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OLIVIER
For the record, I’ve had better sex, and it’s myself I’m judging on a scale of how well I think I performed. Off the record—I’ve never come that hard in my entire life.
I’ve never had anal sex before, so maybe it always feels like that, but somehow, I doubt it. The women I’ve been with over the last few years have all been experienced lays. They know exactly how to work their cunts to yield maximum pleasure, some better than others—hell, Elodie could teach a master class—but there’s a performative aspect to sex with women that was not happening in my bed tonight.
First, because my need to fuck Drew was so ferocious, I didn’t even have time to think about finessing it, and second, he just bent over and took it. He was barely even trying. And yet, whatever he was doing, whether it was purposeful or not, got me off harder and faster than any penetrative sex I’ve ever had—and I’m including my first few times here, too.
I have a go at slowing down my breathing as I look down at where my raw cock is still planted in his ass, and the image burns itself instantly into my long-term memory. Spreading his cheeks, I watch with fascination as my slick reddened dick slides out of him, reappearing an inch at a time until the tip bumps out of his hole. He lets out a harsh breath.
Pearly white cum drips from his puckered opening, sliding down his taint and onto his heavy sac. My gaze follows its path as it pools on the comforter beneath us.
My mouth is hanging open, and my eyes go hazy with a mixture of lust and satisfaction. Lifting my gaze again, I watch as even more of my cum trickles out before his hole shutters closed, looking raw and abused.
Something, I don’t know what, has me bending down to press a kiss to it.
He startles, but when I lick a stripe through his crack to soothe whatever ache he might have, he sighs.
I don’t press the issue, although that small taste has me nearly feral. I guess I do taste a little like caviar.
I sit back. Waiting for the moment I get to see his face, and terrified of what I might find there. I act casual, climbing out from between his legs and lying back on the mound of pillows while he sits back on his heels. His hand is covering his cock. Without a word or a glance my way, he gets off the bed and heads for the bathroom, hand on himself the whole time.
I look down at my utterly spent dick and notice in an offhand way that I’m trembling. Adrenaline plays a part, but there’s something more insidious at the forefront—shame.
Shame is a relatively new feeling for me. I never knew the meaning of it until I’d faced my parents that day at our last brunch with the lawyer. That was the first time I’d felt the slime of it coating me, and the wish to take a pencil and erase myself, or hit some sort of universal delete button on my existence.
I suppose there comes a point in every man’s life where one realizes that “fun” has a timestamp on it. That shit happens to everyone, not just poor people and the middle class. It’s like that old song—No one here gets out alive.
I admit, I used to think Jim Morrison meant death. He was lowkey obsessed with death, after all. But now I think he also meant that we’re all fucked over by life at some point. And then we die. But also to like—have fun?
I don’t know anything anymore. The things I now know for sure about myself I wouldn’t even need a whole hand to count. The shame is uncomfortable, though. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything to be ashamed of, and yet, there’s no one here to reassure me I haven’t.
I hold my breath when the bathroom door opens and Drew appears with a towel around his waist. But like—what is he covering up? His own shame?
It would be a clown show if I tried to dig the edge of my comforter out from under all these pillows to try and cover myself, too, so I try to act as nonchalant as possible, crossing my feet at the ankles and casting a glance his way.
Not one to let myself stew, or God forbid, let anything percolate when the quickest way to solve my problem is standing right in front of me, I ask, “Well?”
Drew’s cheeks are slightly flushed, and his lower lip is swollen, but I don’t know if it’s from my kissing or his biting while I was fucking him, which he bore with grunts of hard labor and the occasional lewd groan.
But right now, he looks like a wet dream—if I’d ever had a wet dream about a man. I greedily take in the sight of his upper body, all tattooed and glistening, his hair sweaty and pushed away from his face, his blue eyes even brighter than normal. I have to remind myself he invited himself over. He wanted to be here. He might not have wanted that, but he did say he wanted me, and that was about the rawest, most elemental version of me he could have gotten.
“We’re gonna analyze this?” he asks. “Now?”
“I didn’t ask you to analyze it. I said ‘Well.’”
“Well…it was different.”
“And?”
“Dude,” he sighs.
“Because I can do better.”
He lifts his brows. “You’re worried about your technique right now?”
“What should I be worried about?”
“I don’t know. Whether my asshole is bleeding?”
