Flood

When it slides in, it’s because I push. That impasse where fear and the hole’s muscles conspire pulses, then vanishes. The dick eases in, all at once, disappearing into the lube-slick hole. We both look at each other, wearing identical expressions. Surprise. A trace of amusement. And a whole lot of lust.

“Fuck,” I say, even more astonished than he. I have to drop my head and pick it back up again, I’m so surprised. I repeat, “Fuck!”

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod. Then I have to take a breath. Because this time, for the first time in over a decade, it’s my hole that’s been opened. I’m the one with his butt in the air, looking back over his shoulder. I’m the one who pushed back onto the dick that’s in me now, out of hunger, out of desire. Out of a need to be filled. Not filled. Used. In that split second, the animal in me had overtaken the rational being. I just wanted to be fucked.

Realizing what I’ve done makes me clench down for a moment. Instantly I regret it. “Hold still,” I beg him. “Just . . . hold still for me.”

He lowers himself so that his pecs are against my back. His knees spread my legs. His arms surround me. The only thing between us is a carpet of thick black chest fur. “As long as you need.”

The Friday night before, I’d fucked him for the first time in his life. I’d taken his virginity, savaging it twice. I’d teased him that he was my little cock whore, my slut. My cum bucket. The words had inflamed him, had given him the permission to relax, to loosen up, to ride my dick without inhibition or regret. Afterward, he’d flipped me over and rimmed me royally—and then he’d slipped his dick inside. I’d been equally surprised then that I’d been able to accommodate the man’s dick, which was not much shorter than my own. His thrusting had been too much for me, and I’d been paranoid about my hygiene, since we hadn’t discussed that particular variation in advance. I hadn't prepared for it.

I’d spent all weekend thinking about him, though. The warmth of his cock against my hole. His sweet breath against my neck. The words he told me, as his cock entered me. I’d be sitting in front of the television, with a project in my hands, and all I could think of were Chester’s handsome face, his smooth head shining in the hotel lights, his short frame bulging with muscles, his beefy legs tangled with mine. I’d pause in mid-sentence at home, thinking when I’d shoved my nose into his armpit and inhaled deeply, memorizing his own particular perfume.

Then I’d wake from my daze, try to recall what I’d been saying, and move on.

We’d already made a date to meet again before he had to return home to the midwest. Like a teen girl in a mid-century sitcom I’d fretted all Tuesday morning about my trip into the city to meet him again. I’d showered and put myself through the indignity of an enema (bottoms—again, I appreciate the hard work you do!). I made decisions. Did I want my hair to follow its natural center part, or should I push it to the side? Did I want to wear a hint of cologne? What clothes would show me off best? I’d put on a Nasty Pig jock that one of my readers had sent me as a Christmas gift, then removed it, then put it on again beneath a pair of different underwear.

But there we were now, in his hotel room, where we’d holed up after lunch. I have nowhere to be for hours, and hours. I can end this now, or I can make it last. So I think about it a moment—just for a quick moment. I think about the sensation of him inside me. It doesn’t hurt. He’s now moving back and forth, gently, mere millimeters. It’s not even uncomfortable. I’m afraid to move. I’m half on my stomach, half on my left side, with my right leg drawn slightly up. He’s raising himself, balancing his arms around me.
I breathe. I turn my head. I look at him, his head tilted like a curious bird. It’s been a decade since this last happened to me. More than an entire decade. “Do it,” I tell him, making the decision.

“Yeah?” he asks. “You’re sure?”

“You know this is what bottoms worry we tops do when we’re alone together, don’t you,” I gasp out. I’m stalling, though. We both know it. I nod. It’s okay. “Yeah,” I say. “Fuck me.”

I’m usually so facile with words. I like to be the observer in any situation, but it comes at a cost; to be an observer, one has to be at a very slight remove from the experience. One has to be on the outside, looking in. For this experience, though, there’s no remove. There’s no distancing myself. I’m in the middle of it. I am experience, and I can’t regard myself remotely. I can only feel, and not think.

I’ve no sense of time. I feel like I’m flotsam on the ocean, bobbing and floating in a warm tide. I hear his praises, and respond by arching my back and thrusting backward onto him. I hear him tell me he loves me, and that he loves me doing this special thing for him. When he pounds at me, close to orgasm, the sensations are so amazing that I’m not thinking about hurt any more. We’re as far away from hurt as we can be. I think about the warmth I feel spreading from my hole. I think about the sounds of his raspy breathing, his cursing. I shake as he shoots. I beg him not to pull out.

The second time around he calls me names. He calls me boy. I resent it when he calls me faggot, but I resent even more how automatically my body responds with pleasure at the epithet, opening wide to his invading dick and wanting more of his bad treatment. He pinches my nipples, slaps my ass. He fills me again.

My precum has pooled in the jock. He’s pulled it off, inhaled from it deeply, and stuffed it in my mouth, before shoving himself back in again. My dim eyesight fixes onto the clock-radio by the bed. We’d been at it for over ninety minutes, and I haven’t needed a break, I haven’t asked him to stop. I want it never to end.

