Wendy writes Man!Pr0n
Ya... >> Title pretty much says it all. ##^^##
PLEASE do not read this if you are not looking for (fairly) explicit man!sex, okay?
However, that being said, this totally took me 3 months of on-and-off writing (it was a request from Miss Nyx as I asked people for suggestions for man!pr0n pairings (Nyx = fragileshell <-- See? I totally was writing it... I told you I was. XD) and I think it is... kinda good writing? I think... >> *is a little proud of the pr0n* #^^#
It's Ray/Alex smut/fluff, from Ray's P.O.V. So if you are interested in the new boy and how he sees Alex, then this will help. :) Also... it's pr0n. And fun. And sexy. >3
And so it begins...
* * *
He moves like a midnight rainbow, if such a thing were possible. With the club lights low and secret, and the people close together, moving in a sea of black, I catch him in flashes of colour that burst through the dreary void. The place is full of guys - tall, short, slim, built, pale, dark - but I could care less. They only block my view. The way he moves, it doesn't have to be magic, he'd hold anyone's gaze with eyes to see. His lithe frame is slim but toned, pale skin burning bright under the strobe lights, red and blue and purple, as if he glows, and his face, framed by silky brown that clings to finely sweat-soaked, cutely sharp features as he bounces, is stunning in its joy. His eyes are only their usual green, just mundane enough to not be unreal, but just enough of a strange mix of soft and vibrant to attract a little notice. They shine through the space between us, locking on with a quick, knowing grin, just long enough to show me that he sees me... that he knows I'm watching. He always knows... He'd shout at me to get my ass out there if he thought I could hear him over the music, but he knows I can't, so he just does his best to be as enticing as possible. He dances like he knows the beat of the music inside and out, like he knows every step and dip in rhythm, anticipates it before it even comes. He spins and bounces to the up-tempo electronic hymn of a woman's voice and you'd swear his bones weren't put together the same way as yours and mine. It's not fair, how good he looks as his hips sway, delicate fingers trailing over his leather-clad hip as his others beckon, curling a finger at me, pleading for me to join him as his bottom lip rolls between his teeth. God damn, it's not fair. Woops. Forgiveness, lord... didn't mean to use your name in vain, there... To rephrase, Damn, it's not fair.
It doesn't help that he practically looks half-undressed as it is. Leather hotpants ride low on his hips and barely cover his round ass, black, red, and yellow, diagonally-striped fishnet thigh-highs flash a bit of colour before they disappear into calf-high black leather boots laced in bright red, and a skin-tight, rainbow-slashed, multi-coloured sleeveless tee (white, red, yellow, blue, green... all the colours of the rainbow) flashes under the heated lights of the club. I'm not the only one here, tonight, that wants him. But I am the only one going home with him. And that's a thought that burns a fire in my gut... and lower places, knowing I get to take this boy home and strip every hiding inch of skin bare to my fingers, my lips, my tongue... It makes my smile tip - I can feel it - in that anticipating grin I've been accused of, even as I shake my head at his beckoning finger. I don't dance. Not in public, anyway. It dates back, I'm fairly certain, to the nightmare of Catholic school and nuns that watched you like a hawk to make sure you weren't copping a feel from a girl... and the other boys watching to see if you tried. The former, seeing you trying, got you a switching from the sisters. The latter, seeing you weren't, got the shit beat out of you for being a fag. It was a no-win situation. And consequently, I didn't dance. And still don't. But I like watching him.
I know he's being careful. I know he can move with even more liquid grace than he does. I know he can dance so not only does his body follow the rhythm, it becomes it... flowing from one beat to the next as if you could see the music inside of him. I know he can. And I remember what it was like... how beautiful he was. The most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on. He still is the most beautiful person I've ever known... but I remember... when he was more. Sometimes I dream of him, still... like that. Sometimes when I look at him, I can still see him behind my eyes, like he was when I first found him, the way he seemed to shine brighter than everything else around me. It was like he was the only spot of colour in a world of grays, and the only thing worth living for.
