I’m sometimes amazed how something that can seem so insurmountable, so impossible, so very difficult, can turn out to be the easiest thing in the world. An evil-looking piece on the piano—a blur of sharps and flats and notes on the page—becomes simplicity to play, or even a joy. A troublesome speech in front of a seemingly hostile crowd ends up rolling off the tongue, to the audience’s delight. An essay that begins tortured and incomprehensible in my brain flows freely from my fingertips and onto the screen, almost ready to be shared.
Not that I’m thinking these things when I pull the car in front of the small house, this cool autumn morning. What I’m considering is how into many knots my stomach possibly can tie itself. I’m thinking about the sweat on my palms, the doubts pounding away at my frontal lobe. I could turn the ignition back on. I could floor the pedal and head back in the direction of home. He’d understand if I changed my mind at the last minute, wouldn’t he?
Maybe he would. Maybe not. I don’t like canceling on anyone. Not even for good reasons—and nerves are not a good reason. I could list the hundred good grounds why I’m reluctant to take this step. Enumerated coolly and logically, sages would nod at my restraint and applaud me—for once—for keeping my dick in my pants.
I mean, look. I’m facing a big transition here. Fucking a guy—that’s nothing. Fucking a guy is just letting down my zipper, pulling down my pants. This handsome young man, though, long ago moved from blog reader to a casual buddy. When we’d become closer friends, I’d had to let down things more personal, infinitely more difficult—my own guard, my privacy, my defenses. Now I’m here, outside his place, contemplating a physical intimacy I’d always assumed would never happen. What would we even be after this, friends with benefits? Fuck buddies? The uncertainty scares me.
To turn around now, though, would be to disappoint the boy waiting on the other side of that front door at the end of the walk. I don’t want to let him down. To leave now, without taking this chance or this crazy leap of faith or however I want to characterize it, would be refusing a magnificent opportunity. I value opportunities too much to turn this one down.
A fine dew still shines on the grass as I walk from car to door; it’s vanishing with every caress of the weak morning sun. I can hear the rush of cars along the main thoroughfare on the other side of the bank of trees, but the neighborhood itself is quiet and sleepy; the inhabitants of these houses have all gone to work or to school, or are hibernating deep within. I can’t find a doorbell; I open the storm door and knock.
The Puppy opens the door immediately, as if he’s been waiting. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back.
When he steps back and holds the door open, I edge past him and into the dark house. I get an impression of dark flooring and bookshelves, but my eyes aren’t looking at the décor. I’m staring at the Puppy. He’s wearing a gray wife beater that shows off his body to best advantage; despite his small frame, his shoulders look broad, his biceps massive, his waist trim and narrow. A pair of pajama bottoms hangs from his waist. The sight of him this close, the heat of his body palpable, causes something inside me to stir. “Hi,” he says again, raising himself up on the balls of his feet.
I meet him by bending down and connecting my mouth to his. Our tongues swirl around each other. He tastes minty, and fresh, and smells of soap. Our beards grind and scrape together as we kiss. I allow my elbow of curl around his tight little body, and my hand to travel down his back to the butt encased in flannel. It’s firm, and compact, and round in my fingers.
For a long, blissful moment I allow myself to become lost in his embrace, to drift away into a timeless dimension where everything is sensation. His mouth against mine. His teeth gently tugging at my lower lip. His hands on either side of my face. His heart thudding against my ribcage. Then I open my lids and find his hazel eyes gazing at me, liquid and lovely, and I drift back down into the moment. This was easier than I thought, I find myself thinking. Immediately, I correct it to: This was easy. And then: This is right.
We stand still for a moment, glowing from the kiss and from the simple pleasure of seeing each other like this, unguarded and alone. My right hand holds his left. I’m bubbling over from the giddy joy of the realization I’ve just had. Of course this was easy. How could I ever had imagined otherwise? Every fear I had, every misgiving, evaporates like the dew on the lawn outside. Only sunshine remains.
I leave my shoes at the door so that he can lead me into his bedroom. Once there, I throw myself onto the mattress. He snuggles next to me and throws a leg over my hip. Once again our mouths meet. We fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Why haven’t we done this before? I know the answer lies in my own misgivings about the rightness of giving myself to him, but those are washed away now, dragged to sea in the flood of electric sensations he’s arousing on every inch of my skin. My hands are all over him, holding the back of his head to force him to kiss me harder, touching his back, sliding beneath the waistband of his pajamas, tickling down the furry crack of his ass to the blossoming warmth of his hole.
