You Need to Know

You need to know what I go through, leaving you.

There hasn’t been a time you haven’t offered me your shower, after we fuck for hours. I always decline. It’s because I want to step out of your apartment knowing that I smell of you. I stride down the tiles of your hallway, out the first security door and then the second, and finally onto the street. Only there in the fresh air do I curl my lip and inhale the scent of you, fresh and pungent as any aromatic. I savor it as I pass the bodega two streets down from you. Your bouquet is my private pleasure on my train rides home—that sweet musk lingers on my face with my own, and becomes part of me.

As it fades, bit by bit, I start counting the days until I can see you again. Until I can eat your hole again, and cover my face with the tang of your most private place. Until I can press my chest against yours after you shoot your load, and pull apart after I’m glued to you, covered with your essence.
I count the days until I can fuck you again, and leave part of myself inside.

You know what you do to me when we meet. You can see it in my face; you read it in the tensing and easing of my muscles. You measure it directly by the stiffness of my dick. There are a hundred secret things you know about me from our meetings.

But you need to know what I go through when I don’t see you.

I wake in the middle of the night beneath the blankets, warm and drowsy. My dick, though, is wide awake and raging. It shoves against the mattress and hopes to find the warm mounds of your ass, but is only frustrated to find cotton and foam. I sleep with a small pillow between my knees. Caught between dreaming and waking, I can imagine too easily that it’s your legs my own wrap around, that the body sleeping next to me is yours. Then my eyelids flutter, and the unblinking cold light of my clock illuminates the contours of my bedroom, and it’s with regret that I have to concede that you’re not there. But still my cock demands. The head swell, my nuts tighten, and I drift back into sleep thinking of how tight and warm, how wet you feel when I push insistently inside.

I think of texting you, during the day. I wonder how you are, and what you’re doing at work. I wonder if you’d think it creepy if some dude old enough to be your dad were to text you and tell you about the dream he had the night before of your presence next to his, and how much he craved to be within you. Too often I fear I err on the side of caution. I don’t want you to feel obligated to give yourself to me; I don’t want the knowledge of my desire to be a burden.

But you’re what I think about, when I think about fucking.

You need to know how it is for me when I save up for you. When the days pass and turn into weeks, when the weeks sometimes pass to turn into a month. When finally I learn you’ll have the place to yourself and I’ll be with you again. I save up. Every time. I do it in part for you, because I know you love the sensation of my big load gushing into your deepest recesses. Mostly, though, I do it for me. I do it because the self-denial is pleasurable.

Writing those last words brought a little smile to my face. Pleasurable. Torturous. I’m finding it tough to tell the difference.

The first two days I scarcely notice. I masturbate less than I fuck anyway; I can go two days, even three without spotting the difference.

Day four, though, I find myself growing hard at the slightest provocation. A pretty face, a memory of something sexual, a growl in a voice or a look of longing in my direction makes me want to unbuckle and have at it. Day five, and sex starts to be all I can think about. I know I shouldn’t whip it out. I know I shouldn’t scratch this itch. But oh, do I want to.

By the sixth and seventh day of my abstinence, I’m in a frenzy. My middle-of-the-night boners are hard as cement; they rage and demand and insist, keeping me awake more than I like to admit. My dick wrenches me from my sleep abruptly, the head wet with precum from some dream of you that’s vanishing too quickly. I’m trapped in a sexual purgatory with no sign of relief. Every hour seems longer than the last. I endure my day’s work thinking about you, about how sore I want your hole when I’m done with it. I look at the photos you’ve sent, re-read your texts, go over your stories in my mind. I revisit the map of your body I keep locked away—the rolling mountains of your ass, the valley between your thighs, the sounds of the oceans made by your sighs.

My brain’s besotted with you, the last couple of days before we meet again. What’s worse is that the boys can smell my desperation on the wind, like hounds smell a bitch in heat. Out of the woodwork they crawl, insinuating that we should get together, that I should fuck them. It’d be so easy, too. You wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t have to be accountable. I could slip inside them, fill their little holes with cum, and hook up with you not long after. I’d still have load enough for you.

But it’s not right. It’s not the reason for which I go through this torture.