"Dance with me..." his panting breath is excited as his fingers trail down my chest and tug at the front of my t-shirt, a rather more mundane orange, with a faded vintage Superman print on the front. He's matched my height in his two-inch platforms, seeing as how I am predictably favouring my ragged, brown sneakers - Walmart specials. Ripped and faded denim jeans do not add to the stylishness of my attire, although they do hug what toned muscle I've managed to hold onto since high school decently well, and guys around the long, club bar are taking a moment to stare and wonder how the hell I got so lucky. God only knows.
"No."
"Please..." his nose is warm where he leans in to nuzzle under my jaw, and chiming laughter breathes hot over my neck, "I'll be ever so grateful."
"You've never got me up there, before... what makes you think tonight is any different?"
"Because one of these nights, I'm going to crack you. I'll ask and I'll ask and I'll ask... every night. And one time... just one time, you won't be able to resist me. And you're finally going to give in... and dance with me."
I love how his voice rolls, seductive and sweet, not low but not high, just right... it puts a shiver down my spine. One of these days... one of these days, he is. And I will. I just know it. But not tonight, "Let's go home, instead." My own voice is lower, rougher compared to his, but I fill it with sweetness to match, and a hint of the thoughts swirling around in my head, "We've been here for hours... How long are you going to tease me, for, uccelino?" His body is hot beneath my fingers as they flow over his side and pull him closer, still half-leaning against the bar as I am, it puts his weight against me, slight but reassuring, and I nuzzle back as I nip at his ear to feel his muscles tense and ripple and hear the deeper, pleased laughter rumble in his chest, "Let me take you home. Mio amante... My little hummingbird... And I'll show you what I can do... in private."
* * *
It's still an almost odd sensation - going home with Alex. Back to our place, with both of our names on the lease and Alex not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. So what if he's still screwing another guy... so what if he says he's in love with him - that fucking millionaire Playboy asshole that I try very hard not to think about. So what? He comes home with me more often than him. Isn't that what counts? And he says he loves me. If he says it, he believes it... on some level. That much, I'm sure of, after so many years together. Four years and counting... well, if you don't count that missing year where he'd completely skipped out on me and left the country. But I don't. He'd left, I'd missed him, he came back. Nothing that happened in that missing year had mattered. So why count it?
But right now... I don't have much time for odd sensations. I'm a little too busy with the roiling twist in my gut that all but drowns out any weirdness in a chaotic jumble of heat and desire. It's almost frightening how overwhelming his kisses are, but that fear is a fine edge that only heightens the feel of soft lips and a firm body, lithe and slender and wrapped around me, making me fumble with the keys even as I'm pressing him back into the door, one hand wrapped around the back of his thigh, fingers sweeping the muscle and loving the way he pushes back against me, the way his hips roll, and--oh fuck, dropped the keys... It had been an entertaining ride up to the apartment in the elevator, half hoping it wouldn't, and half not caring if it would, stop and expose us to some mixture of our neighbours. Alex, I know, wouldn't have cared in the slightest. That's just the way he is, a free spirit who cares little what most people think. It's goddam sexy as hell - Sorry. Woops. Again... - Fuck, but it is. But I, on the other hand, would likely have been mortified. The cute little Catholic Italian boy with his head of short, black waves and clear-blue eyes? No... that boy does not make out with his boyfriend in elevators where just anyone might see them. My Mother could have seen us. And oh, but that is a sobering thought, "Hold on... hold on... one second..." I have to pry myself off my incredibly hot boyfriend to reach down in search of the keys, but once found, they're quickly pilfered by delicate fingers that make shorter work getting the door open even with his back to it, than I was making facing the damn thing, "Nimble boy..." But it's hardly a surprise.
"You know it, baby..." I love the way his voice lilts low as if he might burst out singing or laughing at any moment, panting breath and flushed cheeks and all.
I kiss him again as the door smacks against the wall, shoving it closed without looking behind me... and then opening it again, half-disctracted with an armful of enthusiastic pixie, to retrieve the keys I'd forgotten in the lock and toss them on the hall table. Clothes fall in a jumble along our path, torn off fever-bright skin with a fervor to match the hard ache in my jeans. I can feel Alex's own grinding against mine. There's a hard thunk as we stumble together into a wall and Jesus lies toppled face-down in the carpet, his cross crushing him - I'll get back to you, later, though, okay? Promise.
