Page 24 of Slick & Spooky

It’s slick. It’s safe. It’s… slippery enough.

I toss it to Knox and climb back on the bed, planting myself on all fours and glancing over my shoulder with a grin.

“There,” I say. “Make it count.”

He stares at the tube. Then at me. Back at the tube.

“…Are you serious?”

“Glow me, Daddy,” I deadpan.

His jaw ticks, and then thank god he smirks.

“You’re so desperate for my cock you’ll let me use…” He lifts the tube of glow-in-the-dark makeup between us, daring me to flinch, “…this? To fuck you?”

It’s the same neon stuff I smeared across my face hours ago to complete my skeleton look. Most of what was left on my body is now smudged on his sheets, on his fingers, and across his jaw.

There’s no way this shit’s approved for anything like this. I’m sure there’s a warning label somewhere, something about external use only or keep out of orifices, but who gives a fuck about risk when the I’ve been starving for this reward for months?

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper, too gone to be embarrassed.

The laugh that escapes him starts low in his chest and breaks free like it has a mind of its own, echoing off the walls before finding its way under my skin. It crawls up my spine, spreads through my limbs, and leaves me flushed from the inside out.

He crosses the room slow and climbs onto the bed behind me. I feel the shift of the mattress, the tension in the air ratcheting up as he settles back on his knees.

“My dick’s gonna look like a damn lightsaber.” He pauses, eyes roaming over me. “But I gotta say, I admire the effort.”

“I aim to please,” I mutter, and press back against him, arching so my ass nudges the thick weight of his cock. It twitches in response.

“I can tell,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “Don’t move.”

7

It’s cold.

I try not to shudder as Knox spreads the glow-in-the-dark cream around my hole. It’s thick and shockingly clinical for something so filthy. The smell of something between latex and paint permeates the space. It’s sharp and chemical. It coats the air as he pushes a finger inside, working the slick paste deeper, coating me from the inside out.

I don’t care what it smells like. I don’t care what it is. I just want him to use it.

I breathe through the sting of temperature and tension, heart pounding, skin prickled.

“You still being a good boy?” Knox asks, voice low as his finger drags across my prostate.

I know exactly what he’s asking. Behaving is only the smallest part of it. He wants to know if I’m safe.

If there’s been anyone else.

Between holding out hope I’d get another shot at him and having my liberal politician father who shoved me onto PrEP before I’d even learned what it was for, I’m more than ready to answer.

“There hasn’t been anyone but you,” I breathe.

Knox hums, satisfied by my answer, finger curling inside me causing me to arch back further seeking more friction.

As he works a second finger into me, I reach forward and grab the bottle of poppers. I’ve only tried them once before briefly and impulsively but it was enough to make me want to fall headfirst into sensation all over again.

I twist the cap and lift the bottle to my nose, inhaling deep. The sting hits instantly, punching into my sinuses and spreading like wildfire through my chest.

The heat comes next. Cheeks flushed, limbs loose, spine humming. The world softens at the edges, colors melting into each other like an oil slick. My vision blurs, my head spins, and I feel wide open.