“Let me hold you,” I whisper in his ear. He lets loose with one of his rare and radiant smiles. “Big spoon, little spoon.” As he turns over, I slide my hand between the mattress and his side and draw him close. My free arm pulls him closer and my fingers dig beneath the cotton of his wife beater to frolic freely in the dense fields of his chest hair. He curls into me with sweet abandon, our bodies molded into one. I rub my furry chin over his shoulders, then plant there kiss after soft kiss. I feel him shiver in my close embrace. He likes that.
I kiss his shoulders, his neck, the sensitive space just below his ears. I make sure he can feel the intentionality of each moment, of each time my lips and beard press against his silken skin. He shivers as I press my lips against his ear. My tongue, wet and deliberate, probes his ear. The invasion makes him convulse, to grind his ass against my rigid cock, as I hold him even more closely.
My free fingers dip beneath the elastic of the jock he’s wearing beneath his pajama bottoms. His cock juts against my fingers; the tip is sloppy with precum. When my hand wraps around his shaft, he grunts with pleasure. The side of my hand grazes against his freshly-shaven balls. Their skin feels like a baby’s.
“I thought you’d be nervous.” He’s both smiling and giggling at the same time as he says the words. I’ve got several things going on. I’m still kissing his sensitive neck, and shoving my meat, through two layers of fabric, against his pert little butt. My right hand clasps him to me, and my left has seized control of his cock. His little hips are gyrating against mine. He has to be overloading on sensation.
“I’m not any more,” I murmur. My rumbling so close to his ear causes his skin to erupt in gooseflesh.
“So you’re all right?”
“I’m all right,” I assure him. “This is all right.” I use the flat of my hand to press down against his straining cock. He has enough of a pronounced curve that my fingertips fit quite naturally in the concavity between cock and pelvis. “This is very all right.”
We uncurl to take care of our clothes. I take off his tank top, then unbutton my pants. My cock can’t stand the constraint any longer. He dives for it even before I’ve managed to loose the denim from my hips. He knows this cock. He knows from reading and talking what that cock likes, what it appreciates, the places it’s been, the men who’ve desired it. He’s seen the photos, including those I’ve taken just for him. This is the first time he’s encountered that flesh in the flesh, though. I’m a little surprised he doesn’t take any time to study it, but his need is too urgent. He’s impaling his throat with it; he’s shoving it into his mouth like a starving man.
But he knows what he’s doing. He’s bobbing up and down on the shaft with a fury, as if he thinks I’m about to climax. With anyone else I might resent the vigor. With the Puppy, I don’t mind. He’s making me feel good. My cock feels comfortable in his mouth. It responds to his desire by becoming even more stiff. I’m sure I’m oozing out precum like crazy.
“Come here,” I tell him after a few moments. I pull him up to meet his mouth once more. I was right about the precum. Its salty tang slithers from his tongue to my own.
Somehow we escape from the rest of our clothing. He lunges for me again, landing on top. His erection meets mine—two sabers unsheathed. When he collapses on me, I roll us so that he’s on the bottom. “Roll over,” I order.
He obeys. His legs stretch toward the bottom of the bed, toes pointed like a ballet dancer. I raise myself up on my arms and straddle him, hips to butt, then lower my naked body down. Once more I kiss his neck and the back of his shoulders, pleased to hear his content little sighs. I could give him pleasure like this for days, just to hear those happy exhalations. My mind is on other matters, though.
My lips travel down the boy’s back. They cross the gate of his shoulder blades, graze through the valley that slopes down to the base of his spine. Then my beard scrapes and climbs its way up between the clefts of his ass, rubbing and savoring the feel of his thickly-furred crack. He lets out a long, audible breath as my fingers pry apart his ass, exposing the dark and puckered hole within. My need for it matches the hunger he had for my cock, only a few minutes prior. I dive in, slavering and snarling, trying to get to the core of him. My tongue’s in there, but I’m not just licking him; I’m feeding on his hole, using lips and mouth and teeth to draw it out and expose its mysteries. He can feel my hot breath, my spit. He moans and rolls helplessly from side to side, half as if to shake me off, but half as if to coax me in even more deeply.
He knows my intentions. I don’t announce them verbally. I merely bring myself to my knees, lean over to the bedside table, an attempt to pump a handful of lube onto my fingers. “The pump’s not . . . let me,” he says, eagerly leaping onto all fours. He grabs the bottle of lube and twists so that the pump extends, ready to be dispensed. “Okay.”
“Way to kill the mood, Pup,” I say, calling him by his surname. I’m kidding, of course. He knows it, and grins uncertainly. “I guess I’m not in the mood to fuck, now.”
“Yes you are.” He’s being assertive. He knows I like that. “You want to fuck me.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “Maybe you want my dick in you.”
“I always wanted it.” Our eyes lock, blue and green. “Let me sit on it.”