The thought is derailed as my jeans are undone and suddenly there's this gorgeous boy on his knees in front of me. And his hair is like slightly sticky silk, damp from a fine sweat, as my fingers twist in the strands, and his tongue is like a brand that sears straight beneath my skin and gets me rock hard in an expert mouth in moments. Fuck, but it's good. It's better than good. It's mind-blowing, and for long moments I don't want to do anything but stand there and let my boy suck me off. The way he moves, like he's planning on swallowing me whole, has my blood fast and hot and my breathing pumping faster than it can do me any good. He drags a moan from my chest and my shirt feels too tight, cotton clinging like it has no right to - I know for a fact it isn't that tight, shirts that tight do not do good things for a body like mine. Not to say that I'm really overweight or anything... but my highschool basketball days, let's just say... were a while ago. But it's still too tight. It peels off in my frantic fingers in a moment where my back arches, and I gasp as hot skin meets cool paint in a sticky line as I fall back again, and lose the shirt to the ground.
It falls on Jesus.
I don't really care at the moment.
It's Super-Jesus.
The laughter feels good, a freeing rumble from my stomach up through smiling lips and it drags my boy up from below, hot lips interrupted by his answering laughter. He always laughs when I laugh like that... He says it sounds like happiness and infects him with it, too. But I'm not done with those soft lips, or that lean, lithe body. It only takes a moment to step out of my shoved-down jeans and briefs, kick off socks and shoes, and press him back to the opposite wall. I find the hem of his bright shirt and it tears off to join Jesus on the floor. I kiss my way down his chest, over tight muscles, the taught skin of his nipples - light scrape of teeth making him moan and squirm this time - and the lightly ridged feel of his ribs. He's more slender than most, but more as if it were his bones that were smaller, not his fit, wiry body as a whole. It's amazing... unreal... He's so beautiful. As I reach the jut of hip that shows above the low waistband of leather shorts, he's no longer laughing, but panting with light whimpers, ass wriggling backwards as if the firm tongue along the ridge of bone and down the delicate crease of leg and groin, tickles... as leather, too, is pulled down over a round ass. But it doesn't tickle. Or if it does, he likes it. A lot. And it shows.
Slender fingers curl in my hair and they're harder than one might think, stronger, and reflect his exuberance. They don't hurt, though... they just make sure I stay where he likes. His hard excitement brushes my cheek, but I don't go there. My own fingers keep heading down, over the strange feel of fishnet and the ridge of seams over the backs of his knees, a light massaging press again making him squirm and moan, a little more. The zippers up the back of his boots flow down smooth and silent, but as soon as they're down, as the slow glide of zipper stops at the very back of his heels... his hands in my hair tighten and he pulls me back up, forces me back up his hot body to steal my breath with a heated smash of lips and tongue, and he's all but jumping out of his boots, fingers releasing my hair so one set of hard digits can hold my jaw as it moves, as he forces his way through my lips and I swallow him down as I struggle to breath, half not caring if I do... and his other set of frantic fingers shove at dark leather and peel off stockings and I have to grip his waist to keep his bouncing frame upright in his rush, as we fall back against the wall again, and a gasp at the cold against my back is sucked out through another kiss. It's a rush and it's fast and it's hot and his slight body beneath my hands is so perfect. Such a squirming thing, every muscle liquid beneath my palms, below pale skin that burns, searing against my own. So fucking perfect.
Naked and hard, I pull him against me, sliding hands down over his back and a perfectly round little ass and under his thigh to pull him up and wrap him around me, and still he moves, bucks even held there, and it's blowing my mind, the feel of him burning, rubbing against me. Fuck. The sound of his voice... telling me he wants me, begging me to take him, moaning, gasping as my teeth nip his ear and pulling himself closer with arms and legs and the arch of his body against mine...
It's a wonder I can still think when it's like this... with heat like the heat of Hell pulsing inside my skin, and a desire and pleasure filling me up with it, the kind of overwhelming, heart-bursting joy that Heaven must be made of... It's impossible. It's perfect. He is perfect.
