Page 53 of Dance of Defiance

It’s the dichotomy. The way the whole world sees him as this strong, brutal, tough motherfucker…which I'm sure heis…except when he’s with me.

Specifically, when I’ve got him in a position of submission—pinned to the ground, or to a wall. My breath on his neck and my teeth feasting on his ear lobe as his cock twitches against mine.

That’swhat does it for me: he’s this beast to the world, but a mewling little kitten when I’ve got his cock in my hand.

And that fuckingcock.

Personally, I’m a huge fan of my own. It’s my favorite dick in the world, and I feel like I’m qualified to make that call after seeing a pretty fucking healthy collection of them. But Roman’s is quickly climbing the charts and might be a solid second place already.

And you haven’t even fucked him yet…

I scowl and take a heavy pull on the cigarette.

Yeah, you won’t, either.

I’ve decided: this isdone. Hence me not responding to his drunk-ass DMs.

I mean, look, Iget it. I understand that reconciling who you think you are and who youactually areisn’t easy, especially when society still tells you that one of those things is “normal” and the other is not.

Nobody fuckingchoosesto be in the minority of anything, to be banished to the fringe wastelands of “normal-town” where you used to live.

Again, I fucking understand. It’s not like someone gave me a first-class ticket to the coming-out express. I had to fucking fight for it. I bled for it.

But sometimes, that’s what it takes to be free to beyou.

Regardless, this isn’t my fucking fight at all. It’s his—or not, if he decides to stay in that fucking closet he’s made so delightfully comfy and cozy for himself.

Not my problem. Not my issue. Not my concern.

Not my fight.

What I need is a distraction…ideally, acarnalone…so I can fuck Roman out of my head.

I frown, already knowing it's a bad idea as I text Chrissy, one of my usual go-to fuck buddies. Chrissy is basically always DTF, enjoys sex almost as much as I do, and has a very fun clit piercing.

When she doesn’t immediately respond—yes, I know it’s eight in the fucking morning, but still—I send the same message to Gerard,anotherof my regular booty calls.

Gerard is fun because of his lack of a gag reflex. Also, though he's bi, he’ssuperfemme and can take a fuckingpounding.

I exhale slowly, chewing on my bottom lip.

The problem is, even though both these people have been very fun to play with in the past, and are both supremely excellent candidates for milking Roman out of my system via my dick, and even though I literally just texted them asking if they want to hook up later…

I’m not actually interested. To the point that if they text me back, I’m not sure I'll respond.

Fuck.

I was hoping that texting them would erase the Roman situation from my head. But the second I message them, it’s like there’s a little figure on my shoulder, shaking its head and scowling.

An image of Brooklyn as a stern, disappointed fairy, tut-tutting me and waving her wand angrily, pops into my head. Just then, my phone dings.

Chrissy

LOL speak of the devil. We were just talking about u

Another text comes through. This one is a selfie she’s just taken, naked, lying face-down with her ass up in the air and none other than Gerard plowing her from behind.

Chrissy