“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. I was already planning to fuck him that way, our first time. But I like him thinking it’s his idea. “All right, kid. Sit on on my dick.”
I’ve already got a handful of lube on my fingers; I slather it onto my throbbing dick and use the remainder to lather up the outside of his hole. Then I take another good glob and let two of my fingers slide into my ass. I suspect he’s worried about my size. I, on the other hand, am not worried at all. He’ll take me. He’ll take me because he wants it more than anything. He’ll take me easily, because I know we’re made to fit. I just know it.
It’s time to assume the position. I flop down onto my back and let him adjust the pillows behind my head. He reaches for the lube and applies even more to his hole. My thumb holds my dick steady for him as he positions it at his crack. The head of my dick meets his pucker. I can feel the heat there, as steady and surely as if he’d opened an oven door after a long bake. There’s pressure, and then I feel the head pop in, quickly followed by the next two inches. He’s gasping; his mouth is open just from the first three inches, and he’s not even halfway there. The ache passes quickly, though. Before I can say anything, he’s sliding steadily down, shaking his hips from side to side as he descends. Now it’s my turn for my jaw to drop, right as his hairy cheeks nestle against my nuts.
I’m in him. All the way in his little ass, and it feels so damned good. Those anxious moments in my car are light years away from what I’m feeling now. I’m past wondering if what we’re doing is right, past worrying if I’ve made a mistake. The only questions in my mind are why haven’t we been doing this all along, and when will we do it again?
And we haven’t really even started, yet. After a moment, he lifts himself up on his knees. I watch his face as he slides up and down the shaft. Sometimes there’s a nasty, sullen curl on his lip, a hardcore rough trade expression that most porn stars would envy. Sometimes his face softens; he gasps and grins to himself, like he’s sampling some private pleasure. Enjoying a joke only he’s heard. I stretch luxuriously, slow and cat-like, and enjoy the show.
Then there are the times when he looks at me, shy behind his long lashes, his lips pulled the the side into an oblique smile. I can see a mix of emotions on his face when he regards me like this—the timidity at showing me how badly he needs this mixed with boldness of his sensuality. His hands reach for mine and pin them to either side of my head. He holds them there as he rides.
The Puppy’s cock has stuck out at an obscene angle the entire time. A long dollop drips from its head onto my stomach, hung by a shining thread. I wrestle my wrist from his grasp, grab his meat, squeeze, then start to stroke it. “I don’t want to come too fast,” he says, pushing me away.
“Hey, hey,” I whisper. “Not with me. With me there’s no such thing as too fast. There’s no such thing as too soon, or too much.” I prop myself up a little, and with a finger, turn his face to mine. “When we’re together, everything is right. Everything’s okay. Okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, letting loose again with one of those smiles. I feel like a million bucks when he gifts me with one of those smiles. “Okay.”
Still looking into his eyes, I ask, “Do you want to come with me inside you?” He nods. “Then come.”
It doesn’t take him long. A few strokes with a lubed-up hand, and his chest starts to heave. His nipples pinch and grow hard. His eyes close. His hand works back and forth, up and down the banana curve of his cock; its head swells and flushes a deep purple. Then he catches his breath. The first splatter of his load gushes across my chest and hits me in the face; a second follows and splashes the pillow. Spray after spray of the stuff paints my torso. Each jet seems like a pint. I’m astonished; it feels like I’m being punked, caught on hidden cam assaulted by some kind of super-soaker rigged out with an astonishingly lifelike trick penis.
But no, it’s all the Puppy’s spunk. When he’s done, I’m fucking covered by the stuff. My face, my chest, the sheets, the pillows, all soaked. He’s laughing, his eyes half-closed, still shaking off the shivers from what had to be one of the most intense orgasms the kid has ever experienced while riding a dick. He’s still shivering.
I look up at him, though a heavy glob of his semen lingers on my eyebrow and threatens to drip into my eye, and realize that I’m truly seeing him for the first time. That is, I’m seeing him, in all his glory. Not the polite Puppy. Not the Puppy who presents himself well in public, or the family Puppy. I’m seeing the man at his most private and unguarded. I’m seeing him drenched with sweat and covered with his own semen, a man’s bare dick buried deep in his gut. I’m seeing him express who he is and how deeply he feels things, in a way I never would have seen had I stayed in that car and not taken this step.
And what lies before my eyes is breathtaking.
The realization makes my lips twitch into a smile of my own. This was easy, I think to myself once again, followed by its echo, This was right.
Then comes another epiphany that I’ll never shake: This is good.
So I pull him down onto me, gluing us together with the seed he’s painted, and lock him into another kiss.