27. Fetish

Reese opted to have a small mugful of each kind of soup (so he could try them all) and only half a sandwich. Finch followed suit, realizing rather belatedly that he was ravenous, and not just because he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. The past couple of days had been filled with… somewhat strenuous activity, by his usual standards. Not that he wanted to stop or slow down, of course; he had never felt so good, so healthy, or so satisfied. The massages had worked wonders on his body, even lessening his limp, but having an outlet for his male needs (which he’d repressed for years) was reminding him how good it really was to be alive, and made him feel younger and more invigorated.

Which was just as well, because Reese was obviously eager for more. He’d been licking a pickle spear for a few moments, waiting to get Finch’s attention, just sliding the long, quartered pickle over his tongue, back and forth, then pushing it all the way into his throat when Finch finally noticed what he was doing. The way he slowly pulled it back out through his puckered lips made Finch gape and all but drool.

“What’s for dessert?” Reese asked in his cool, calm voice.

“Ah… I, ah… I’m sorry, John – I didn’t think to pick up anything sweet,” Finch replied, carefully setting his mug back on the table. His hands were trembling, to his dismay.

“Well, we’ll just have to make do with what we have, won’t we?” Reese smiled before sucking off the pickle one last time, making a loud slurping noise.

“I beg your pardon?”

You can be my dessert,” he answered with a smirk. “You’re certainly… sweet enough…”

Finch gulped as Reese knelt on the floor in front of him in one smooth motion, his blue eyes glittering as his hands gently spread out the older man’s legs and unbuckled his belt.

“Remember when we were… talking… on the phone the other day?” Reese asked, unzipping Finch’s fly very slowly, making sure that his middle finger stroked Finch’s privates through the fabric, all the way down the side of the fastener.

“Wh—which time was that?” Finch rasped out, gripping the armrests of his chair rather harder than was necessary.

“The time when… I told you to do… exactly… what I told you to,” Reese elaborated, his hands still moving with tantalizing deliberation as they opened up Finch’s clothing. “When I was coming back from the Hamptons… when I made you stain your… trousers…”

“Oh… yes, o—of course,” Finch managed, his breathing already labored. “If I remember c—correctly, you had a similar… accident… with your trousers, too, didn’t you?”

“I did, Harold… and it was all because of you,” Reese said, pulling out Finch’s male member on the last word. It was quickly beginning to grow in length and girth, stiffening under Reese’s delicate fingers. “My, what a big… pickle you have,” he murmured with an appreciative smile before placing it on his tongue and swallowing the head into his mouth. “Mmm…” he hummed, closing his eyes in obvious enjoyment. The vibrations sent a tingling shock wave up to Finch’s brain, which responded by sending the signal for All Systems Go down to his organ, although it hardly needed the encouragement. Just seeing the handsome man’s lips enclosed around his most sensitive appendage, his slightly stubbled cheeks hollowing every time he sucked on it, was almost enough to drive Finch over the edge.

“M—Mr. Reese… John,” he gasped, “Ah… Are you sure… that’s what you want… for dessert?”

Very sure, Mr. Finch… Harold,” Reese teased, having pulled back to release the other man’s manhood, only to rub its tip against his cheek, smearing a transparent bead of fluid on his own skin. The scratchy sensation excited Finch even more, making his organ rise to near vertical. “But then again… we can’t be having any more… accidents… now, can we?” Reese added. “So we’d better put your trousers… somewhere safe…”

Nodding rather shakily, Finch allowed Reese to assist him in pulling off his trousers as well as his underwear, which the younger man rose to drape over the chair he had recently vacated. Reese slowly unbuckled, unzipped, and undressed himself of everything below the belt before resuming his servile position in front of his employer, who watched every one of his actions, transfixed and speechless.

“You know what would make this… extra special, Harold?” Reese said as he playfully rubbed his lover’s large member in his hands.

“Wh—What’s that?” Finch asked with some difficulty, his mouth having gone dry.

“If you wouldn’t mind… taking off your shoes… and socks…” Reese informed him, running one hand down his bare, furry leg and pushing down the top of his sock. “You know how much I love… touching your feet…”

“Oh! Of course… Whatever you like…” Finch answered.

Having received carte blanche, Reese made short work of removing both pairs and proceeded to place his own straining manhood along the top of Finch’s foot, rubbing that soft patch of skin with the leaking tip, this time smearing his own fluid on his lover’s body. A slow moan grew out of Reese’s throat, almost like a growl, as his eyes closed of their own accord and he reveled in the novel sensation. He then crouched down, almost sitting on his knees on the floor, so that he could rub the underside of his male organs along the top of Finch’s foot – which Finch obligingly pointed up with his toes curled to keep from scratching him. Reese guided Finch’s manhood back into his mouth, and while he rubbed what he couldn’t fit inside with one hand, with the other he wormed his fingers under the older man’s scrotum to touch that section of anatomy which he had claimed as his own.

“Oh… Oh, John…” Finch groaned, assaulted by almost too many pleasurable sensations for even his brilliant mind to keep track of. The slow frotting on his foot was somehow very delicious to his senses as well, since he could see in Reese’s face how much he was enjoying it. Of course Reese couldn’t speak, as he was sucking on Finch in time with thrusting against his foot, while his fingers were rubbing him in intimate places that, until a few days ago, perhaps nobody else besides his mother had ever touched.

“Oh, John… oh, god… I’m going to… Oh! OH! OHH!OHHH!

Finch came with multiple trembling gasps, each time having his privates squeezed with just the right amount of pressure. What came as a shock to his numbed mind was the fact that Reese had never pulled him out of his mouth – all of his fluids were deposited inside that warm, welcoming cavern, to be swallowed down with eager suckling noises.

