There’s an expression men wear on their faces in certain naked moments. It’s a look of religion; it’s the look of truth about to be told. The young man lying on his back with his legs spread apart, his ass positioned up in the air, laid bare and open for my erect cock—he wore that expression. His eyes were wide, his voice breathy and full of wonder as he spoke. “Your eyes are so intense,” he said, raising his head to meet my eyes.
I stared back at him, steeping myself in his beauty. His muscular body. The breadth of his shoulders, the supple curves of his biceps. The narrowness of his waist. The perfect globes of his ass. His white, unblemished skin. And most of all, the masculinity and boyishness of his face, from the solid squareness of its shape to the hint of a snub at the tip of his nose. Of course I’m intense, I think to myself. I’m trying to memorize every detail of this boy. The head of my dick nudges against his hole, jumping at the warmth of it.
Then his lips part again. When he speaks, his words sound like prayer. “Looking into your eyes is like . . . looking into the eyes of a wolf,” he whispers.
My own lips close. I recognize the truth of what he’s told me. In actuality, at that moment I feel like a wolf. I’m a predator, closing in on prey crippled by the chase, too weak and limp to escape my slavering jaws. Only moments before I’d had him face down on the bed with a pillow shoved roughly beneath his pelvis, clutching at the bedclothes as I slobbered and chewed at the pucker of his ass. I’d eaten him out like I was a starving thing. I’d snorted and snuffled at him, pawed and probed, taking satisfaction in the cries he’d rasped out in the quiet of his Brooklyn apartment bedroom. Each of my growls was feral. Every grunt was of pure, satiated, animal pleasure.
I give him a smile. My lips part. My fangs show. I begin to slide into him, parting soft flesh with hard. “Slow,” he begs. “Please. Slow.”
I’m already one step ahead of him. I’m pushing softly, entering only as quickly as he allows. His ass speaks to me as fluently as his lips; I know exactly how quickly I can go. His eyes close. When they open again, they’re lidded, hazed. He still sees me clearly, though. The look he’s giving me is unwavering, full of awe. It’s just as intense as anything I could muster. I’m occupying all his focus.
At that moment in his life, there’s only me. No job worries, no husband, no dog waiting for a walk, no dinner to cook or shower to take or text to which he has to respond. Just me. My raw cock. This fuck.
“You feel so good,” I tell him, when I reach the bottom. “You’re mine, now.”
“Yours,” he echoes softly. “Only yours.”
“This is my hole,” I tell him, beginning to slide in and out.
“Your hole. It belongs to you,” he says, with a look of utter and absolute love in his eyes. “Do anything you want with it.”
“I will,” I tell him. My face is a foot above his. I’ve got my fists planted in his mattress as I piston my meat in and out of his slick, smooth chute. “Because it’s mine.”
“Because it’s yours,” he agrees. His handsome face has softened, gone slack as he melts into the sensation of my cock stretching out his hole. “Please load your hole, sir,” he begs. “Load your boy’s hole.”
“I’ll get there,” I tell him. “We only have one first fuck.”
I intend to make it last.
Sex at its best strips men down to their essences. Rabid wolf. Prey. Our connection, flesh to flesh, purges all the inconsequences and bullshit of our two everyday lives. All we are, all we want to be, is happening in that moment. Sadist. Sacrifice. Engorged flesh. Soft, pliant opening. My gift to him is of his own purity. I give him the chance to be what he most truly is; I provide him moments in which he can unburden himself of himself, to become what he wants more than anything. His most authentic self. He’s my boy. My hole.
And like a miser of flesh I take it for myself. I covet that hole. I’m greedy for it, anxious to conquer it. I need to plant my seed inside it, to mark it as mine. All mine. No one else’s. Mine.
“Please,” he begs, his eyes blazing into mine. That face—so honest, so full of need. He’s so beautiful.
I’m nearly ready. But not yet. “You know why I saved this load for you?” I ask. I’d known we’d have this afternoon together a week before, when we’d made the date. I’d kept it in my pants since them.
He shakes his head slowly. I feel his ass clench down on my cock. It nearly pushes me over the edge. “Why,” he says, the desire for it naked in his expression.
In a soft voice, I explain. “Partly it was to flatter you,” I say. “Sure it was. But that’s not the real reason. I did it because I knew it belonged to you. I did it because I wanted it to be you.” Our lips meet. We kiss softly. Wetly. “I saved up a seven-day load because I knew you would be worth it.”
“Am I?” he asks. “Am I worth it?”
I nod. “Oh, son,” I sigh. “You truly are.”
He lets out a gulp of pleasure like a sob. At the sound, my load gushes inside him. I can feel it pumping out of me, molten as lava. It coats him thickly, painting itself onto the walls of his guts as I spray what feels, in that moment, like an unending stream of the gooey, sticky stuff. My cock feels the difference immediately. It’s coated by my own semen. It glides more smoothly than any bottled lube.
He’s beating his own cock. His eyes beg me for permission to blow. I nod slightly. He erupts. A spurt of his cum arcs onto his chest, splashes onto his abdomen. Another follows, its path nearly matching the length of the first. My load’s buried inside him, but I know if I’d pulled out, it would puddle onto the sheets as copious, as thick, as glistening as this.
For a long, still moment we remain where we are, he and I. We stare at each other, hearts still thudding.
Then, as the blood clears from our heads, he reaches up, and pulls me to him. “Your hole. You own it,” he whispers, as he kisses me deeply.
I recognize the embrace for what it is: a promise that we are connected forever in this moment. A recognition of how thoroughly we’ve reduced each other to our bottom lines—our alchemic essences. Cock. Hole. Giver. Receiver. Sir. Boy.