The bedroom isn't far, and it's comfortable. The mattress sinks with our weight and the cotton sheets are smooth (Egyptian cotton... he always corrects me, like it makes a difference) and cool against burning skin. The comforter is full and soft and he sinks into it and it cradles his writhing form as I press him into it, atop him, finding his sweet, salty taste with my lips and tongue over his skin, from panting lips, to a smooth jaw, angular and hard, to the delicate line of his throat while his moans echo in my ears. He touches me, strong fingers over my back and shoulders, curling tighter in my own short strands and pulling me tighter against him as gorgeously insistant legs wrap around my hips and he moves... Fuck, he moves... hard and hot, we twine and press. And he begs... but he doesn't have to for long, he begs and I slip from his arms and head south, down, over wiry muscle and sharp juts of wriggling hips until I can slip my arms under his legs and curl them around to force firm thighs further apart, fingers digging into the sensitive muscle on the insides of them I know is there. And he moans louder, like I knew he would, and begs some more, the breathiness in his voice verging on desperate. And I am so slow... hot breath on taught, burning skin, and then, so lightly, the heat of a slick tongue. He is impossibly hard, but I take my time, even as his hips try to buck in my grip. Watching him from under my own thick lashes, every sound and movement of his body is like a symphony, perfectly orchestrated, back arching, his fingers twisting in his oh-so-expensive sheets... the sights and sounds take my breath away, as he always can, and I can't believe... I can't believe he's here. With me... That someone like me is even allowed to be in the presence of something this beautiful, much less... be with him... like this. The bliss of it fills me, aches in my chest.
I close my eyes and take him inside me, the breathless ache in my heart easing a little as my lids cover the sight of him moving, feeling hard muscle slick against my lips, curling lower and sucking him deeper and I can focus on what I'm doing, on the feel of him against my tongue and his moans and whimpers and rumbled encouragements that speed me on. His thighs start to shake as my head bobs, the soft lip of skin around the head of his cock sliding over my tongue, base to tip, over and over. I can feel myself breathing harder, my own excitement growing with his, hearing the hitch in his moans and feeling him start to tense and twitch, and it's almost cruel how quickly I stop, because I can't take it anymore... the need to be inside him... and the desire to pull him along with me over the edge, and because I love to hear the frustration in his whimpers, knowing he loves it, too.
The slide of the bedside table drawer seems hushed amidst the combination of begging and insults (Fucker... get back here... I hear, a low chuckle easing out slightly rough from my throat at his so-sweet words) that pour out in his sexy, purring voice, as his fingers scrabble against my sides to pull me back, but it doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for, and the insults stop the moment slicked fingers stretch him, they stop and the moan that stops them seems to rub up along my spine like warm velvet, every hair on the back of my neck standing up to attention. And he's writhing again, and I have an even better viewpoint this time, kneeling above him, leaning over him as he bucks into my fingers. I can feel myself hard against my stomach, burning and yearning to replace the digits that slick him, and then me... His moans continue, but they pour into me as I swallow them down, tasting lips and tongue, his sweet taste, perfection, and as I thrust into him, finally, so tight, but slick and smooth, his legs wrap 'round me again and I can feel his heels digging into the backs of my thighs, moving me in a hard rhythm, and his whimpers and cries are like ecstasy given sound.
I can never seem to hold him tight enough when we do this. No matter how close he is in my arms, or how our sounds mingle as we kiss, tongues tangling and searching, no matter how hard I can feel him trapped and pressing against my stomach, or how deep I move inside him as he moves under me, it's always just this side of enough, like my body is striving to be a part of him. He calls my name and I call his, and I tell him I love him... over and over... and he's so tight and hot around me and he's so hot against my fingers, against my chest and lips and everything... I can hear my heart pounding, and my breathing rough and fast, and I can feel him twitch, and tense, and every nerve in my body pulses in anticipation, pounding harder and faster, hearing the slap of skin as my hand curls beneath his shoulder and holds him in place as his body jumps under me, his legs wrapping tighter around me, and delicate, steel-strong fingertips twist in my hair and dig against my back and his sharp cry marks his fall over the edge of orgasm, the start of his body's convulsions of pleasure that constrict around me, still inside him, and pull and stroke me over the edge with him as he bursts hot and sticky between us. And finally, finally... it's enough. With that screaming white joy, boundaries melt. I can't tell where I stop and he starts, and I am a part of him and it's heaven. Heaven.
