HIS HELPER- PART 3

  A HAND, A HOPE, A HIKE

  BINK CUMMINGS

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Next in the Series

  Social Media

  Also by Bink Cummings

  His Helper- Part 3

  Copyright © 2023/2024: Bink Cummings

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contact the Author:

  Email: BinkCummings@yahoo.com

  Editor: Mary Sittu-Kern

  Cover Designer: Bink Cummings

  CHAPTER ONE

  Finn

  “How’s the book coming along?” my editor asks through the speakerphone as I sit at the kitchen table, looking at my computer screen and the blur of words there. The insane number of words. They won’t stop flowing.

  “Didn’t you read my email?” I check.

  The woman chuckles, light and airy. “Yes, Finn, I read the email. But I am worried about you.”

  Worried. Worried. Worried. Bleh. They’re always worried when I get lost in my world and forget I’m real and human. A human who needs sustenance of the food variety. Not sex. Though, as of late, that’s been far more important than nutrition. Oh. And sleep. I guess sleep is good. That’s what humans need, right? My warriors, they survive on little. They don’t need a solid eight hours of rest. When I’m on a journey with them, through the dark forest, in search of a relic or the queen, then neither do I.

  When I’m not journeying, I’m baking. A lot. If I’m not doing those, I’m fucking myself. On the couch. In the same place he fucked me the first time. The first taste I’ve had of a man. Of strong hands and a deep voice. Of beautiful eyes and a kind smile.

  Ignoring her concern, I admit something to my editor that I’ve just recently admitted to myself and to him… Beck. A man I don’t know anything about other than his name and what he looks like. I know he drinks tea and likes to eat the food I prepare. Apart from that, I know nothing of real substance. Somehow, that doesn’t bother me. Somehow, it doesn’t taint the warmth I feel when thinking of him. Or the fire that burns bright when he’s in my presence, in my space, filling it with masculine energy.

  “I just realized I’m gay,” I tell her, for no other reason than to get her off my back about writing nonstop. I’ve finished two books. Two. Yes, two, in just three weeks. Since the first meeting with Beck.

  In response, the woman, full-on, collapses into a fit of teenage giggles. I’m not sure if I should be offended but decide it doesn’t matter one way or the other. I’m gay. I am a little late to the party. I’ve still arrived, though. Now that’s something.

  Relaxing in my chair, naked as I always am, I wait for her to catch her breath before she gives a worded reply, “It’s about time you realized.”

  “You knew?” My tone is shrill. This is news to me. If she knew, why didn’t she tell me? That could have saved me a lot of trouble over the years.

  “We all know.”

  I frown, staring at the glowing screen of my phone, arms crossed over my chest. “How?”

  “For starters, when your character takes a male lover, the passion is far hotter and more intense than with the females.”

  My eyes roll.

  Semantics.

  “It’s fiction,” I argue.

  “You don’t date women,” she volleys in return.

  “I have.”

  “And you always find something wrong with them when you do.”

  Rolling my eyes a second time, I don’t bother explaining myself. My editor knows nothing of my tastes. She knows little of me. Women are beautiful. Just because I don’t picture myself screwing them or sucking their breasts means nothing. Then again, maybe it does. I don’t know. Nor does it matter. I’m out. She knows, and Beck knows. Those are the only two people who should be aware.

  “Don’t you have two books you should be editing right now?” I tease, changing the subject to more professional matters.

  Not happy by the brushoff, she harrumphs. “Yes. I’m sure they’re amazing. I’ll let you know when they’re complete for you to go back through.”

  With that, I hang up and get back to work. Again. Because I haven’t heard from Beck. Not since he left yesterday. I’ve not had the heart to reach out. He drove here. He can be the one to reach out or not. If he doesn’t, then I’ll deal with it like I did the first time he cut ties—ache a little but throw myself back into writing. It’s the perfect balm for every pain.

  Before I turn into skin and bones, I slice a hardy piece of bread from a fresh loaf, smother it in homemade garlic butter I churned this week, and devour it as I reread through the three chapters I’ve written thus far today.

  As it always goes, it’s dark outside before I resurface from my fictional fantasy land. Much to my surprise, there are three texts from Beck awaiting me. My stomach swoops and dives to the soles of my feet at the mere view of his name glowing on my phone screen. Biting my bottom lip, hands shaking from nerves, I open what I hope to be good news. Not him blowing me off. Because after the vow yesterday of wanting to be in my life, I’m nothing if not giddy. Trust me, I don’t take the word lightly. Up until now, I didn’t know what that word represented outside the context of a book.

  In the wise words of Alexander Pope—Hope springs eternal.

  And with it…

  Anxiety.

  Lots and lots of anxiety.

  Yay me!

  When I notice paragraphs lying in wait, I shut down my computer, tidy up the kitchen, use the restroom, and retire to the bedroom for the night.

  In the comfort of my bed, under the ever-watchful eye of a crescent moon and its companion stars, I break down and read the text thread.