The moments are tough to distinguish from one another for a very long time. They’re all sensation, raw and immediate. But there comes a moment late in the game of which I’m not especially proud. It’s when he’s close to his fourth orgasm inside me. I’m actually crying. He’s been thanking me over and over again. I’ve been thanking him. I’m trying to tell him something that seems vital, in that moment—that I knew from time to time I’d craved to be treated the way he was treating me, but that I didn’t know until then what I’d been missing.

“You’re a hot fuck. You don’t know how hot this is for me,” he says. And now he’s crying, too. Two top men, sniveling and sniffing while they fucked. “I just want to make it for you the way you made it for me.”

My mouth is dry. My lips are cracked. My throat is raspy. I want to tell him, as he pounds away at my hole, And I just want to be good for you. But what I say is, “And I just want to be good for something.”

He’s yelling outright, filling the room with the noise of another orgasm. I can barely hear it, though. In my head, I’m replaying that sentence, and listening to the raw admission it contains.

And I’m wondering if in that moment of absolute abandon, I’ve mined my way closer to truth than I ever, ever want to admit.

Cherry

We have all the lights on in our twenty-first floor hotel room, and the blinds drawn back. It wasn’t our intention to perform naked for anyone lingering late on a Friday night in the high-rise office building opposite. Twilight falls early in Manhattan, though, and in the blazing lights of the hotel room, we’re plainly on display.

The man slumped in his swivel chair at his windowside cubicle a few floors above us, almost exactly opposite, has been watching us make love for over an hour. His legs are spread, his knees pointed in opposite directions. His hand is down the front of his dark business slacks. A floor up, and over to the east, a torso in a white shirt has been appearing at the window from time to time, a pair of binoculars in his hand, pointed in our direction.

We don’t care. My companion is returning from the bathroom, where he’s retrieved a small bottle of lube. He holds it out to me with both hands. His dark eyes are wide and liquid.

“You are so beautiful,” I tell him.

He truly is. Chester is one of those men so handsome and well-formed that I constantly find myself asking that eternal, nagging question, Why is he so attracted to me? He’s short in height, but perfectly proportioned—a muscular chest covered with a carpet of dark fur, a butt that’s round and gym-worked, a stout and dripping hard dick. His head is completely shaved. Beneath my palms and fingertips, it’s cue-ball smooth to the touch. A thick, briskly-trimmed beard adorns his chin, though. I grab it between my thumb and forefinger and pull him to me so that our mouth touch. Dry as the hotel room is, we both moisten each other’s lips with deep and sensual kisses.

“I love you,” he tell me. I’ve given him permission to say those words. There’s no one but the two of us in that moment, in that hotel room. I’ve forgotten about our spectators across the street, about the binoculars, the jerking office clerk, about anyone else who might be watching. He’s trembling as I take the small bottle of lube in my hands. He’s not cold. We’re both perfectly comfortable in that overheated room.

He’s frightened.

We’re standing in front of the window as I turn him around and kneel down behind him. I rub my chin and beard over his buttocks. He gasps at the shock of the bristles at first, and then moans as he accepts the sensations of them raking down his ass. My mouth and nose alone part his cheeks. When he bends over, clutching for the desk chair so that he won’t fall, the dark brown of his hole appears. It’s covered with fur that I slick down with my own spit. I can tell he’s resisting, though. His hands flail helplessly at his sides. He’s trying to stand upright again.

“Hey,” I say, in a soft, low voice. “Listen to me.” His head is hanging down. He stares at me with tear-filled eyes, upside down. “I give you permission to enjoy this,” I tell him. “You don’t have to do anything but enjoy it. Hear me?”

There’s a pause. He nods. “Okay,” he whispers.

On the bed, I rim him for a long time. A half-hour, forty-five minutes, perhaps. I lick. I suck the hole. I bite his ass cheeks. I get my tongue so deep in him that it seems almost part of his body. The entire time, he hugs one hotel pillow and lets out soft and incoherent pleas into another. There are times when he’s crying, actually letting loose tears. I’ve reduced him to utter dependence upon the sensations I’m providing for him: the constant gnawing at his hole. The warmth of my breath and my tongue in his most guarded of places. When I move my hands from his ass to pull at his distended nipples, his hard cock batters the mattress like an angered rapist. When I blow a column of cool air on his wet hole, he howls like a wolf at the moon.

And yes, he’s crying, because no one has done anything like this for him in a long, long time.

He’s a top, you see. He’s forty years old, one of the most handsome and well-built gentlemen it’s been my pleasure to bed, and he’s spent his lifetime topping. Not even once has he had a cock approach his butt, much less invade it.

But he wants mine.

He’s helpless when I roll him on top of me. I could shake him like a rag doll; his head would loll weakly if I did. His butt settles on my rock-hard dick. I’m not surprised when his hips grind against me.