Surely, Heaven never felt so good.
PLEASE do not read this if you are not looking for (fairly) explicit man!sex, okay?
However, that being said, this totally took me 3 months of on-and-off writing (it was a request from Miss Nyx as I asked people for suggestions for man!pr0n pairings (Nyx = fragileshell <-- See? I totally was writing it... I told you I was. XD) and I think it is... kinda good writing? I think... >> *is a little proud of the pr0n* #^^#
It's Ray/Alex smut/fluff, from Ray's P.O.V. So if you are interested in the new boy and how he sees Alex, then this will help. :) Also... it's pr0n. And fun. And sexy. >3
And so it begins...
* * *
He moves like a midnight rainbow, if such a thing were possible. With the club lights low and secret, and the people close together, moving in a sea of black, I catch him in flashes of colour that burst through the dreary void. The place is full of guys - tall, short, slim, built, pale, dark - but I could care less. They only block my view. The way he moves, it doesn't have to be magic, he'd hold anyone's gaze with eyes to see. His lithe frame is slim but toned, pale skin burning bright under the strobe lights, red and blue and purple, as if he glows, and his face, framed by silky brown that clings to finely sweat-soaked, cutely sharp features as he bounces, is stunning in its joy. His eyes are only their usual green, just mundane enough to not be unreal, but just enough of a strange mix of soft and vibrant to attract a little notice. They shine through the space between us, locking on with a quick, knowing grin, just long enough to show me that he sees me... that he knows I'm watching. He always knows... He'd shout at me to get my ass out there if he thought I could hear him over the music, but he knows I can't, so he just does his best to be as enticing as possible. He dances like he knows the beat of the music inside and out, like he knows every step and dip in rhythm, anticipates it before it even comes. He spins and bounces to the up-tempo electronic hymn of a woman's voice and you'd swear his bones weren't put together the same way as yours and mine. It's not fair, how good he looks as his hips sway, delicate fingers trailing over his leather-clad hip as his others beckon, curling a finger at me, pleading for me to join him as his bottom lip rolls between his teeth. God damn, it's not fair. Woops. Forgiveness, lord... didn't mean to use your name in vain, there... To rephrase, Damn, it's not fair.
It doesn't help that he practically looks half-undressed as it is. Leather hotpants ride low on his hips and barely cover his round ass, black, red, and yellow, diagonally-striped fishnet thigh-highs flash a bit of colour before they disappear into calf-high black leather boots laced in bright red, and a skin-tight, rainbow-slashed, multi-coloured sleeveless tee (white, red, yellow, blue, green... all the colours of the rainbow) flashes under the heated lights of the club. I'm not the only one here, tonight, that wants him. But I am the only one going home with him. And that's a thought that burns a fire in my gut... and lower places, knowing I get to take this boy home and strip every hiding inch of skin bare to my fingers, my lips, my tongue... It makes my smile tip - I can feel it - in that anticipating grin I've been accused of, even as I shake my head at his beckoning finger. I don't dance. Not in public, anyway. It dates back, I'm fairly certain, to the nightmare of Catholic school and nuns that watched you like a hawk to make sure you weren't copping a feel from a girl... and the other boys watching to see if you tried. The former, seeing you trying, got you a switching from the sisters. The latter, seeing you weren't, got the shit beat out of you for being a fag. It was a no-win situation. And consequently, I didn't dance. And still don't. But I like watching him.
I know he's being careful. I know he can move with even more liquid grace than he does. I know he can dance so not only does his body follow the rhythm, it becomes it... flowing from one beat to the next as if you could see the music inside of him. I know he can. And I remember what it was like... how beautiful he was. The most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on. He still is the most beautiful person I've ever known... but I remember... when he was more. Sometimes I dream of him, still... like that. Sometimes when I look at him, I can still see him behind my eyes, like he was when I first found him, the way he seemed to shine brighter than everything else around me. It was like he was the only spot of colour in a world of grays, and the only thing worth living for.
