It Started as a Joke (All the Presidents' Beds, #1) Read Online Free

fabric of his pants.  Always to the right of the zipper, some things never change—maybe I was wrong?  Guys don’t just get hard for no reason, right?  I sat down, carefully rubbing my bare ass on his bulge and crossing my legs.
    “So, I call this exhibition ‘Freedom,’” he said.  “Here, click through the slideshow.”
    He moves the mouse towards me.  As he lets it go, he places his rough right hand on my knee and slides it upwards.  He reaches the inside of my thigh and I jump, just a little.
    “Tickles,” I say. 
    “I really wanted to make a statement,” he says.  I feel his fingers brush my hair lightly.  “Slavery may have been abolished 150 years ago, but it’s still a part of our world.”
    He slips his fingers up, nearly to my belly button then begins to plunge them downwards.
    “Wage-slavery, the man who lives his whole life working for someone else.”
    “Uh-huh,” I say, though I’m not quite listening.
    His fingers scratch through my bush, pausing to spread me enough for access.
    “He wants a family, so he puts in more hours, works harder than he should, to get to the point where he’s free to have a family.”
    He grazes my clit once, twice.  The tips of his fingers used to be so soft, but the sculpting must have roughened them, given them new crags and valleys that are unexpected and exciting.  He pushes against my thighs with his thumb and pinky, trying to spread my legs apart, but I hold firm.
    “Uh-huh, and it isn’t freedom?” I say, attempting to keep with his train of thought.  Looking at his sculptures, they are all men.  Gorgeous, naked men with cocks the size of midsummer cucumbers dangling between muscular thighs.  Oh Alessandro, you poor bastard.
    “No, because he gets accustomed to that money, that new standard of living.  And along comes a wife, and along comes a child.  And he’s happy, because that’s what he wanted.  But he’s got to work even harder now.”
    “Yes,” I say.  I’m not sure if I am agreeing with his words or his hands, but now I’ve given up the fight and spread my legs for him.
    “And he thinks, when the kids are grown, everything will be easy.  I will be free.”
    A light brush on my lips, then two fingers are inside me.  A moan.  A smile. 
    “But,” I begin, but now he has taken his other hand and wrapped it around me.  The fingers on his left hand are not as rough as his right, but they still remember what to do.  Waves hit me, and my leg jerks, my foot stamping the floor.  He laughs.  I can still feel the outline of his cock under my ass.  I want to rip his pants off and feel him inside me, but I know I would just end up on all fours with him reaming me.  No passion, no touch, just brute force.
    “There is no freedom except this,” he says.  Little explosions, firecrackers before the grand finale, shudder me.  His fingers inside move rhythmically, hitting that rough patch that makes all thought null and void and renders me incapable of speech.
    “Mm-hmm,” I say.  I turn my head to search for his mouth, but he dodges and ducks and keeps himself in control.
    “Working with your hands, working for yourself and no one else,” he says.  I can feel it, the firecrackers in a long chain, leading, leading...
    Cool as ever, he finally lets me kiss him.  I shove my tongue into his mouth furiously, banging against his teeth as the chain of firecrackers lights the grand finale.  I awkwardly wrap my hand around his neck and pull him in while screaming silently into his mouth.  The muscles in my leg seize for a second, then release, but he’s not letting me fall.  My hips jerk upwards into his hands, my towel comes unhooked, and I’m bare for him to see.  The cold air kisses and bites and caresses my skin adding a sharper edge to everything.
    And for those seconds where all reason ceases and life is only touch, I think that maybe I was wrong; maybe my gaydar was out of whack or I’ve been projecting things onto