We look at each other. “You have extraordinary eyes,” he tells me. “They’re the color of heather.” I say nothing. My cock stiffens in his crack. I can feel the heat pouring from him, as if someone has stoked a furnace and left open the door. We stare into each other’s eyes, heather and obsidian. “I really love you right now,” he tells me.

“And I love you,” I whisper.

His hands reach for mine. We lace our fingers together for a few moments, doing nothing more than grinding against each other. His eyes drift to my hair, spilling across his pillow. “I can’t believe that I’m being made love to by Lord Byron,” he says.

“I think that translates into This dude really needs a haircut,” I quip.

“No, no.” The way he stares at me, I know he truly means what he’s saying at the moment. “I just can’t believe you like me.”

“Oh, baby,” I whisper. It’s little more than an exhale. His confession is closer to my own thoughts than I dare to admit. “Listen to me. I don’t care if I fuck you tonight. I didn’t come here with an agenda,” I tell him. “I don’t care what goes where. I don’t care if I cum. I wouldn’t care if we did nothing but this all night, so long as you it made you feel good. Okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers back. Then, a moment later, he swallows hard and says, “Let me just feel the tip.”
I open the bottle of lube he’s given me and spread it on his hot, open hole. I put a little more on my dick, and let him raise his hips so that the two meet. His knees are on either side of me, clutching tight my rib cage, and we clasp hands again.

We don’t speak. We don’t say anything at all for a long time. He merely grinds, taking my head in his hole, bit by bit. I refrain from ramming it home, or from making my dick swell. Our hips don’t stop moving, as if we’re caught up in a sensual tango with no musicians.

“I’m sorry this is such an undertaking,” he says at last.

The words make me grin. “Dude,” I tell him. “I don’t think you realize how much of me you actually have in you.”

I make him reach behind and feel. I’m halfway in. The realization is a shock to him. His mouth forms an O; his nostrils flare. His eyebrows crunch together and his eyes grow very wide. And then, suddenly, I feel his muscles give way. He just slides down onto me.

It’s a shock. The sensation of his clenched asshole opening completely and allowing me in, all in one rush, makes me gasp and clutch at him. He seems equally astounded. His eyes open even more widely and fill with tears. Not, I realize, because he’s in pain. Quite the opposite. “Oh shit,” he says, and then repeats the words over and over again until they trail off into incoherence. I ask if he’s okay, if he’s in pain. He nods to the first question, and shakes his head to the other.

Then I notice his dick. It’s leaking precum over my belly. “You’re stone hard,” I say, astonished.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispers. “I might come. I don’t want to come yet.” He begins rocking back and forth on my dick. “I can’t believe it,” he says. “I can’t believe it didn’t hurt at all. I can’t believe. . . .” Whatever he wants to say hangs in the air between us for a long, long time. When finally the words come out, they’re a whisper, like he’s praying. “I can’t believe I like it.”

I make sure he likes it. Tenderly, solicitously, I ask from time to time how his knees are holding out, how his ass feels. He’s lasting longer than many of the so-called bottoms I fuck. The entire time we fuck, one of my hands holds his. The other might roam over his body, or tweak his nipples, or reach behind to feel where my dick meets his stretched and wrecked hole, but the other connects itself to him, grasp to grasp. Our eyes rarely leave the other’s, though from time to time he gives in to the sensations and allows his lids to fall. Out the window, I can see the cubicle dweller still watching across the street. His hands are cupped and pressed against the window, and he’s leaning against them, blocking out the light and other distractions to watch us.

Idly I doubt he knows the enormity of what’s happening here.

When I shoot, it’s at his urging. He asks me to. He goads me on not with the hunger of a bottom, but like a top. I can picture what he’s like astride a boy’s hole, dicking it with a buddy from the Top’s Lounge. “Let it loose,” he commands me. “Juice me.”

The words push me over the edge. Beneath him I shudder and shake. My cock pulses. I’m too overpowered by my own orgasm to read the satisfaction in his eyes. But I do know that mere moments after my cum floods him, he’s splattering his load over my stomach, my chest, my forehead. It flies high and wide, landing on the pillow beside my head. I can tell he’s shocked by the strength of his orgasm. A worry line furrows his forehead for a few moments, deep and seemingly indelible. “Hold still,” I tell him.

He nods, breathing heavily. It’s several quiet moments later when he pulls off me, legs seeming to creak rustily. My cock makes a wet noise as it slides out of him. He’s shocked by that, too. For a moment, his eyes are wide once again. Then he laughs, and collapses on the bed beside me. “That was just what I wanted,” he says, curling next to me. “It was just what I needed. I’m so happy it was you.”

I can’t say anything. He’s given me a gift, by tracking me down and insisting I flip him. Hot as the fuck was—and it was damned hot—it is nothing in comparison to the tenderness and trust he's sharing. It pales in comparison to his passion and his sweetness, and in how willingly he unfolds to share himself at his most vulnerable. I pull him to me, and cradle that smooth head on my chest, while his breathing begins to settle. I stroke his skin, and press my lips to his forehead.

Across the street, where the man had been watching us from his office, the light blinks out.