I’m lying in a stupor in the Puppy’s single bed. Outside it’s a frosty day—the sort of morning in which grass crunches underfoot and people thrust bare hands deep inside their pockets, to keep them warm. I’ve already spent most of the morning keeping a certain part of myself warm by thrusting it deep within the kid’s hairy pucker.
He’s got my DNA inside him already; I’ve pounded him down with his face in the pillows until he whimpered, I’ve fucked him standing up, my mouth on his neck and my hands around his fur-covered chest as I’ve repeatedly sodomized his hole. I’ve laid back and made him ride me until he shot a thick load over my chest and onto my face. Then I’ve started the whole thing over again.
But now it’s two hours and two of my loads up his chute later. He’s sweaty and exhausted. I’m hot and in a fuck daze, sprawled there on my narrow half of the single bed, imaginary animated birdies circling my head like a Warner Brothers toon who’s been conked on the head with a sex anvil.
I’m still seeing the little tweety birds when he speaks. “I haven’t paid any attention to your hole.”
“Ungh,” I manage to grunt out. I’m naked, my body pale against his dark, dampened sheets. I’m taking up more than my share of the little bed, just because I’m a giant compared to his short, athletic frame.
“I mean it,” he says. “I haven’t rimmed you. Ever.”
Through my comfortable stupefaction, his words finally penetrate to what thinking processes haven’t been dulled by the vigorous fucking we’ve enjoyed all morning. It’s been a long time since I was rimmed. I mean, a long time. I blink to clear my eyes, and look into his face. It’s a face I adore. I love those wide-open green eyes, the dark eyebrows like bold underlines on a page. I love the little smile that’s curling the corner of his mouth, and the way he looks at me like a young hound dog pretending to be docile and quiet, but who secretly hopes I’ll clap my hands and toss a ball for him to chase.
“Come on,” he wheedles quietly, his head on my chest. “Let me rim you a little. It’ll feel good.”
Yeah. I want that. I need to feel good. I nod, and roll over.
I tuck one of his pillows beneath my hips. He pushes my legs apart, keeping his hands on my legs, just below the ass. I feel first his shoulders between my knees, then the tickle of his thick beard as it brushes my thighs. When he pulls apart my cheeks, I sigh. My eyes close. My forehead lowers to the mattress. One of his pillows slides into the curl between my neck and chin, a perfect fit. I feel the heat of his breath. The flick of his tongue. He begins to lick.
I thought I was dazed before. That was nothing. When he works my hole with his mouth and face fur, I find my muscles relaxing as surely and steadily as if he had found some tension spring deep within me and started to loosen the screw. “Jesus,” I murmur to nobody in particular.
His voice sounds matter-of-fact as he starts talking. “I really like the taste of your ass!” he enthuses. “It’s really, really good!”
He could be shilling M&Ms or promoting the whitening power of some name brand toothpaste, from the tone. “Christ,” I mutter, as he goes at it some more.
“Are you all right?”
I’m fine. The wires from brain’s speech functions to my tongue have gone crossed and haywire, but hey. I’m not complaining, and it’s not simply because I’m unable. “Uh-huh!” I grunt out, pushing back onto his face.
He’s in there, now, lapping at my hole, opening it up. Every time he abrades my sensitive tissue with the flat of his tongue, I shiver; for someone who’s never before eaten my ass before, he instantly knows how to work it. The Puppy can read me, too; he waits for each crest of cascading sensation to ebb before he burrows in and elicits another wave. “This is great!”
How can he be so articulate and perky when I’m barely able to string two words together? It’s a little infuriating. “Fuck,” I manage to spit out.
I’m not any more lucid when he hikes himself up and over the mounds of my ass to press his chest against my back. “Are you all right with this?” he asks. “Are you doing okay?”
I nod. I’m doing more than all right. He’s driving me crazy with his cock. It’s stiff. Wet. Hard against my ass. What I want more than anything right now . . . what I want is . . . what I want. . . .
He draws himself up on his arms. His cock glides up my crack. I feel his balls press where my hole is. As if reading my mind, he asks, “What do you want?”
What I want. Fuck. Even my brain won’t let me think the complete thought. What I want is for him to know what I want, and for him to give it to me. I love being the aggressor with the Puppy. It’s just right now, parts of me are already screaming out what I want. My skin is vibrating at such a high frequency that I should be ringing like a tuning fork. Even through heavy lids, as I stare over my shoulder at him, my eyes are trying to command him to take what he wants, if he wants it. My hole is hollering for it. Fuck, my hole is yodeling for it, like some crazy Alpine goat herder. Folks in Westchester County next door should be able to hear.
In fact, every component of my body is telling him at top volume what I want. What he should do next. Where he should take this. Except my mouth, that is. I part my lips to speak, but nothing comes out. Just say it, my brain commands. Still, nothing.