“Oh… John… You didn’t have to…” Finch protested, half apologetically, but Reese’s lips curved into a smile around his sated organ.

“I know… I wanted to,” he panted in reply before licking Finch’s length from base to tip. “Dessert was… delicious, Harold,” he assured the stricken man.

“Well… ah… I’m glad to… oblige, if that’s really… what you wanted,” he mumbled, too exhausted for the moment to even be properly embarrassed.

Reese gathered up both of Finch’s feet to hold them together and pressed his own still-unsatisfied male member along the middle, until the tip touched his ankles.

“Look… We’re a perfect fit, even here,” he remarked happily, repeating the motion and pressing down on his manhood with one palm.

“Oh! John… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” Finch began, feeling the hardness of that length. “What can I do? I don’t want you to do all the work, John…”

Reese considered this for a moment before he grinned with inspiration. “I know what you can do for me, Harold,” he purred, lifting Finch’s feet and planting them on either side of his own legs. He then slid his lower body under Finch’s chair so that his privates were just in front of the edge and, lying down, he replaced Finch’s feet on top of his leaking organ.

“Touch me with your feet, Finch… Touch me until you make me come! You can be as rough as you like – don’t worry, you won’t hurt me,” he coaxed with a coy smile.

Finch stared at the sight of the handsome man lying exposed on the floor, and tentatively rubbed him with the sole of one foot. When Reese sighed with pleasure, he tried pumping him alternately with both feet (the rhythm much like milking a cow), and Reese encouraged him by panting and calling his name, preventing his own hands from assisting by unbuttoning his shirt and clutching at the seams, thereby exposing his long torso to Finch’s raking eyes. The way Reese’s stomach muscles clenched told Finch very clearly where he liked to be touched, and he found that by gently undulating his foot in one position, the heel anchored under the other man’s scrotum, he could massage his balls in a way that made him raise his voice in ecstasy. When he rubbed his big toe along the edge of the crown, Reese squirmed but did his best not to move away. When he pinched the shaft between his big toe and second toe and pressed up, Reese writhed in exquisite agony and begged for more.

“Don’t hold back, Harold – I like it rough! I wish you’d tied me up, before we got started… Like you did that one time…”

Remembering when and why he had done so, Finch reflected for a fleeting moment how far they had come in their relationship. Reese was trusting him to touch him – not even with his hands, but with his feet, which were far less dexterous – in the most personal area of his body. While he himself could not imagine reversing their current roles, he had (much to his own surprise) allowed Reese to penetrate his body in a manner which he would never have imagined before; and not only had he allowed it, he had found it to be pleasurable. Based on that discovery, he was willing to consider the possibility that “playing it rough” might actually give his partner more pleasure than he (with his limited experience) could know, and began kneading Reese’s privates with more enthusiasm.

“Oh! Ah! Oh! Finch! Ah! Ahhh! Harold! Yes! Yes! YES!YESSSSS!

Finch did not let up his assault on Reese’s manhood until he was certain that every last ounce of fluid had been pumped from it, spattering on Reese’s scar-studded chest and abdomen. Feeling, through the soles of his feet, the shiver of pleasure that traveled along Reese’s body was extremely satisfying. Finch had to admit that there was a sense of power coursing through him as he looked down on the other man – so strong, confident, and controlled – and realized that he had given him that pleasure. Not that he had any illusions, of course; he knew that Reese had only allowed him that privilege. But Reese could have chosen anyone, man or woman, in all of New York City, and yet had chosen to bestow that honor on him, one Harold Finch. A multi-billionaire, yes, but a man past his prime, with physical limitations and a receding hairline.

“You know… I meant to thank you this morning, and never got around to it,” Finch said softly. “I really wanted to say it when we went to the diner, but kept missing the right… moment.”

“Thank me?” Reese echoed, panting. “What for? I should be thanking you.”

“For giving me… a life worth living again. For making me feel… alive again…”

Reese gazed up at him with eyes that were undimmed despite the massive release he had just experienced, and felt a surge of love that had little to do with his physical state, but everything to do with his emotional.

“Well, Harold,” he drawled, “turn about is only fair.” He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his bare buttocks not even feeling the cold of the floor due to the hot blood still pumping through him, and placed his chin on Finch’s bare knee, noting that the modest man had pulled the tails of his dress shirt to cover himself. “You convinced me that my life was worth living again, and now… I have someone to come home to.” He placed a tender kiss on Finch’s thigh before adding, “I feel alive again, too.”

Finch reached out to run his hand affectionately through Reese’s hair.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Say, Finch?”


“Can you grab me that box of tissues? I’m afraid I’m dripping all over the floor now.”

Finch complied with alacrity while Reese pulled the wastebasket closer.

“Once you get cleaned up, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, with a note of suppressed excitement in his voice, “I was wondering if you’d care to join me for some… ‘retail therapy.'”

“I would love to, of course! What kind of retail therapy are you talking about?”

“The two-wheeled kind, Mr. Reese. I’ve looked into it online, and I think it would be a useful investment for our… enterprise. What do you think about the Ducati brand?”

“I’ve heard very good things about it,” he replied, less eagerly than Finch had hoped. “But it wouldn’t be practical to buy something that will be stolen the first time I park it on the street…”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Reese – I can set it up so that any unauthorized access will cause the engine to shut down.”

“Oh, Mr. Finch,” Reese responded, batting his eyelashes up at him, “you can be my Sugar Daddy anytime!”



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