On The Edge (The Brazen Boys) Read online

  On The Edge

  a Brazen Boys story

  by Daryl Banner

  Books By Daryl Banner

  The Beautiful Dead Trilogy:

  The Beautiful Dead (Book 1)

  Dead Of Winter (Book 2)

  Almost Alive (Book 3)

  The OUTLIER Series:

  Outlier: Rebellion (Book 1)

  Outlier: Legacy (Book 2)

  Outlier: Reign Of Madness (Book 3)

  Outlier: Beyond Oblivion (Book 4)

  Outlier: Five Kings (Book 5)

  The Brazen Boys:

  A series of standalone M/M romance novellas.

  Dorm Game (Book 1)

  On The Edge (Book 2)

  Owned By The Freshman (Book 3)

  Dog Tags (Book 4)

  Other Books by Daryl Banner:

  super psycho future killers

  Psychology Of Want

  Love And Other Bad Ideas

  (a collection of seven short plays)

  On The Edge: a Brazen Boys story

  Copyright © 2015 by Daryl Banner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be used or reproduced

  in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover & Interior Design : Daryl Banner

  Cover Model : Nick Duffy

  www.instagram.com/nickduffyfitness

  Photo of Nick Duffy by Simon Barnes

  On The Edge

  a Brazen Boys story

  by Daryl Banner

  On The Edge

  There’s nothing worse than a boner with nothing to look at.

  The walls are drenched in the warm tans and ambers of the sunset beaming through the tall glass windows. It’s quiet. The neighborhood trees sway in the evening breeze, leaves tickling one another in a collective, quivery, summery sigh outside every window of my enormous house, and I still can’t find the right porn to jerk off to.

  Also I ran out of the good wine an hour ago. I’m drinking pink now.

  I gently undo my belt, unzip my pants, and let out my cock over the rim of my briefs. With a yawn, I screw my eyes to the screen of the laptop on my kitchen counter. I’ve had worse birthdays.

  I come across the website the way you happen on a pothole in the road; it’s there before you’re ready for it, and swerve as you might, you still run straight into the fucker. Currently, the website features seventy-two men on cam, each of them vying for your online attention … or, more accurately, vying for the stray dollars in your bank account. Let’s have a private show, they beg of the tens and hundreds of lonely, horny fuckers like me watching them from across the wasted world. I’ll flex for you, they promise, giving a taste with a little twitch of their toned arms, with a shrug of their muscled shoulders, with a bite of their lower lip and a wink.

  I sigh, watching the boys flex and type and wink and smile their wetted lips. Really, it’s just not fair when your porn can talk to you.

  Still other cam boys sit there, bored after spending hours without a bite. Fishers, all of them. Fishers with their own meaty bodies as the bait. Here we are, lost and adrift in a been-there-done-that sea of muscled boredom.

  With one clumsy hand, I go to close the website and accidentally click on the next page. This serendipitous act is what brings me face to face with him:

  Edge.

  It’s just when you’re sure masturbating’s lost its fun that you suddenly find that perfect thing—a rugged face, a breath-stealing double-bicep flex, a piercing bad-boy stare—and then your discipline’s to the wind. He’s revived your faith in a spread of seconds (or muscles) and there’s almost nothing you won’t do for a moment alone with him.

  This particularly rugged boy has his cam aimed down so all you get is his shirted chest as he sits there waiting for his next buyer, his next private show, his next paying whatever. He’s not even willing to show the skin of his sexy pectorals until someone pays to go private. On the side of his page, he’s got a few pics that show face. Hmm. Not lacking in the face department. At all. Maybe I should indulge and pay for a show to see what’s under that shirt. I have the money. Though, for comforting me on a night like this, it’s really too bad all I can get is a few paid-for minutes of long-distance cam time. It can feel so distant, so cold and far away and boring; just like porn, only mildly interactive—provided the performer even speaks English. And to be honest, tonight, I could really go for more than just a face on a screen.

  This is how the trouble starts.