You need to know: I save up my load because it’s you that deserves it. It’s you that I want to blast with my sperm—only you. I’ll accept no lesser applicants, no substitutes. I want to turn you over and bury your face in the pillow, and lift your hips with my hands and pull that sweet, muscular ass to my face so I can eat it and relax it. I want to chew on your hole both to make it yearn for me, and as revenge for making me wait so long. I want to turn you onto your back, and wedge that pillow of yours beneath the small of your spine, and drive into you with the cock that’s been waiting for days and weeks and months. I want to make it sweet, just the way you crave; I want to make it hurt, so you’ll remember me with every twinge and pang.

I want to fuck you so hard and so relentlessly, that when I climax in a series of shudders and soft moans, in jerky thrusts and the swelling and release of the inches between my legs, you and I both know that this is right—that the sperm that’s been boiling in my nuts for the last week or more has been simmering for you. Not for some hungry little Latin boy looking for a papi to fuck him. Not for some cum whore eager to score. Just for you. I want that big load, and the loads that follow, to seep from your hole and onto your mattress all night. I want you to be able to reach down there and behind, to touch the parts I’ve left moist and puffy and sore, and remember I was there, and that I took the pains to make it special.

Maybe you do it when you’re alone that night, remembering what passed before. Maybe you do it while I’m still in your apartment building, while I’m walking down that tiled hallway and smelling you on my upper lip, while I’m letting myself out and walking with regret back to the train.

You need to know: even sated and walking down the street mere heartbeats away, stinking sweetly of your hole and your juice, I’m already thinking of our next time.

I’m already thinking of you.

Magnificent

Ten days. Ten days I hadn’t shot. Piece of cake, I’d thought originally. With the holidays, with family continually around, with school out and something on the agenda every day, with seeing friend and never having any privacy, it would be easy to save up for ten days. Right?

Well, the first three days were fine. I was busy. Always on the go. Never alone. The week after Christmas wasn’t entirely bad, at first. There were sales that needed attention, still parties to plan for, shows to see. The closer my date to Kent came, however, the tougher it became to keep my mind off him. Off what I intended to do to him, when the moment came. I’d climb in my bed at the end of a long day. I’d slide between the rich flannel warmth of the sheets, pull them around me, turn out the light. Then I’d start seeing his sweet face in my imagination. Hear his voice. Feel the warmth of his lips on my skin. My cock would grind fruitlessly into the mattress as I’d close my eyes and begin to dream of Kent. When I’d wake up, I’d still be hard and wanting him.

Torture. Absolute, fucking torture.

The day before our scheduled meeting was even worse. All I could think about was fucking his tight hole. No matter how unromantic, how unerotic or mundane the circumstances, all I could do was think about my best boy and I, alone in his apartment, fucking like dogs. I carried my dick hard in my jeans for the better part of the morning; it flopped around in a state of turgidity for the afternoon, stimulated by the least thought of its use.

I am having a very, very, very, very hard time today holding off for another 24 hours, I finally texted him.

Some say the journey is the reward. Most of the time I agree, Sir, he replied. Right now I don't. Filling my hole with your seed and owning it is your reward.

That didn’t help.

Will you make a promise to me about tomorrow? I texted him back.

Yes, Sir.

I tapped out my thoughts. In the heat of the moment, I am going to want to shoot inside you quickly. I need you to promise to help me resist that temptation. Because I want to experience and relish you before I let loose. Promise you'll help me remember this resolution tomorrow.

A moment later, his reply. I can do that, Sir.

He’s a good boy. Does what he’s told. I like that.

So this is exactly how it has been going down. I’ve tried my best not to act like a savage. Even when he welcomed me into his apartment, though all I wanted to do was shove put my hands on his chest and shove him down to the floor, to mount him, to take him with no preparation, no lube, no foreplay, I greeted him like a gentleman. I set my shoes neatly on the front mat, dropped my coat and my bag. I’ve made out with him. Reacquainted myself with his lips, with the warmth of his smooth skin, with the smell and taste of him. I’ve listened to his contented little sighs as my hands have slipped down the back of his pants to cup his ass, as my fingers gently massaged the pucker of his hole.

“Take off your shirt for me,” I tell him.

He struggles to his knees. Begins to lift the fabric of the T-shirt hugging his muscles. “How do you want me to do it?” he asks me. He has a lazy smile playing across the roundness of his lips. I can tell, as he speaks, that he’s trying hard to remember his promise to me. “Just . . . take it off? Or should I do it in a sexy way. . . ?”

I erupt with a little laughter. “Just take it off.”