"Dance with me..." his panting breath is excited as his fingers trail down my chest and tug at the front of my t-shirt, a rather more mundane orange, with a faded vintage Superman print on the front. He's matched my height in his two-inch platforms, seeing as how I am predictably favouring my ragged, brown sneakers - Walmart specials. Ripped and faded denim jeans do not add to the stylishness of my attire, although they do hug what toned muscle I've managed to hold onto since high school decently well, and guys around the long, club bar are taking a moment to stare and wonder how the hell I got so lucky. God only knows.
"No."
"Please..." his nose is warm where he leans in to nuzzle under my jaw, and chiming laughter breathes hot over my neck, "I'll be ever so grateful."
"You've never got me up there, before... what makes you think tonight is any different?"
"Because one of these nights, I'm going to crack you. I'll ask and I'll ask and I'll ask... every night. And one time... just one time, you won't be able to resist me. And you're finally going to give in... and dance with me."
I love how his voice rolls, seductive and sweet, not low but not high, just right... it puts a shiver down my spine. One of these days... one of these days, he is. And I will. I just know it. But not tonight, "Let's go home, instead." My own voice is lower, rougher compared to his, but I fill it with sweetness to match, and a hint of the thoughts swirling around in my head, "We've been here for hours... How long are you going to tease me, for, uccelino?" His body is hot beneath my fingers as they flow over his side and pull him closer, still half-leaning against the bar as I am, it puts his weight against me, slight but reassuring, and I nuzzle back as I nip at his ear to feel his muscles tense and ripple and hear the deeper, pleased laughter rumble in his chest, "Let me take you home. Mio amante... My little hummingbird... And I'll show you what I can do... in private."
* * *
It's still an almost odd sensation - going home with Alex. Back to our place, with both of our names on the lease and Alex not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. So what if he's still screwing another guy... so what if he says he's in love with him - that fucking millionaire Playboy asshole that I try very hard not to think about. So what? He comes home with me more often than him. Isn't that what counts? And he says he loves me. If he says it, he believes it... on some level. That much, I'm sure of, after so many years together. Four years and counting... well, if you don't count that missing year where he'd completely skipped out on me and left the country. But I don't. He'd left, I'd missed him, he came back. Nothing that happened in that missing year had mattered. So why count it?
But right now... I don't have much time for odd sensations. I'm a little too busy with the roiling twist in my gut that all but drowns out any weirdness in a chaotic jumble of heat and desire. It's almost frightening how overwhelming his kisses are, but that fear is a fine edge that only heightens the feel of soft lips and a firm body, lithe and slender and wrapped around me, making me fumble with the keys even as I'm pressing him back into the door, one hand wrapped around the back of his thigh, fingers sweeping the muscle and loving the way he pushes back against me, the way his hips roll, and--oh fuck, dropped the keys... It had been an entertaining ride up to the apartment in the elevator, half hoping it wouldn't, and half not caring if it would, stop and expose us to some mixture of our neighbours. Alex, I know, wouldn't have cared in the slightest. That's just the way he is, a free spirit who cares little what most people think. It's goddam sexy as hell - Sorry. Woops. Again... - Fuck, but it is. But I, on the other hand, would likely have been mortified. The cute little Catholic Italian boy with his head of short, black waves and clear-blue eyes? No... that boy does not make out with his boyfriend in elevators where just anyone might see them. My Mother could have seen us. And oh, but that is a sobering thought, "Hold on... hold on... one second..." I have to pry myself off my incredibly hot boyfriend to reach down in search of the keys, but once found, they're quickly pilfered by delicate fingers that make shorter work getting the door open even with his back to it, than I was making facing the damn thing, "Nimble boy..." But it's hardly a surprise.
"You know it, baby..." I love the way his voice lilts low as if he might burst out singing or laughing at any moment, panting breath and flushed cheeks and all.
I kiss him again as the door smacks against the wall, shoving it closed without looking behind me... and then opening it again, half-disctracted with an armful of enthusiastic pixie, to retrieve the keys I'd forgotten in the lock and toss them on the hall table. Clothes fall in a jumble along our path, torn off fever-bright skin with a fervor to match the hard ache in my jeans. I can feel Alex's own grinding against mine. There's a hard thunk as we stumble together into a wall and Jesus lies toppled face-down in the carpet, his cross crushing him - I'll get back to you, later, though, okay? Promise.
