Little Touch

Erotic short. A trans bellhop attends to a demanding guest.

500w, cis M/trans M, teasing, humiliation, sex work. Some Arne Seven!

“Over you go, fella,” says Mr Seven, his voice quiet and softly sonorous, and Ikbir drops forward on his elbows, bracing himself on the edge of the old man’s desk, his feet flat on the floor as he puts his ass in the air. He’s holding his breath, waiting for the feeling of Seven’s big hands sliding over his ass and going for the clips on his suspenders, undoing them and easing his pants down, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, Seven’s hand lands on Ikbir’s asscheek, making him jump, and then slides lower, two thick fingers descending between his legs and dancing over his pussy through his uniform pants, making him let out a breathless noise.

“You really want that tip, huh?” asks Seven, as if this is the first time, as if this isn’t the dozenth time, and Ikbir can’t even work up the breath to respond right away, dropping his face down onto his forearms and spreading his legs a little wider, hoping that’s a good enough reply. “Heh,” chuckles the old man, his fingers tracing back and forth over Ikbir’s crotch through the fabric, and it’s a dull pleasure, too much of a tease. “Always get good service at the Grand.”

Ikbir shudders in a breath, but before he can talk, Seven’s fingers trace up to his cock, searching for the slight bulge of it through his trousers before he presses on it, then flicks it with his thumb. Ikbir’s hips jump at the sensation of Seven’s thumbnail dragging over it through the fabric of his pants and his underwear, and Seven doesn’t let up, just keeps flicking back and forth.

“Mr Seven, I can’t — I can’t stay that long,” Ikbir mumbles, reaching up to flick open the clasps of his suspenders himself, but Seven clucks his tongue and grips hold of his wrist, holding it against the small of his back as he pins Ikbir down over the dresser.

Ikbir’s breathing falters, his head spinning, as Seven shifts the position of his hand and puts two fingers against his cock, rubbing it hard in a circle. Ikbir lets out a sharp noise at the way more direct sensation, trying to rock back into the touch, but he’s pinned entirely in place by the grip of Seven’s hand.

“I’m gonna keep at this a little while,” Seven says, and there’s no question in it, no request: he’s just saying, just letting Ikbir know, and it makes him shudder, the casual, easy authority. “Until I can feel you soak right through this little bellhop get-up.”

Ikbir shudders in a gasp. “Mr Seven, I can’t just — ”

Seven drops another fifty on top of the pile right in front of Ikbir’s face.

“You think you can come like this, Ikbir?” he asks, sweet as venom.

Ikbir stifles his moan into his arm, and can’t quite stop his hips from jerking back into the next touch of Seven’s fingers against his cock.