Face down. Butt up. A grown man is lying across my lap, naked, like a little boy waiting for a spanking. His ass is round and furry, his thighs spread. I can feel his erection pressing against my balls. The wetness from his tip seeps down to slick my flesh.
We’re in his apartment in the Village. It’s a narrow little place, long and deep, but at its widest the rooms measure not much more than six or seven feet. The weird proportions are claustrophobic to me; I feel pressed in on one side. Sitting here cross-legged in his bedroom, eyes closed, is helping soothe my mind, though. That and the slickness of his hole, and the meditative nature of what I’m doing to it.
I’ve got his ass greased up and plugged with a toy. Not just any toy. A special toy. It’s a heavy metal butt plug. But fancy. It’s so stylishly designed that it looks like I picked it up at the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. There’s a shiny silver knob at the end, followed by a swooping stem connected to an elegant beveled oval handle. It looks more like a fancy wine cork, or perhaps an avant-garde door knocker to a modernist’s upscale flat. It’s a butt plug, though, and I’ve got my last three fingers hooked through the oval as slowly I work it in and out of his chute.
His face is buried in the mattress. “Shit,” he’s saying, over and over again. “Shit, that feels so good. You have no idea.”
I have an idea, though. He’s been letting me know how good it feels every time I twist that curved stem inside his ass, which presses the knob in new, unexplored areas. He lets me know when he groans as I plunge it deep, and twist again in the other direction. And when his head rises, then lolls, whenever I pull out that plug and let his ass lips flop together with a wet smack, I know I’m doing my job right.
He’s excited. I’m relaxed. I’m digging the quietness of this exploration. I like the wetness I feel beneath my fingertips as they gently kiss the outermost rim of his hole. I’m enjoying how pliant he is to my touch, how much he’s enjoying my slow attentions. My fingers are so slippery I can barely keep hold of the shiny metal handle. My other hand explores his balls, stroking up and down their middle. They’ve retracted so tightly that he’s almost a eunuch, but I tease them out again, and feel him shudder beneath my ministrations.
I’m not hard. I don’t mind. This manipulation of flesh would be erotic enough to sustain me at my most sexually starved. It’s a feast for the senses. The soft squelching noises, the groans, the whisper of the sheets as they shift and pull beneath his clawing hands, tickle my ears. My nose prickles at the scent of the lube, the soapy, just-showered smell of his skin. The warmth of him nourishes me. The weight of him is substantial, and worthwhile. The gentle abrasion of his fur against my smooth palms is like the sexual Braille I follow to its conclusion, where his legs meet.
“Tell me about the last boy you fucked,” he begs.
I chuckle. My eyes are closed still, but I continue inserting and twisting the metal toy. I feel like I’m telling him a bedtime story, as my lips spool off the details of my last fuck. He listens just as breathless as a child might a ghost story, holding his breath for the conclusion. This is no ghost story, though. It’s a tale of two living and breathing men doing what men do to each other. It’s as alive a tale as it can be, and as I reach the climax, I feel myself hardening.
“Tell me another.” It’s the plea of a child who doesn’t want the day to end, not yet.
My cock continues to swell as I narrate plugging another hole. My heart’s not into this telling, though. I don’t want to talk about fucking. I want to fuck.
I remove the toy, set it to the side. I slide him from my lap and settle him into the mattress. He knows what’s coming. When my hard dick slides into that hole, it reaps the reward of plying it with a thick toy for the better part of an hour; it’s less ass and more pussy. Soft. Puffy. It enfolds me, rather than grips. It’s velvet. Not a vise.
I’ve only been in for a couple of minutes, and I’m not far from shooting. It’s as if that toy has done the work my cock usually has—stretching and shaping the hole to suit me, so that when I plunge in, it’s a perfect accommodation for my length and girth. “I’m going to seed you,” I warn him.
“Do it.” There’s urgency in his voice. “Do it.”
My cock hits the root. It pulses and swells. The head is suddenly twice as warm as my semen begins to envelop the head. “Oh shit.” His voice is full of astonishment. “I can really feel it filling me up.”
It continues some more. I’m giving him so much semen that it’s leaking around my cock and out of his hole, sticking in my pubes. There’s a final shudder. Then I subside, and lie still atop him.
“I can’t believe how much I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy and vague. We’re not moving. Sweat and cum has glued us together. Our two bodies feel like one. Neither of us want to move, immediately. So we don’t. Our chests rise and fall in unison, and the two of us rest, dozy, in the hollow our weight has created in the mattress.
Face down. Butts up. Still connected, cock to hole, we glide toward sleep.