  Hey there, my private message to him begins, my excited fingers typing to mister hot on the screen. I’m Derek. Tonight is about the suckiest night ever. I’ve got another hard-on I don’t know what to do with, I’m out of the good wine, and I’m horny as fuck. I chuckle, bringing the glass of pink to my lips for a kiss, then resume. But I was hoping tonight would be different.

  I’m not going to send this message. I’m a very careful, cautious person, and wouldn’t dream to actually engage one of these guys the way I’m about to do. My only aim, emboldened as I am by this unexpected and comely burst of courage, is to entertain myself on this night of all nights, when the sun is washing my wide, open-floor-plan home with its last lighted tendrils on my anniversary of being born. In the fantasy of my oversexed mind, he is hearing all these words, our mutual interests are being rabidly and horribly satisfied, and I am not alone.

  Instead, I am alone, I add.

  My eyes wander to the man’s pic on the other side of the screen. His fuck-you cocky face. His soul-burrowing eyes. His taut, flexed-when-he’s-just-sitting-there muscles. He goes by the name Edge.

  So that’s where you come in, Edge.

  There’s a large mirror hanging by the dining room table to my right, and I’m trying to ignore it reflecting a very boring view of my nothing, shapeless arms, my stubby nose upon which a pair of glasses rest—black rectangle frames, thick-rimmed and stylish, if I do say. (They cost me upwards of four hundred, so they’d better be.) The rest of my body is covered in a properly coordinated blend of muted colors; a white tee and tan cashmere sweater vest on top, grey pinstriped pants tailored perfectly to my hips and legs. Oh, and there’s my cock poking out, eagerly awaiting some well-earned attention. I’ve neglected it all day, after all.

  I noticed you live near me, I type, stunned by the discovery. He actually lives in my same city. That’s very, very rare, considering most of these cam guys live halfway across the world in Romania or Bulgaria or Narnia. I have lots of money. I can more than afford you. Hah. I love this. He’ll love hearing that, too. These guys only speak one language: the green one, the one that gets you pretty things, the one that speaks of watches and leather and sexy cars. I sip the pink again. Rape my bank account. It’s yours. All the other boys are flexing and biting and squeezing their bodies in my peripheral, filling the other windows on the screen, but Edge is the only one who has my attention.

  Edge and his fuck-you face.

  I know that’s all you muscle boys want. Money, money, money. I laugh. Who knew butchers and cam boy performers had so much in common? Both of you sell your meat for money. I laugh again, a drop of wine spilling down my chin.

  Reminder: I’m not sending this message. That’s a reminder both to you and to me.

  I dressed up for din
ner tonight. But I’ll undress for you. You’d think I were expecting company with the way I’m dressed, but no one’s invited. Not everyone can appreciate a proper fit, but if I’m going to buy high-dollar clothing for myself, I’m making sure every cuff and crease rests where it ought to. Dinner’s in the oven too, I’ve been smelling it for an hour now, starving for it, but I guess I’m starving a bit more for something else. I’ll take off all these stupid clothes that just get in the way of you and me and what we can do to pass the time.

  I’m so fucking fabulous I can’t stand it.

  In one of his pics, he’s wearing a tight white shirt. His head’s buzzed, and what little hair’s there is the black of tar and grease and nothing that reflects light; it’s greedy hair, secretive, suspicious, glaring and dark as jet. You look good in that tight shirt. He has a stud in each of his ears and a piercing through his right eyebrow. He thinks he’s so badass. I bet you look better out of it.

  I smell the crisp quartered chicken slathered in a pool of Italian herbs baking in the kitchen. I can smell that while I’m staring at his chiseled body. It’s so frustrating that his shirtless pic is cut-off halfway down his pecs. You don’t even get to see a nipple. What’re you hiding, Edge? Or maybe that’s what turns me on, how he doesn’t show it all. You sexy fucker. Yeah, that sounds good, I’ll type that. You sexy fucker.

