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“Oh God… fucking shit…Luke.”
I dial the toy back so it’s throbbing just a little bit right where he needs it. Then I blow him like I’m starving for his cum. Like I’m delirious from aching for him all day. Which I am. I wore my own skin-tight briefs under my suit…but unlike him, I didn’t get to blow in my pants or hide out in the men’s room. I’m groaning from my heavy balls and steel erection.
Still, I take my time enjoying him. He likes getting licked along the frenulum. I mostly use my lips and tongue, so at the end, when I start sucking, I’m rewarded with another spurt of salty precum.
He comes hard a second later, his hand grasping my hair, his cock shoved down my throat, his whole body quaking almost violently as curses spill from his lips.
When he’s finished, he’s still mostly hard, and when I squeeze his base, he gives a low groan.
“Tired, are you? Roll onto your stomach.”
I lube his hole with careful fingers. If he seems too tired or sore, I’ll wait till I’m back home and jerk off.
“Relax. I’m gonna get this.”
He moans as I work the plug out. Purple dye drips between his cheeks and down his balls. I dab the stuff up with a sheet, spread a little bit of numbing cream around his hole. Then I move my hand and watch his cheeks come back together. I wash up and get a cold bottle of water and a towel-wrapped ice pack from a mini fridge that’s in the closet.
When I go back over to the bed, he’s exactly how I left him, stretched out on his stomach. I check out his back and shoulders. Thicker than before. I think he’s got at least fifteen extra pounds of muscle as he’s moved into his later twenties.
I crawl onto the bed with him, moving slowly because I’m still so hard, and I don’t want to brush my dick over the covers—or him. I stretch out on my side, looking at his face for a second before brushing damp hair off his forehead. “You thirsty?” I bring the bottle to his lips, and he gulps half of it.
“Thanks.” His voice sounds ragged.
I scoot back a little, spread his cheeks, and start to put the soft pack there, but his hand stops me. “I like it.”
My cock twitches. “Do you?”
I trace a fingertip along his purple-stained crack. Then he rocks back toward me.
My pulse surges. “You want it.” I swallow hard. “You want me in you.”
“Yes.”
“You want my fingers or—”
“I want to be used so hard I can’t walk tomorrow. Then I want to fucking sleep.”
I’ve never been harder in my life. I help him shift onto his back and work his cock and mine together till we’re both rock-hard and groaning. Then I fill him up with lube. I rub my thick cockhead against his hole and work my way in slowly, watching his face for pain. But he looks rapt. He’s breathing deep and steady. When I’m pushed deep into him, I raise his legs over my shoulders.
I’m so worked up that it hurts to hold out—but I do, for the first few minutes. He gives a groan and then a hoarse shout as I start to come in harder, faster. He must feel my dick swell when I’m close, because he reaches out and runs his palm over my thigh and starts a grunted litany of, “oh yeah...oh yeah…oh yeah.”
Finally, when I’m shaking and sweating and I can’t help it—I’m about to come—I rub his hot spot, and he shudders my name.
I come harder than I ever have. So hard that by the time I open my eyes, I wonder how we got where we are. I’m slumped half on top of him. He’s got an arm behind his head. He’s sort of smirking at me, even though his abs are streaked with cum and one of his legs is still up on my back. I laugh, and his lips twist into something like a grim smile.
He looks tired but I think…not unhappy.
“Fuck.” He twists his hips, lifting off the bed like he’s sore. Then his tired eyes find mine. “Whatcha gonna feed me, preacher man?”
The doorbell rings right at that second, and his eyes pop open wide.
I laugh at his surprise. “Hang on.”
I feel almost heady as I jog off down the stairs.4VanceFuck, I’m crazy. I wash up while he’s downstairs and think on that the whole time. Everything about today was crazy—I’m not a damn submissive—but I liked it. Let’s be honest—fucking loved the filthy, depraved shame of all that. I’d do it again, I think.
I can’t picture eating with him—if food’s even what he went to get. I figure I’ll come out of the bathroom and he’ll be gone. Instead, I find him waiting on the bed with a brown bag. He’s got his back against a pillow at the headboard and his legs out, ankles crossed in front of him. He looks like a demigod in white briefs. He looks just like I remember, and it makes this feel surreal.
