Flood

When it slides in, it’s because I push. That impasse where fear and the hole’s muscles conspire pulses, then vanishes. The dick eases in, all at once, disappearing into the lube-slick hole. We both look at each other, wearing identical expressions. Surprise. A trace of amusement. And a whole lot of lust.

“Fuck,” I say, even more astonished than he. I have to drop my head and pick it back up again, I’m so surprised. I repeat, “Fuck!”

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod. Then I have to take a breath. Because this time, for the first time in over a decade, it’s my hole that’s been opened. I’m the one with his butt in the air, looking back over his shoulder. I’m the one who pushed back onto the dick that’s in me now, out of hunger, out of desire. Out of a need to be filled. Not filled. Used. In that split second, the animal in me had overtaken the rational being. I just wanted to be fucked.

Realizing what I’ve done makes me clench down for a moment. Instantly I regret it. “Hold still,” I beg him. “Just . . . hold still for me.”

He lowers himself so that his pecs are against my back. His knees spread my legs. His arms surround me. The only thing between us is a carpet of thick black chest fur. “As long as you need.”

The Friday night before, I’d fucked him for the first time in his life. I’d taken his virginity, savaging it twice. I’d teased him that he was my little cock whore, my slut. My cum bucket. The words had inflamed him, had given him the permission to relax, to loosen up, to ride my dick without inhibition or regret. Afterward, he’d flipped me over and rimmed me royally—and then he’d slipped his dick inside. I’d been equally surprised then that I’d been able to accommodate the man’s dick, which was not much shorter than my own. His thrusting had been too much for me, and I’d been paranoid about my hygiene, since we hadn’t discussed that particular variation in advance. I hadn't prepared for it.

I’d spent all weekend thinking about him, though. The warmth of his cock against my hole. His sweet breath against my neck. The words he told me, as his cock entered me. I’d be sitting in front of the television, with a project in my hands, and all I could think of were Chester’s handsome face, his smooth head shining in the hotel lights, his short frame bulging with muscles, his beefy legs tangled with mine. I’d pause in mid-sentence at home, thinking when I’d shoved my nose into his armpit and inhaled deeply, memorizing his own particular perfume.

Then I’d wake from my daze, try to recall what I’d been saying, and move on.

We’d already made a date to meet again before he had to return home to the midwest. Like a teen girl in a mid-century sitcom I’d fretted all Tuesday morning about my trip into the city to meet him again. I’d showered and put myself through the indignity of an enema (bottoms—again, I appreciate the hard work you do!). I made decisions. Did I want my hair to follow its natural center part, or should I push it to the side? Did I want to wear a hint of cologne? What clothes would show me off best? I’d put on a Nasty Pig jock that one of my readers had sent me as a Christmas gift, then removed it, then put it on again beneath a pair of different underwear.

But there we were now, in his hotel room, where we’d holed up after lunch. I have nowhere to be for hours, and hours. I can end this now, or I can make it last. So I think about it a moment—just for a quick moment. I think about the sensation of him inside me. It doesn’t hurt. He’s now moving back and forth, gently, mere millimeters. It’s not even uncomfortable. I’m afraid to move. I’m half on my stomach, half on my left side, with my right leg drawn slightly up. He’s raising himself, balancing his arms around me.
I breathe. I turn my head. I look at him, his head tilted like a curious bird. It’s been a decade since this last happened to me. More than an entire decade. “Do it,” I tell him, making the decision.

“Yeah?” he asks. “You’re sure?”

“You know this is what bottoms worry we tops do when we’re alone together, don’t you,” I gasp out. I’m stalling, though. We both know it. I nod. It’s okay. “Yeah,” I say. “Fuck me.”

I’m usually so facile with words. I like to be the observer in any situation, but it comes at a cost; to be an observer, one has to be at a very slight remove from the experience. One has to be on the outside, looking in. For this experience, though, there’s no remove. There’s no distancing myself. I’m in the middle of it. I am experience, and I can’t regard myself remotely. I can only feel, and not think.

I’ve no sense of time. I feel like I’m flotsam on the ocean, bobbing and floating in a warm tide. I hear his praises, and respond by arching my back and thrusting backward onto him. I hear him tell me he loves me, and that he loves me doing this special thing for him. When he pounds at me, close to orgasm, the sensations are so amazing that I’m not thinking about hurt any more. We’re as far away from hurt as we can be. I think about the warmth I feel spreading from my hole. I think about the sounds of his raspy breathing, his cursing. I shake as he shoots. I beg him not to pull out.

The second time around he calls me names. He calls me boy. I resent it when he calls me faggot, but I resent even more how automatically my body responds with pleasure at the epithet, opening wide to his invading dick and wanting more of his bad treatment. He pinches my nipples, slaps my ass. He fills me again.

My precum has pooled in the jock. He’s pulled it off, inhaled from it deeply, and stuffed it in my mouth, before shoving himself back in again. My dim eyesight fixes onto the clock-radio by the bed. We’d been at it for over ninety minutes, and I haven’t needed a break, I haven’t asked him to stop. I want it never to end.

The moments are tough to distinguish from one another for a very long time. They’re all sensation, raw and immediate. But there comes a moment late in the game of which I’m not especially proud. It’s when he’s close to his fourth orgasm inside me. I’m actually crying. He’s been thanking me over and over again. I’ve been thanking him. I’m trying to tell him something that seems vital, in that moment—that I knew from time to time I’d craved to be treated the way he was treating me, but that I didn’t know until then what I’d been missing.

“You’re a hot fuck. You don’t know how hot this is for me,” he says. And now he’s crying, too. Two top men, sniveling and sniffing while they fucked. “I just want to make it for you the way you made it for me.”

My mouth is dry. My lips are cracked. My throat is raspy. I want to tell him, as he pounds away at my hole, And I just want to be good for you. But what I say is, “And I just want to be good for something.”

He’s yelling outright, filling the room with the noise of another orgasm. I can barely hear it, though. In my head, I’m replaying that sentence, and listening to the raw admission it contains.

And I’m wondering if in that moment of absolute abandon, I’ve mined my way closer to truth than I ever, ever want to admit.