I know my faults. I’m competitive. Too competitive.
Monday mornings are when we meet. The place is a hotel by the interstate where the rates are hourly and the doors whisper-thin, the ceilings uneven from multiple refacings, the floors so iffy that we pile our discarded clothing onto the room’s only table. When I make him yell, I know that anyone passing can hear him. I don’t really give a shit. The only other places in this run-down hellhole are truckers looking to cut corners on their budgets, or men here for the same reason we are.
He’s got a boyfriend. I don’t give a shit about that, either. His hole’s up in the air, his knees spread apart as far as I can yank them. “You like that?” I snarl at him.
“I love it,” he gasps out.
“You love that dick, don’t you?” I’m pile driving him. Every stroke I take hammers home my shaft. His body shudders from every blow.
“I love your dick,” he gasps out, between gut punches.
“Is my dick bigger than your boyfriend’s?”
He’s reluctant to say. Like it’s a betrayal. Whoring his hole out in a seedy motel room, giving it up for the fourth Monday in a row to the married man who uses him as a cumdump—that’s A-okay. Admitting that my dick is bigger than his boyfriend’s? He acts like it’d be the Judas kiss to his relationship. “Sure,” he groans out, into the sandpapery pillow.
That kind of answer just enrages me. “Not . . . good . . . enough.” He lets out a sob as I pummel him with each word. “I asked you a question. Is my dick . . . bigger . . . than . . . your fucking . . . dumb-ass . . . boyfriend’s?”
“Yes!” he says. The admission is a wet explosion of need and embarrassment. “It’s so much bigger. You have no idea. He’s got nothing compared to you.”
I’m pleased, but not mollified. He’s wearing one of my jocks, a Nasty Pig black and white number. I’d made him slip it off me when I arrived, then don it right away so that he’d feel the warmth of my dick and nuts on it when it slipped onto his waist. I grabbed the waistband like reins. “And am I a better fuck than your boyfriend?”
“Yes!” he yells. This time there’s no hesitation. “Oh god yes. So much better.”
Inwardly, I sneer. This is too easy. And I’m still too damned competitive, if you ask me.
I yank out my dick. He groans like he’s being deprived. His hungry hole has swallowed down two of my loads already—snatched them out of my dick, if you want to know the truth. “So when you pussy up for me, you’re not thinking about him at all, are you?” I ask.
“No.” He’s whimpering. His hole is blindly squeezing out, opening and closing around air, trying to find the meat that’s radiating so much heat behind it.
“And when you’re home at night, in bed with him—“
“I’m thinking of you,” he says. He looks up at me over his shoulder. His eyes are wet with adoration and love. “I’m only thinking of you.”
I go back to my point. “Say it for me, and maybe I’ll give you more of my cock. When I’m home at night. . . .”
“Please,” he whispers. Then, realizing I mean it, he says, “When I’m at home at night.”
“In bed with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“When I’m at home at night in bed . . . with my short-dicked boyfriend. . . .”
“. . . All I think about is you.”
He parrots the words. “All I think about is you.”
“And how you fill me up.”
“I love how you fill me up,” he breathes.
“And how you make my hole feel better than anything—anything—he could ever do.”
“Oh god,” he says. I let the tip of my dick nudge against him.
“Fucking say it.” My tone is flat. Commanding. I know he wants to.
“He could never fuck me the way you do,” he tells me. “He couldn’t. Nobody could fuck me the way you do.”
I thrust my cockhead inside him. He tries to shove back onto it for more. Nope. The head’s all he gets for that. “I get in deeper than he does.”
He’s writhing beneath me. His body is lean and lightly muscular. His hair is dark, with flecks of gray at the temple. He’s one of those suits, who lives in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood. This flophouse is a come-down for his sort. But here he is, whoring himself for my dick in it, begging and gasping and squealing like any cheap piece of ass. “Yes,” he echoes. “You get in so much deeper.”
I give him another inch. “I stretch you out so that you ache after.”
“Yes,” he says. Then reality intrudes as he laughs a little. “It really hurts, after.”
“But you need it.”
“I need it.”
“And he doesn’t give it to you.”
“No,” he whispers. There’s no hesitation now. The betrayal slips fleetly from his lips. “He never did.”
“He never could.”
This time I’m merciful. I shove back into him so hard that he gasps. His eyelids open as wide as possible. His head drops backward. “Please, wreck my hole,” I instruct him to say.
“Please wreck my hole. Just fucking do with it whatever you want. Fuck it. Slam it. Make it hurt.”
“Whose hole is it?” I want to know. “It’s not his hole, is it?”
“It’s your hole,” he says. I start thrusting again. It’s his reward. He luxuriates into the fuck, purring. “It’s your hole. Your hole only. You own it. All I think about is you. When I’m at home at night. With my short-dicked boyfriend. All I think about is you.”
“So I win,” I announce. It’s not a question. It’s never a question.
“Damn right I do,” I say, before I shove his face into the flimsy pillows, and start opening him for load number three.
Too fucking competitive. That’s what I am.
But I don’t give a shit about that either, so long as I come out on top.