So he stands on the mattress. Grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up might and over his head. Then he extends his palms to the ceiling and writhes there, stripper-like for a minute, looking any place but in my direction. “What are you doing?” I say, laughing with affection. “You’re showing off for me.”

“A little,” he concedes, grinning.

This time, when I speak, it’s a little raspy. “Get down here,” I order.

“Yes, Sir,” he replies.

I get his pants off. Turn him over. This time, I set loose my inner cannibal. For the better part of a half-hour I consume his hole. I salivate at the sight of it, I chew it, I slobber over its length. My tongue forces its way in there. He’s gasping at the other end of the mattress. Clutching his pillow like a little boy. Burying his head in it. I know it’s extreme pleasure he feels—I know my skills and how they work on him. In the mood I’m in, though, if he had been in pain, I wouldn’t have given a shit. Cock demands what it demands. And mine is heavy and ponderous between my legs, demanding satisfaction. It’s drooling, it’s leaving a trail of slime on the blanket he’d spread so neatly over the site of our coupling. My cock has been waiting for a week and a half to plunder this hole. One way or another, it means to take its due.

He pushes me off him. It’s difficult, but he manages. He looks me in the eyes. His eyebrows are raised slightly. I know the expression. It means he’s humored me long enough, indulged my whim, but now he’s done with it. “I know what I promised you,” he says. “But Sir, I think it’s time.”

“It’s time,” I agree. My jaw is protruding. My face is covered with the smell of him. I feel like a brute from the savaging I’ve already given his hole.

Then he speaks again. “Will you allow me to sit on it?” he asks. “Please, Sir? Allow me to work it with my ass? Please allow me to milk out that first load? Please let me make you come that way.”

I consider. I want to mount him and make him submit. I want to fuck him like I’m raping him. But I nod, and sigh, and allow him to push me back against the pillow and the headboard, and take control.

I feel the cold of the lube has he reaches down and behind to apply it to my dick. Its head slips up and down his crack as he maneuvers another payload of the stuff to his hole. And then, a moment or two later, I’m in. He’s sliding down my pole as he pulls apart his own ass cheeks. All I’m conscious of is the sheer heat of him, the warmth of his flesh as it wraps around me and engulfs me to the base. That beautiful face of his breaks into a smile the moment he’s managed the feat. He’s surprised at himself yet again for managing it. He’s relieved it’s in.

But mostly, for a naked moment, he’s happy. That’s the biggest compliment he can give me, that smile. He’s at his most himself, and where he wants to be.

I am too.

I let him ride. He gains in confidence the longer I’m in there. It’s not long before he’s sliding up and down with vigor. Every time he reaches the top of my dick, he squeezes with his hole. It gives the head a little extra sensation. I know I must be leaking precum like crazy inside him; the longer he rides, the slicker he gets.

The entire time, he watches me. He judges my reactions. He adjusts the tempo, the intensity, to match them. He studies me, his eyes boring into mine. At long last I break the velvet silence of our fucking. “You know what I like about you?” I whisper, then immediately correct myself. “One of the many things I like about you?”

He shakes his head. No. He doesn’t.

I allow him to continue drawing quivers from my body as I stare him in the face and speak. “Most guys . . . when they give me pleasure . . . they do it accidentally.” I’m panting, like a man who’s run a marathon. It’s difficult to form the words when all I want to do is groan. I resist being subdued into wordlessness and finish my thought. “They don’t know what they’re . . . doing.” He’s squeezing his hole again, gripping me so tightly I cry out. It’s a challenge to make myself heard, at the hands of such cruel carnality.

“You, though. . . .” I manage to say. “You dole out pleasure almost . . . scientifically.” My eyes are heavy, lidded. All I want to do is sink into a barely-conscious state in which I’m wallowing in the sensuality of the moment. But I need to make my point. “You apply stimulus. You observe the outcome. Judge it. Then you repeat the . . . ah! . . . process.”

He smiles at that. Then crashes down on my dick, swallowing it completely. Cruel fucker.

“You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

He nods, admitting it.

I have to stop his assault on my cock. I raise myself to my elbows, still him with a palm to his chest. He rests on my dick, not moving. Listening to what I have to say. “You even knew we’d end up here—with me craving you like this, with me needing you so badly—you knew we’d end up here from the start. Didn’t you? From that first message you sent me?”

After a moment, he nods. “I suspected we would, Sir. Yes.”

I have to know. No, I need to know. “How?”

By way of reply, he looms over me. Puts his hands on either side of my shoulders, so that he’s looking down into my face. “I had an intuition.”