  Sent almost four hours ago.

  Finn, I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to reach out. I had an amazing time with you yesterday. On my drive home, I kept replaying what happened, and I wasn’t sure how to start this conversation. I made a lot of promises. All of which are true. But I left out one important fact… I’m in a relationship and have been with the same man since college. We don’t live together. It’s an open relationship. He has other boyfriends, but I’ve never strayed from the relationship before. I’ve never wanted to. Sure, I’ve done my job as a helper, but I’ve never kissed another man, let alone had sex with one, since we’ve been together. I didn’t think about how this might affect you when I said what I did. We don’t know each other well. But the connection is there. We both feel it.

  Soaking up the honesty in his words, a sickness churns in my gut at the knowledge he has a life partner. Of course, he does. An ugly knot forms in my throat. An ache radiates in my chest, just beneath the breastbone. I suck in a sharp, difficult breath as I reread the paragraph three more times before moving on to the others.

  Sent an hour and a half ago.

  Finn, I’m worried I haven’t heard from you. I would love to talk about this. What all this means. What you want. What you expect. I’m an open book. Ask me anything. I don’t want to lose this before it has time to begin.

  Sent fifty minutes ago.

  I’m going to sleep soon. Please get back to me whenever you’re available. I look forward to talking this through. I’d like to come and spend a day with you this weekend if you’re free. Thinking of you always—Beck.

  Eyes falling closed at the thought of seeing him this weekend, I squeeze my hole and revel in the ache he put there with his hand just yesterday. Filling me, his palm around my cock, making me come for the first time from jacking off.

  I recall his angular face, his mossy eyes, and the warmth he brings. It fills me—my lungs, weaving under my skin like the finest of silk.

  Beck has a life partner. He’s also a helper of other men, making them come in ways I can only imagine from the posts people have shared of his kindness and expertise.

  As sick as it makes me think of him doing what he does to me with others, I can’t be angry. Since the very beginning, he’s been honest and upfront. He could’ve kept me in a fantasy bubble where only we reside, only for it to burst one day and drown whatever we were growing in a dark reality he never disclosed. But he didn’t.

  As we all know, I have minimal experience with dating, let alone relationships. What I don’t lack is my need for honesty, even if it makes me uncomfortable. That’s why the day he left me in the living room, reeling from our experience, I didn’t pussyfoot around what I felt. I didn’t deny my urges or the feelings it evoked. I embraced the reality. I was turned on by a man. Not just because of what he did to me, but because of his presence, his voice, his touch. The whole package. Had that been a woman, I probably wouldn’t have had the same reaction. The thought of it going an
y differently than it did, with who it was with, puts a bad taste in my mouth.

  I believe everything happens for a reason. It gives us something to learn from, whether that be positive, negative, or something in between. Sure, I don’t like being exposed to the outside world because it overstimulates me. It’s far too much, too fast. But I do love to experience life at my own pace. Beck is giving me that. A rare, cherished gift to discover pieces of myself I didn’t know existed.

  Thanks to his patience, I get a chance to decide what works for me.

  He’s not pushing me away.

  He’s extending an olive branch.

  One I’m going to take because if I don’t, I’ll never know what could be.

  Boyfriend or not.

  Helper or not.

  Beck’s enchanting, and I do enjoy a dash of enchantment in my reality, not just between the pages of my books.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pacing my living room, dressed in worn jeans, a navy-blue Henley, and my decades-old hiking boots, I wait for my visitor to arrive.

  Beck’s coming here today.

  Now.

  Right as we speak.

  Our conversations this week have been of the textual variety. Simple and vague. My choice. Not his. After mulling over his original messages, I decided I couldn’t commit to anything other than a day together this weekend. There was also nothing significant to communicate through the phone, even though he felt otherwise.

  He wanted me to ask him questions. To try and get to know him better. To build a stronger bridge for connection. I couldn’t do that. Not superficially through the phone while he was off doing whatever he was doing in his own world, apart from mine.

  When we’re together, we’re together.

  When we’re apart, the divide and differences are tangible.

  As childish as it may sound—We like each other.

  Simple.

  He’s also in a committed relationship and a sexual helper.

  Facts.

  Where do I fit into things? I don’t know, and that’s okay, or so I keep telling myself.

  This weekend, we’ll see if we can be in each other’s presence long before I’m begging to be taken again, and again, and again. This morning, I preemptively came twice in the shower. I am dressed in clothes. The toys are secured in my bedroom closet to avoid temptation. The living room lube is hidden, as is the bathroom lube and the kitchen lube. If he wants us to get to know one another, I’m doing my best to facilitate that in person, not through modern technology.

  Fiddling with my thumbs, I stare down at the raging erection beneath the fly of my pants. He doesn’t care how many times we’ve come today. He is like a dog, excited for his owner to return home.