  He’s flexing in another pic where he wears a black tuxedo vest with nothing underneath, and I’m inhaling the aroma of grilled green beans with crisped candied almonds and garlic mashed potatoes dressed in a snowfall of chives that I’ll be eating alongside my chicken. It’s a meal fit for a family gathering of aunts and grandfathers and unfamiliar second cousins whose names you can’t remember, except I’m planning to eat it alone. Happy birthday to me, you pathetic ass-wagon.

  I can’t tell what’s making me salivate more, him or dinner. It’s all so confusing. I’m gonna need a bib for all this drool.

  It’s my birthday, I type to him, and the only thing I want is a visit from you. I take another tiny sip of my pre-dinner wine perched by the keyboard. Here’s my address, I say, typing it out. Just the sight of my own address on the screen to this perfect stranger—this perfectly sexy stranger—makes me all the hornier. Mmm. I’ll leave the door unlocked.

  I laugh because everything’s hilarious. I shove a finger at the glasses trying to slip off my nose and laugh some more. A bottle later and with only pink left, it might be the wine typing more than my fingers. I’ll be naked. Do what you want with me. Or maybe it’s my cock typing. The worse you are, the more I’ll pay. I laugh harder.

  I steal another glance at his pic. It’s like he’s watching me type this, watching me have all this fun. Him and his black hair and his high cheekbones and his full, pouty punk-boy lips, barely parted, ready. Oh, he’s got a lip ring too. You’re cruel not to include a full body pic, I add. What a mean thing to do to a guy on his birthday. I want to know where else you got metal.

  Don’t worry, I’m deleting this whole thing when I’m through.

  I’ll bet you work out seven days a week. I press my lips together, studying his pic again, particularly his tight pecs. Yes, I’m hard, that much should be obvious. Let’s let him know, too; no harm in that. I’m so hard looking at you. I should probably take my pants off.

  Maybe dinner can wait. Maybe this should happen first.

  You’re so strong. Hah. He’ll love hearing that. There’s only so many hours of my birthday left. Come over before I get older. I’m horny and I don’t like to wait. I laugh, finish off the rest of my glass.

  Derek, I type at the bottom.

  The floor is spinning beneath my feet somehow, and I put my cock away and move to the kitchen to turn down the oven. Chicken’s about ready anyway. I also keep the lids on the pots containing the mashed potatoes and the green beans so they stay warm. Might give me an extra thirty minutes or so. That’s probably all I need, judging from the raging steeliness of the weapon I got packed in my pants. Then I change my mind and shut the oven off entirely. I’d hate to underestimate; I may want a few hours for this punk-boy fantasy to play its course. I can’t even smell dinner anymore. The other hunger is taking over. I trade the sheen of Italian herbs for the gleaming sweat that makes a man’s muscles glow. I look at his pic again and find a hand cupping myself.

  Derek, I’d signed the bottom of this message I’m about to delete. I read it over again, top to bottom, just to enjoy the thrill of all the words I put together. They make me laugh again. My hand starts moving, rubbing, moving, rubbing. I stare at my name and feel my heart galloping, galloping, galloping. Just the potential that he could read it excites me. It’s like skirting the edge of a cliff, daring to tip over. Edge. Half the message is this big joke that only I’m laughing at, and the other is this sick confession from a horny, man-obsessed lonely fucker on his birthday. I tell him I want to see him with his clothes off, but really, I like the way a hot guy looks in his clothes; that’s half the fun. The problem with most porn is how eager they are to get all their clothes off. It’s so boring, how every porn is just another set of naked guys you’ve seen before and they’re bumping skin and doing that annoying porn face and grunting and moaning the way the director tells them to moan. I watch most of them on mute now. It’s all so boring.

  But Edge, he isn’t boring. I’m horny and I don’t like to wait.

  Derek.

  Oh! I’m not out of the good stuff: one more left. The last bottle of good wine gently caresses my hand and I smile, filling another glass to the brim. “Happy birthday,” I tell myself. From the cost of the bottle, I’d reckon every glass of wine I pour is about fifty dollars’ worth. Isn’t that amazing? Every sip I take is five dollars in my belly. Do you know what five dollars tastes like? Do you know what fifty dollars tastes like? Three hundred?