“Why?”

Straight into my eyes he looks. “Because you are such a beautiful man. And I wanted you.”

From deep within rises a rose of a blush, red and thriving. I feel it blooming all over my body, blossoming from the base of my spine up and down every limb. It enflames every square inch of my body, taking me aback. I seize his words gladly. I don’t fret about if I deserve them. I don’t repay generosity with disrespect by batting them away. I take the compliment, and let it enhance the sensations already overwhelming every nerve ending in my body. Knowing it comes from a beautiful man with a beautiful soul helps me relish it all the more.

“You make me feel. . . .” I can’t find the words. There are no superlatives superlative enough. “Magnificent,” I tell him at last.

He pushes me into the mattress. I’m submerged beneath increasing waves of pure sensation. I never want to rise up, never want to breathe lesser air, not ever again. Then, just before I drown in his pleasures, I hear his last words. “I only bring out magnificence that’s already there. Sir.”

“Come with me,” I order. His eyes widen. “You’re going to shoot with me,” I tell him. I struggle out from under him. Pulling out from inside him is a shock to both our systems; we fit together too well to be apart for long. I flip him onto his back. Shove the pillow beneath the small of his spine. Then I shove my inches back into him like the savage I can be, not caring for his pleasure, but whimpering for the sake of mine.

It doesn’t take long. I hit the button inside him that sends the electricity shooting to his cock. Again and again I ram it, as he spreads his legs wider. Deeper I plunge into him, making my mark on that hole that’s already mine. My boy’s breathing comes faster and more shallow with every thrust. “Oh god,” he moans.

When we come, it’s together. I’m vaguely aware of his spasms beneath me, but mostly because they contribute to my own orgasm. Every pulse of his body grips my cock, pulls more juice from it. My forehead bangs his wall. My ten-day load erupts almost painfully from my body, leaving my nuts feeling as if they’ve ejected molten lava. They feel distended yet empty, as if their shrinking will leave the sweetest ache. When I look down at Kent, I see his torso glistening.

Two men, covered in spit and semen. Two men, smelling like the beasts they are together.

Two men, bringing out magnificence in the other.

Secrets

Outside the bedroom window, dark muffles the city. Like a woolen blanket, it settles on the river and renders bridges into vague memories of their former shapes. It hushes the sounds of barking dogs, the scrape of thick-booted soles on the pavement, the distant hum of traffic.

Inside the apartment, the two of us nestle among a few stolen hours. The old radiator rattles and clanks into life. The heat it produces is nearly overwhelming. My boy has left the window open to compensate. Occasionally frigid air, sharp and thin as a blade, slices across out bodies, followed by those diffused, distant sounds from the dark metropolis.

I barely hear them. My focus is on the here and now, on the boy who has slithered his way down my torso to nestle between my legs. Kent’s hands clutch my waistband and toy with the button. “May I?” he asks.

Oh yes. He may.

At my nod he unbuttons the denim. I lift my hips; he tugs the jeans down to mid-thigh. My erection flops onto my stomach with a loud slap. Slowly, lingeringly, he cups his strong hand around my length. His lips part. When he opens his mouth, I feel the warmth from his breath, even more summery than the radiator that’s keeping the room toasty. It's like a furnace blast, his heat.

“Wait,” I tell him at the last possible second.

He looks up at me, his face a bewilderment of emotions. Confusion. Curiosity. The disappointment of a boy denied his favorite toy.

“I want you to memorize this dick tonight,” I tell him. My voice is soft, insistent. I'm dimly aware I sound as if I'm attempting to hypnotize the boy. “Really memorize it. I want you to know this dick better than anyone else’s. Understand?”

His fist keeps my throbbing meat pointed to the ceiling. “Yes, Sir,” he agrees.

I'm pleased not merely at his agreement. I'm pleased because he really listens to me. He likes the instruction. Thrives on it. When I stare into his eyes, he's right there with me, not breaking our gaze, hardly blinking.

For the thousandth time I think to myself how fucking beautiful this kid is. Not matter how much he attempts to slick down his hair, it tousles itself as it dries, then springs into a boyish curliness. Those eyes are as clear and pure as his thoughts and deeds are anything but. He looks wholesome—the kind of boy every guy would be proud to bring home to mom.