  The gravel crunches outside, and the hair on my arms stands on end. My heart beats a lot faster. A car door slams shut, and I almost prematurely come in my pants at the sound. Boot heels scrape across the porch, and I forget to breathe.

  He’s here!

  Shit. He’s here.

  A stain blooms on my denim. Okay, maybe these weren’t the best choice of clothes to wear, but I have plans. Normal plans. Not sexual.

  Beck knocks twice, solid and firm. I gulp air, staring at the wooden door as an entire murder of crows wreaks havoc on my insides, clawing and biting. I know, it’s usually butterflies. Only it’s not this time. Butterflies are soft and sweet. Nothing going on inside of here is soft or sweet. It’s dark and scary. It’s so damn intense my hands shake as sweat drips down the sides of my face.

  I card both hands through my messy hair.

  Another knock.

  I step forward to let him inside.

  I can do this. The crows can’t win.

  They…

  I grip the outline of my aching cock as every step intensifies the battle within. Oxygen locks in my lungs as I turn the cool brass knob and open the door quickly before I change my mind. Not that I will.

  There he stands across the threshold—Smiling.

  Those kind eyes train on me, assessing. A bag is slung over his shoulder, the same as the first time he visited. Unable to move, I stand, fixed in the doorway, in his way, staring at his thick, perfectly sculpted body. My mouth waters as his nostrils flare.

  I nearly come when he says my name, “Finn,” as if he’s elated to be here, as if he adores me. Me, the odd hermit.

  Without seeking permission, the man in expensive combat boots steps closer until my front’s fitted to his. He peels my hand off what I’m trying to hide and presses it to the front of his black cargo pants and the bulge there. Eyes sliding closed in a mix of nerves and desire, I suck in a sharp breath as I feel it. My first touch of another man’s cock. It’s firm yet soft. Long and thick with a fat mushroom head. It’s delicious.

  “Is this okay?” he checks, and I nod dumbly because, yes, this is okay. This is amazing.

  “It’s big,” I fumble out, cheeks heating from embarrassment.

  Beck laughs, warm and deep, as he squeezes his hand over mine, forming it around his girth. The fool I am peeks shyly at the spot between us where I’m touching another man. Where we’re connected. Ever patient, Beck doesn’t stop me when I unbuckle his belt and fumble awkwardly to undo his button and zipper before pushing his pants down to his knees right in my doorway. He sets his bag on the ground just inside, next to the backpack I packed for today’s outdoor adventures. His hands cuff around the top of my doorframe, those massive biceps flexing in his tight, gray shirt like some stupidly attractive person would do when modeling.

  “Go on,” he encourages, and I slip my hands inside his boxers, pushing them down until his big, beautiful, uncut cock bounces free. I gasp at the sight.

  Thick veins and the head poking halfway through his foreskin. A bead of arousal on the tip. I smear it in with my finger, and he hums his approval. My hole clenches at the sound, and I shiver, happy to have made him happy.

  “Wrap your fist around it,” he instructs gently.

  I shake my head.

  I’ve never… This is…

  The crows are strong. They hurt. Fuck.

  Pressing my palm to the middle of my stomach to calm the feathery jerks, I chew on my bottom lip, breath coming in sharp pants.

  Rubbing my sweaty palms on the front of my pants, I rake my gaze over the specimen before me. His hair’s a tussle of dark, falling every which way, as he watches me with those mossy green, kind, caring, soul-touching eyes.

  Beneath his tight V-neck t-shirt, Beck’s chest rises and falls as fast as mine. That tapered waist leads to—It, his dick, and a pair of firm nuts dusted in dark, neatly trimmed hair.

  “Go on,” he encourages. “Do whatever you want, Finn.”

  Again, I chicken out, intent on staring like a creeper.

  Like an idiot.

  Like a novice.

  I can’t do this.

  I don’t know how.

  Not wanting anyone to see a naked man in my doorway, I step back to let Beck inside. He doesn’t move, arms still up, hands cuffed over the frame, ass exposed for the world to see. Not that they would up here on the mountain. But they could. It could happen.

  “Beck,” I croak, begging him with my eyes to come inside for us to talk. I shouldn’t have exposed his dick. What was I thinking?

  Another bead forms at the tip of his glans.

  I watch it slide down his head onto his foreskin.

  My mouth waters, and the crows crawl up my throat as my dick throbs in time with my pulse.

  He eyes it beneath my fly and the mess it’s made there.

  Beck smirks as if he likes what he sees, and I’m not a fluttery mess of disappointment.

  “Take him out.”

  I gulp.

  “Go on, handsome.”

  With unsteady fingers, I unbutton and unzip my pants, but I don’t go any further. “Are you… are we?” I fumble, unable to form a coherent sentence as I stare at his erection.

  “Do you want me inside your ass?”

  Yes.

  No.

  No.

  I open my mouth to reply, lips moving, but nothing comes out. Not any words, that is. Broken, needy, embarrassing sounds fill the air.