When Jeff removed his hand from my dick I felt myself cry out involuntarily, my voice coming out in a soft, plaintive moan. Now, with my erection back just as strong as before, the fabric of the jockstrap felt like torture against the head of my dick. It didn't hurt — far from it. The pleasure was so intense that my knees wobbled, and I instinctively reached down to free my dick from its cage.
To my surprise, Jeff's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Desperate, I tried to yank away, but my hand didn't move. He wasn't stopping me — his hand was relaxed, only lightly touching mine, but my arm refused to move.
"Ah, now none of that," Jeff said, grinning impishly, "Not till after I'm done cooking. Honestly, you men and your dicks..."
"P-please sir," I gasped, hating how I automatically added sir to the phrase, "what do you want me to do?"
Instead of responding, Jeff reached up, placed his hand on my shoulder (which was honestly about as far up as he could reach), and pushed lightly down. Without thinking to resist, I followed the motion of his hand, lowering until I was on my knees in front of him. He removed his hand, and, eyes locked with mine, removed his apron.
"I'm going to cook," he said, " and, speaking of dicks, *you* are going to deal with mine. It's only fair. You got me all excited dressing up like that."
His words were matter of fact, like he was discussing a household chore. I looked down to his dark satin briefs, what had been below the apron, and gulped. I could see the tent of his erection straining against the fabric.
Fuck. I was no homo, but...my dick strained against my jockstrap. My nipples were hard too, poking through the gaps in the mesh shirt and sending jolts of pleasure through my entire body. He wasn't going to let me take the clothes off. Not until I took care of him. And, in my sex addled state, I could barely imagine disobeying.