“How many loads have I given you?” I ask into the dark.
Spencer lies beneath me, on his back. His flexible dancer’s body is doubled over onto itself; his legs aren’t simply helplessly dangling in the air, but are pointed in a direction toward and past the top of his head. Like a monkey’s, his prehensile toes are hooked onto the underside of the bed’s headboard. He’s opening his ass to me, trying to get me in as deeply as humanly possible.
My question’s mostly rhetorical. He’s in no condition to answer, anyway. He’s almost crying. I know he’s long past the capacity for rational thought, with my eight inches hammering away at his hole. I’m not sure I could answer the question myself, even if I sat down with a spreadsheet and calendar to cipher it. Three loads one night, five another, a single one the night I took him to the bar to meet my friends. Two the night before . . . and the one I gave him in the living room. They start to add up, over the weeks we’ve been fucking.
All I really know is that it’s not going to be long before I give him another.
It’s late on Sunday. It’s also the first night that Spencer has agreed to spend the night with me. I’d floated the idea long before, our first week. He had demurred, indicating a certain self-consciousness about spending an entire night sleeping in the same bed with someone. I can get that. He’s young. He hasn’t done it for over two decades, like I have. That’s why I was surprised a little earlier in the evening, when in a very small and shy voice he asked if he might sleep over. Of course I said yes.
He’d dove between the sheets like a little boy, bouncing on his back and flipping over and pronouncing my mattress the most comfortable ever. Beneath the fleece sheets and blanket he snuggled up next to me, grabbing me around my midsection and pulling me to him, relentlessly fingering my dick until I’d stiffened. Once he’d put me into the mood, his lips had locked on mine, spurring on my passions until my fingers had first tickled at, then invaded and plugged his hole.
And now I was in him, making him mine once more. The headboard gives a sharp crack as he pushes back on it. The sheets have fallen from my back and onto my ankles, exposing our skin to the cool nighttime temperatures. Spencer’s big dick is rock hard and drizzling pre-cum onto his furry belly. Mine’s merely slopping up his hole. Every time I thrust in, it squelches with a wet noise that I make certain he can hear. It’s the most erotic of music to his ears. Every sweet note makes him groan all the louder.
We shoot almost simultaneously—he first, with a yell that seems to flake paint from the ceiling. Then me, quietly shuddering as squirt after squirt of my juice leaves me and paints his hole. Time seems frozen for a moment after. We’re both fixed in place, unwilling to move, unwilling to let the moment end. But he shifts, and my dick slides out in a rush. He pulls up the covers again, gently tucking them around me before hoisting them over his own shoulder. Spencer and I spoon, with my arms around him.
Will I be able to sleep with him close by? Part of me worries that I might snore, or that I’ll drool, or that he’ll wake before I in the morning and see my morning hair and flee, yelling. I wonder if he’s thinking about the same things. But he’s not. Already his breathing has deepened and grown more steady. His chest is rising and falling in a regular rhythm. He’s falling asleep. Knowing it makes my own eyes heavy. My head begins to buzz as I come close to unconsciousness myself.
“Not enough,” I hear him murmur, just before sleep takes hold completely.
His words are so soft that they’re barely audible. In the quiet dark, though, they’re enough to rouse me. My eyes open slightly. In the blue-black night I can see the outline of his short, coarse hair and the long sideburns hugging his jaw. “Hmmm?”
“You wanted to know how many loads you’ve given me,” he says, reaching for my hand. His fingers curl around mine, as he hugs it to his chest. There’s another pause, as he falls back into sleep. He repeats the answer again, even more softly than before. “Not . . . enough.”
I love that answer. A smile crosses my lips as together we slip into the depths, not to emerge again until morning.