Look, I trust the Puppy. I love the Puppy. There’s no one in the world that I feel more comfortable with. Deep in my head, though, there’s just some vestigial particle of what?—fear? anxiety?—from the sexual assault I endured almost thirty years ago. The maddening remnant prevents me from actually saying the god damned words: fuck me please. I can’t ask for anal attention. I keep thinking I should be able to. I open my mouth every day and all kinds of ridiculous thoughts tumble out. Why should asking for anal sex be any different?
In a spot like this, when my body is aflame with sensation, when the nudge of his thick cock’s tip at my hole causes me to arch my spine and thrust back against him, I should be able to say the simple words.
And I can’t. I open my mouth. Just say it, my brain repeats. Nothing.
I’m grateful when he solves the dilemma for me. I feel his weight shift; he reaches for the lube. His fingers are cold as he rubs the goop directly onto my hole. “Let me just put the head in,” he suggests. “Let’s see how it goes.”
I nod. Yes. This is what I want. Then, struck by the words, my lips suddenly start working again. “Hey,” I complain. “That’s usually my line.”
He silences me by sliding in slightly. There’s a slight pressure, the dual sensation of warm flesh and still-cool lube, then the heat and friction of his furry chest against my smooth back. “It feels good,” he whispers. Already he’s starting to ease in and out, just a fraction of an inch. “It feels really good. Are you okay?”
I nod, very quickly. There’s a flush that seems to be blooming from my temples, spreading behind my ears and across my shoulders like a mantle of hot needles. It slips down my back, vanishes toward my toes. I want the feeling to continue forever. I’m very okay.
Already all that fear, all that wearying thought, is ebbing from my brain. My hands slip in the gap between the box springs and his mattress; my arms hug the bed as if I’m clinging to a life raft. I float away, down the current, adrift in sensation. I’m vaguely conscious that from one corner of my mouth, I’m drooling.
His beard tickles my ear. “Does it hurt?” I shake my head. “Can I go deeper?” Now I nod.
The Puppy doesn’t need more permission than that. He’s so sweet; so protective of me. I really barely resist as he slides in. The sensation is so smooth and masterfully done that I’m moved to speak. “Oh my god,” I moan.
I want to say, in a succinct few words, how wonderful this is for me—how awe-inspiring it is that he’s managed to open me up so easily and quickly, how amazing he’s making me feel. My brain flails around for the right verbiage to communicate this most holy and intimate of experiences. I’m the one who’s good with words. Communicating complex thoughts is right up my alley.
What comes out, however, is this: “Are you in me?”
He pauses, Separates from me slightly. Then, in a voice of mildest complaint, he replies, “Listen. I know I’m not as big as some people, but yes, I am in you.”
“No, no!” I say, having to suck drool back into my mouth. “That’s not what I meant!”
Then he laughs, because he knows. I can’t help but laugh, too. For a long, long minute we lie glued to each other, little boys giggling at some corny joke.
I love that we can tease and celebrate like this during sex. It’s a luxury of intimacy that makes me want him more. “Fuck me,” I say, once the snickers have subsided. “Just fuck it.”
He requires no more encouragement. Next thing I know, he’s pounding at my ass. I get fucked so rarely that I don’t feel much mastery at many positions. Lying face down and just taking it from behind happens to be the one I’m best at. The Puppy doesn’t seem to care. He’s got a single thing on his mind, and our agendas happen to be one and the same.
“Fuck it,” I growl, lifting my butt to meet his violent thrusts. “Fuck that hole. Fuck it hard.” The obscenities pour out of my mouth as I clutch the mattress more tightly. He’s not holding back. He’s not even being particularly gentle at this point. I’m glad for that. “You’re going to breed it,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says, his pants coming rapidly. “I am.”
“You’re going to breed me like I breed you. Complete that circuit of cum.”
“Yeah, dad,” he breathes.
I know the Puppy has had difficulty shooting in the past with other guys, especially when bottoming. With me, that hasn’t been a problem. He produces more semen than a fifteen-year-old boy with his first copy of Penthouse. Will he be able to cum while topping, though? I’m betting he will. The question’s academic at best, because mostly what I’m able to process are only the passions of the moment. The head of his cock piercing me, again and again. The sound of his whuffing as he pistons away. The thud of his heartbeat, drum=like, through his rib cage onto my back. He could fuck me forever like this without shooting, if he wanted.
But yeah. He can cum. I hear him gulp; he thrusts hard, deep into my guts, one final time. His meat swells, stretches me wide, wider, then subsides. It swells again, then again, a little less each time, while he squirts one of his fire hose loads into me. The sweat from his body cements his skin to mine as he dumps the last of his semen in my hole.
“Don’t pull out,” I beg. I lie there, savoring the sensation of it all, wearing the slight and unaccustomed soreness of my hole as some kind of badge. He obeys, and presses his weight on me. It’s comfortable, this. I could lie this way forever.
Then, “Are you in me,” he says with scorn.
I erupt into breathless chuckles again. He echoes them. Then together, interlocked as one, we start giggling helplessly, unable to stop.
I have never been happier to be shamed for something I’ve said.