I know that he’s just being typical jokester Eggo, but I’m so immediately on board with this.
“Okay, here’s the kitchen. There’s the garden.” I grab his hand and drag him through the hall.
“Living room.”
Up the stairs.
“Bathroom. Study. Guest bed. My room.”
I shut the door, locking Trekkie on the landing, and Eggo looks around, taking in the decor, his eyebrows raised. The walls are painted a deep leaf green because I read somewhere that green is calming and beneficial for sleep, but he’s looking at myStar Trekmemorabilia and I know he’s already planning his escape route.
“Should . . . um . . . should I put some music on?” I say. I wonder if he can hear my heart jackhammering through my ribcage.
Eggo doesn’t answer me, doesn’t mention the five toy USS Enterprises displayed on a shelf above my bed. Or the Millennium Falcon, or the vintage ’90sJurassic ParkJeep Wrangler, or the replicaFifth Elementstones, or the multiple Groot Funko Pops. He simply smirks, wets his lips, then he’s kissing me, rolling his hips against mine, sandwiching his erection between us.
When we got back to the Cents’ grounds, most of the boys went into town for drinks. I drove straight home, and even though I’d showered at Gloucester, the first thing I did was jump in my shower here, brush my teeth, and wash my ass.
If my shitty parents taught me anything, it was that you should always tidy up when guests come over.
“I washed my butthole,” I say, then slap my palms over my face because why? Why, God? And now, how am I supposed to live the rest of my life knowing that those words have, at some point, escaped my lips?
Eggo sits on the end of the bed and tries to pull my hands away. I relent after a few seconds, but my cheeks are burning up.
“You’re such an interesting person.” He says it with his head cocked to the side like he’s figuring out a riddle.
“Interesting” is an interesting word to choose. It’s fairly neutral, but could hide a wealth of other meaning, and I’m trying not to let my mind pick over only the negative definitions I can conjure. Luckily, distraction comes in the form of Eggo’s fingers tugging at the hem of my T-shirt and lifting it up over my stomach.
I finish the job and remove it, tossing it over to my chair. He says nothing, doesn’t take his hoodie off, but his lips part as his eyes slide down my abdomen and land on the waistband of my trackies. I’m painfully hard and these pants leave very little to the imagination. The next second, Eggo grabs my face and pulls me on top of him.
We roll about kissing, hands travelling everywhere, hips thrusting, trying to glean friction from any available surface. When I’m flat on my back, Eggo pushes to his knees and tugs his jumper with his T-shirt glued to the lining over his head. His freshly showered scent washes over me, before he hooks his fingers around the waistband of my pants, pauses for consent, then inches them down to my feet. He kicks them away as though they’ve personally offended him.
He takes in my nearly naked form and resumes his attention on my mouth by shoving his tongue into it. I pull off my jocks, and Eggo stops kissing me to look down and up my body, greedily hovering at my cock. He doesn’t hide his gaze. Evidently, he doesn’t feel shy knowing I know he’s staring at it.
“Fuck,” he says, grabbing the front of his shorts and dragging the heel of his palm over himself. “Can you?” He motions for me to flip over on the bed.
I do as he asks, and over my shoulder, I watch his eyes grow into saucers as I pop my ass into the air. He’s on his knees again and crawls into position behind me, and unless I turn my head,I can’t see him, but gentle hands caress my buttocks and then a finger or thumb lightly presses against my hole.
My reflex action is to clench, which makes both of us laugh.
“Is this okay?” he says, like he’s out of breath.
“Yes.”
“Can I . . .” His words are even quieter.
I’m not even sure I know what he’s asking for, but I answer anyway. He could do anything he wanted to me right now, and I’d say yes. Finger me? Yes. Fuck me? Yes. Golden doughnut? Sure, why the fuck not?
Instead, the bed creaks, the mattress bounces, fingers part my cheeks further, and something much softer, warmer, and a little scratchy caresses my hole. His lips and tongue. The scratching is from his beard, and I don’t hate it. If anything it’s . . . affirming.
I cry out. The sound is twenty times louder than what I intended, and I’m trying to concentrate on the sensation rather than replaying echoes of my moan inside my head. He circles my hole with his tongue, and I have to bury my face in the doona so that I can continue to make noise. When I shakily look back at him, his jocks are bunched down under his balls and he’s stroking himself slowly.
And then his tongue dips inside me, and I think the only logical explanation is that I’ve died and gone to rimming heaven. I had no idea it was this good. Eventually, Eggo lifts himself away, and I push up from my elbows.
“That was . . . that is . . .” I laugh, let out all of my breath. “Have you ever done that before?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t even know if I was doing it right.”
“It felt right, holy crap.” I’m shaking and leaking precum all over my sheets. “Do you want me to . . . uh, do the same to you?”