The thought is derailed as my jeans are undone and suddenly there's this gorgeous boy on his knees in front of me. And his hair is like slightly sticky silk, damp from a fine sweat, as my fingers twist in the strands, and his tongue is like a brand that sears straight beneath my skin and gets me rock hard in an expert mouth in moments. Fuck, but it's good. It's better than good. It's mind-blowing, and for long moments I don't want to do anything but stand there and let my boy suck me off. The way he moves, like he's planning on swallowing me whole, has my blood fast and hot and my breathing pumping faster than it can do me any good. He drags a moan from my chest and my shirt feels too tight, cotton clinging like it has no right to - I know for a fact it isn't that tight, shirts that tight do not do good things for a body like mine. Not to say that I'm really overweight or anything... but my highschool basketball days, let's just say... were a while ago. But it's still too tight. It peels off in my frantic fingers in a moment where my back arches, and I gasp as hot skin meets cool paint in a sticky line as I fall back again, and lose the shirt to the ground.
It falls on Jesus.
I don't really care at the moment.
It's Super-Jesus.
The laughter feels good, a freeing rumble from my stomach up through smiling lips and it drags my boy up from below, hot lips interrupted by his answering laughter. He always laughs when I laugh like that... He says it sounds like happiness and infects him with it, too. But I'm not done with those soft lips, or that lean, lithe body. It only takes a moment to step out of my shoved-down jeans and briefs, kick off socks and shoes, and press him back to the opposite wall. I find the hem of his bright shirt and it tears off to join Jesus on the floor. I kiss my way down his chest, over tight muscles, the taught skin of his nipples - light scrape of teeth making him moan and squirm this time - and the lightly ridged feel of his ribs. He's more slender than most, but more as if it were his bones that were smaller, not his fit, wiry body as a whole. It's amazing... unreal... He's so beautiful. As I reach the jut of hip that shows above the low waistband of leather shorts, he's no longer laughing, but panting with light whimpers, ass wriggling backwards as if the firm tongue along the ridge of bone and down the delicate crease of leg and groin, tickles... as leather, too, is pulled down over a round ass. But it doesn't tickle. Or if it does, he likes it. A lot. And it shows.
Slender fingers curl in my hair and they're harder than one might think, stronger, and reflect his exuberance. They don't hurt, though... they just make sure I stay where he likes. His hard excitement brushes my cheek, but I don't go there. My own fingers keep heading down, over the strange feel of fishnet and the ridge of seams over the backs of his knees, a light massaging press again making him squirm and moan, a little more. The zippers up the back of his boots flow down smooth and silent, but as soon as they're down, as the slow glide of zipper stops at the very back of his heels... his hands in my hair tighten and he pulls me back up, forces me back up his hot body to steal my breath with a heated smash of lips and tongue, and he's all but jumping out of his boots, fingers releasing my hair so one set of hard digits can hold my jaw as it moves, as he forces his way through my lips and I swallow him down as I struggle to breath, half not caring if I do... and his other set of frantic fingers shove at dark leather and peel off stockings and I have to grip his waist to keep his bouncing frame upright in his rush, as we fall back against the wall again, and a gasp at the cold against my back is sucked out through another kiss. It's a rush and it's fast and it's hot and his slight body beneath my hands is so perfect. Such a squirming thing, every muscle liquid beneath my palms, below pale skin that burns, searing against my own. So fucking perfect.
Naked and hard, I pull him against me, sliding hands down over his back and a perfectly round little ass and under his thigh to pull him up and wrap him around me, and still he moves, bucks even held there, and it's blowing my mind, the feel of him burning, rubbing against me. Fuck. The sound of his voice... telling me he wants me, begging me to take him, moaning, gasping as my teeth nip his ear and pulling himself closer with arms and legs and the arch of his body against mine...
It's a wonder I can still think when it's like this... with heat like the heat of Hell pulsing inside my skin, and a desire and pleasure filling me up with it, the kind of overwhelming, heart-bursting joy that Heaven must be made of... It's impossible. It's perfect. He is perfect.