  The message stares at me. The sexy punk-boy face of Edge stares at me too. Both words and pic, watching me drink a yellowish fifty dollars’ worth of throat-burn. Under his face, you can read that, aside from offering the typical jerkoff or flexing cam show, he also expresses interest in face-to-face meets … if you pay the right price. He has a list of fetishes he endorses … or fulfills … or likes … or is skilled at, whatever, I’m too drunk to read thoroughly. I’m too distracted by his eyes, which seem to tell me to take all my clothes off, even through the screen.

  I’m still fully dressed. Dinner’s hanging out in the oven. Should I oblige? Head’s spinning worse. I take another sip to help it.

  This dumb jock thinks-he’s-so-hot fucker, staring at me like he owns me. He’s like all the guys I couldn’t get to notice me in high school. He’s like the guy who shoved me into a locker in seventh grade. He’s the guy who sat on me in gym while the other boys tickled me until I passed out. He’s the guy with the bad-boy haircut and torn-sleeveless leather jacket I secretly craved from across the hallway.

  The message still stares at me. Here’s my address. I’ll leave the door unlocked. An idea is forming. A horribly exciting and dumb idea you only get when you’re this horny. Or drunk. Normally I’m so careful, cautious, paranoid. I’m always in control. I’ll be naked. Do what you want with me. But now I’ve formed an idea. A really, really stupid idea.

  I once read this thing that said a horny man is a dumb man. I’d rather think a horny man is a free man.

  Do what you want with me.

  Somewhere between the wine and the message and the punk-ass face of the man-boy staring at me from the computer screen, I realize exactly how I want to get off for my birthday. I rush to my bedroom, pull open the bottom drawer and free from it a smooth wooden box. From this box, two sets of handcuffs and a key. I bring these items to the kitchen counter.

  I’ll be naked. Do what you want …

  With excitedly trembling hands, I swipe off my belt and throw it over the ottoman. My pinstripe pants are soon to follow, folded and tossed over the couch. Yes, even with my horniness and my drunkenness and my excitement, I still take care to properly f
old my clothes. I do the same with my sweater, my shirt, and my underwear.

  I’m a cautious and careful person.

  The room is spinning and spinning. I’m cautious. I’m careful. I’m horny.

  The coolness of the house wraps around my naked body like a wetsuit and I’m still hard as bone. A birthday suit, don’t they call this? How appropriate.

  I’ll leave the door unlocked.

  Giddy with excitement for the epic orgasm I’m about to allow myself, I rush to the front door and, with a play of my fingers, flip open the lock and twist the key and loosen the chain. Anyone can slip into my house now, and that idea alone revives my cock with another rush of gut-churning horn-pepper.

  My bare feet padding along the floor, I hurry back to my sexy laptop of doom, hitting a key to make it come out of screensaver mode, and zoom in on my punk boy’s face and those crushing muscles and that spray of jet-black hair. What a badass. My cock is so hard and every inch of my skin is exposed to the world and the front door is unlocked. I’m horny and I don’t like to wait.

  Naked, I sit on the barstool and take into my hungry palms the first set of handcuffs. With fingers that refuse to keep steady, I bend over and lock my left ankle into the cuffs, wrap them around the footrest bar at the base of the counter, then lock in my right ankle. I’ll bet you work out seven days a week. Somewhere in the ever-present horny recesses of my stupid mind, I imagine it’s Edge locking me down in these cuffs. You’re so strong. I pull at my feet, ensuring they can’t go anywhere until I free them.

  Yeah, we’re getting kinky tonight.

  Awkwardly putting my ass on the barstool—it’s a bit tricky of a maneuver, to be honest—the second set of handcuffs emerge. I click them onto my left wrist, then attach them to a rung in the barstool. Considering he’s my inspiration, it basically is Edge locking me down. With two quick tugs, I verify that my left hand is now officially trapped. My cock throbs at the notion.