. It wasn't just 'dinner' he was asking for, if you know what I mean, although Stuart didn't realise that until they were sitting at the table together.'

Even in my tipsy state, I felt both angry, betrayed and embarrassed, both for myself and for Brent. Careful. Brent should be more careful. And did he have a habit of hitting on men he'd met through work? Were Stuart and I just numbers in a long line?

I can't repeat the rest of the conversation because it doesn't transfer well to paper both in the way the banter was exchanged, and in the words and phrases that were used. Suffice to say that I had a laugh at Brent's expense, and made a few comments that would have left my family ashamed had they heard them.

Brent heard them. He seemingly snuck up from nowhere and tapped me on the shoulder, and immediately the circle of men fell quiet.

'Sorry to interrupt, fellows,' Brent said. 'I'm heading off. I just needed to give Leeam a few pointers about the meeting tomorrow before I go, if you don't mind.'

I slunk off behind Brent, praying that he hadn't heard what we'd been talking about, even though I knew from the tight expression on his face that he had.

He took me outside, to a quiet spot on the pavement.

'I thought all you sports stars had to do media training these days,' he said.

'Yeah, we do.'

'So did you not pay attention, or did you forget to shut down a conversation that could potentially have negative career implications?' he inquired, using the tone he always had when he was trying to teach me something. 'Do you realise how offensive that conversation was?'

'I... I'm sorry.'

He sighed impatiently. 'Maybe revisit what you were taught. Networking is one thing. Displaying bigotry is another.'

'Didn't you say that even white men have to play the white man's game?'

'Play it, Leeam. Not enforce the rules.' He gave me a hard stare. 'Why are you angry?'

'Because you just up and left without telling me,' I muttered.

He snorted. 'And why did you enter mining again, Leeam?'

I thought back to our conversation at the coffee shop. 'For the money.'

'Tell me, then, why it's personal. Why it matters that I'm leaving for a better opportunity. This isn't football, mate. I don't have fans who're expecting me to show up and go for gold. I'm trying to earn a living.'

'But you and I, we were working as a team.'

He raised his eyebrows and grimaced. He didn't believe that at all. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few sheets of paper. In between leaving the office and arriving at the pub for drinks, he'd put together some notes for me.

'Here,' he said. 'This will help.'

'Can I call you if I get stuck?'

He hesitated for a split second, before telling me that wouldn't be appropriate. All the same, he said, he wished me well.

We shook hands and then he left, walking down the pavement in his immaculate black suit, his brown hair perfectly styled, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow. He was heading to a better career and, no doubt, less homophobic mentees.

I stood on the side of the road for longer than I should have, thinking about him and Samara. They seemed a world away from the sweaty, red-faced idiots I'd been talking to. Although Brent and Samara understood the need for discretion, they were comfortable in themselves. They didn't have to sneer derisively at others to make themselves feel good.

It was with a very heavy heart that I turned around and went back inside the pub. This was my future now.

~~~~~~~

The next month was miserable. I hated working under Roger who was careless, disorganised, and quick to point the finger at me if anything went wrong. I missed Brent's strong leadership, natural charm and willingness to teach.

No doubt you will consider me fortunate that for my first white collar role, I had a mentor like Brent. I would entirely agree. All of my life I had enjoyed having people barrack for me, support me, and guide me. Perhaps that's why I felt so aghast and dismayed by the way Roger treated me.

I was also missing Brent's company on weekends. On several occasions he'd invited me fishing with him, and as he taught me to bait and cast a line, we'd discussed the working week in detail. He loved the water. He told once he hadn't learned to swim until he was a teen. He was a country boy, and he could muster cattle, ride a motorcycle and was reasonable on a horse, but learning to swim had been considered an unnecessary endeavour.

At an age where I was swimming at state level, he was learning to master freestyle but whereas for me swimming was a means to an end, a way of keeping myself fit, for Brent it was a key to a whole new world. He learned to fish, to snorkel, to scuba dive. He spoke enthusiastically about the Great Barrier Reef and the South Pacific Islands.

Some four or five weeks after he'd left, I heard a rumour that Brent had been having family troubles. He'd been spending his weekends in St George. One or both of his parents were dying. A week after that I caught a glimpse of Brent in a coffee shop. I would have gone and said 'hello' except that he was very obviously in the middle of a business meeting.

Despite the friendly smile dancing on his lips, and the attention he was giving his companion, he was obviously tired. There were dark shadows below his eyes, and he'd lost weight. I wondered if I should try texting him on his personal phone or whether that might be considered inappropriate.