The bedroom isn't far, and it's comfortable. The mattress sinks with our weight and the cotton sheets are smooth (Egyptian cotton... he always corrects me, like it makes a difference) and cool against burning skin. The comforter is full and soft and he sinks into it and it cradles his writhing form as I press him into it, atop him, finding his sweet, salty taste with my lips and tongue over his skin, from panting lips, to a smooth jaw, angular and hard, to the delicate line of his throat while his moans echo in my ears. He touches me, strong fingers over my back and shoulders, curling tighter in my own short strands and pulling me tighter against him as gorgeously insistant legs wrap around my hips and he moves... Fuck, he moves... hard and hot, we twine and press. And he begs... but he doesn't have to for long, he begs and I slip from his arms and head south, down, over wiry muscle and sharp juts of wriggling hips until I can slip my arms under his legs and curl them around to force firm thighs further apart, fingers digging into the sensitive muscle on the insides of them I know is there. And he moans louder, like I knew he would, and begs some more, the breathiness in his voice verging on desperate. And I am so slow... hot breath on taught, burning skin, and then, so lightly, the heat of a slick tongue. He is impossibly hard, but I take my time, even as his hips try to buck in my grip. Watching him from under my own thick lashes, every sound and movement of his body is like a symphony, perfectly orchestrated, back arching, his fingers twisting in his oh-so-expensive sheets... the sights and sounds take my breath away, as he always can, and I can't believe... I can't believe he's here. With me... That someone like me is even allowed to be in the presence of something this beautiful, much less... be with him... like this. The bliss of it fills me, aches in my chest.
I close my eyes and take him inside me, the breathless ache in my heart easing a little as my lids cover the sight of him moving, feeling hard muscle slick against my lips, curling lower and sucking him deeper and I can focus on what I'm doing, on the feel of him against my tongue and his moans and whimpers and rumbled encouragements that speed me on. His thighs start to shake as my head bobs, the soft lip of skin around the head of his cock sliding over my tongue, base to tip, over and over. I can feel myself breathing harder, my own excitement growing with his, hearing the hitch in his moans and feeling him start to tense and twitch, and it's almost cruel how quickly I stop, because I can't take it anymore... the need to be inside him... and the desire to pull him along with me over the edge, and because I love to hear the frustration in his whimpers, knowing he loves it, too.
The slide of the bedside table drawer seems hushed amidst the combination of begging and insults (Fucker... get back here... I hear, a low chuckle easing out slightly rough from my throat at his so-sweet words) that pour out in his sexy, purring voice, as his fingers scrabble against my sides to pull me back, but it doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for, and the insults stop the moment slicked fingers stretch him, they stop and the moan that stops them seems to rub up along my spine like warm velvet, every hair on the back of my neck standing up to attention. And he's writhing again, and I have an even better viewpoint this time, kneeling above him, leaning over him as he bucks into my fingers. I can feel myself hard against my stomach, burning and yearning to replace the digits that slick him, and then me... His moans continue, but they pour into me as I swallow them down, tasting lips and tongue, his sweet taste, perfection, and as I thrust into him, finally, so tight, but slick and smooth, his legs wrap 'round me again and I can feel his heels digging into the backs of my thighs, moving me in a hard rhythm, and his whimpers and cries are like ecstasy given sound.
I can never seem to hold him tight enough when we do this. No matter how close he is in my arms, or how our sounds mingle as we kiss, tongues tangling and searching, no matter how hard I can feel him trapped and pressing against my stomach, or how deep I move inside him as he moves under me, it's always just this side of enough, like my body is striving to be a part of him. He calls my name and I call his, and I tell him I love him... over and over... and he's so tight and hot around me and he's so hot against my fingers, against my chest and lips and everything... I can hear my heart pounding, and my breathing rough and fast, and I can feel him twitch, and tense, and every nerve in my body pulses in anticipation, pounding harder and faster, hearing the slap of skin as my hand curls beneath his shoulder and holds him in place as his body jumps under me, his legs wrapping tighter around me, and delicate, steel-strong fingertips twist in my hair and dig against my back and his sharp cry marks his fall over the edge of orgasm, the start of his body's convulsions of pleasure that constrict around me, still inside him, and pull and stroke me over the edge with him as he bursts hot and sticky between us. And finally, finally... it's enough. With that screaming white joy, boundaries melt. I can't tell where I stop and he starts, and I am a part of him and it's heaven. Heaven.
Surely, Heaven never felt so good.