And I own his hole. Mine. That beautiful furry pucker is all mine. My dick leaps in his hand at the thought, causing him to hold it a fraction more tightly. “Son,” I tell him. “I want you to know every inch of that dick. Every bulge. Every vein. The way it curves. Every hair at its base.” He nods, absorbing every word. “I want you to know that cock better than any cock you've ever known in your whole life. I want you to know that cock better than any fuck partner you've ever had. Better than your husband’s.” I let that one sink in. “Better than even your own. Understand?”

He’s still totally with me. “That's what I'm here for, Sir,” he agrees. “Your pleasure, Sir. You own me.”

“That’s right. I own you. And your owner wants you to get to work,” I instruct. I lie back against the headboard, linked fingers providing a hammock for the back of my head. And I watch.

Fixated on my eyes, he lowers his head and moves his mouth to my balls. Our stares are still fastened on each other when his tongue darts out, makes itself broad and flat, and begins to lap at my nuts. Fuck. It feels good. He's going nice and slow and taking his time to wet them up. All the time he’s lapping at my tender flesh, he’s watching me, judging my reaction. It's tough to stay stoic under this sweet torture. I grab the pillow from the head of the bed, stuff it under my neck, lay back, and groan. As my eyes close, I see his narrow with satisfaction. He know he's doing his job—doing it right, and doing it with enthusiasm, too.

He opens his mouth. It widens and stretches to accommodate my girth. I feel a flash of warm breath, the tenderness of his lips on my shaft, and then wetness as his tongue and cheeks softly embrace me. My cock becomes his total focus. He breaks his stare with me, though he continues gauging my pleasure with quick glances now and again. Right now his entire universe can be measured in eight slick inches.

This is what I like best about the boy’s blow jobs: he's not fixated on my cock’s head, or so anxious to get to its base that he neglects what's in between. His is the first blow job I've had in ages—years, if I’m being honest—in which I've been able to appreciate his work along every fucking inch. I feel his tongue and lips below the flare of my crown, an inch below, four inches along the shaft. He's not just pleasuring one little spot, or a localized area. He wants the whole thing to feel good.

And it does. My legs are shaking from the intensity of his attention. He's taking my admonition to heart. He's not in a hurry to get me off. The opposite, if anything. Kent is making slow, lingering love to my dick, and relishing every moment of it. He’s not propelling me along to an orgasm. He’s eking out every shiver, every half-laugh, every sharp intake of breath and quick jolt of electric energy up and down my spine. He’s giving me indulgence for its own sake. Everything he does is for my pleasure.

I'm trying to relax, but he's making it impossible. It feels as if my shaft is growing more and more rigid by the microsecond. I alternate between sinking into the soft mattress and heaving slow, grateful breaths, or panting rapidly at the sheer intensity of the tickling, deliberate ministrations of his lips and mouth along my length.

He loves that dick. He loves my dick, because it belongs to me. He's memorizing it, just like I instructed. Every vein. Every bulge. Its gentle curve. His tongue is tracing the shape of my shaft so he can recall it later. He’s making his mouth my home.

There’s a big difference between this kind of treatment and an everyday blow job. I always tell my special men that I want to fuck them so well and fuck them so thoroughly that they will forever regret any dick that's not my own. He seems to have a similar agenda. Any other head I get in the future I'll be comparing to his. Every damn time. And every damn time the other poor sucker is going to come up short.

He’s already discovered secrets about my cock that even I didn’t know. God damn him for being so good.

It’s a long time later that I get my revenge. He’s on his back, legs held wide apart in the air. I’ve crammed a pillow under the small of his back so I can get his butt high and at the perfect angle for wrecking. “Go slow,” he begs. He means it. I’m large. He’s apprehensive. “Please, Sir.”

I smile down at him as my lubed-up head disappears into his glistening flesh. My cock is purple with engorged need; I watch it disappear inch by inch.

“Slow,” he begs. His eyes are half-closed. He’s turned his head to the side. He looks as if he’s falling asleep. The grunt of satisfaction he lets out when I reach the bottom, however, tells me he’s merely lost in the sensations.

“Sssshh,” I whisper to him. “You don’t need me to go slow.” I knew how his hole reacted when I jammed my fingers inside to lube him. I could tell by how he welcomed my shaft inside that he didn’t need any special treatment. This is only our second meeting, and already his ass is conforming itself to the unique shape of my dick. It’s reshaping itself, making itself ready for me and only me.

I’ve discovered secrets about his ass, too.

And he doesn’t know the half of them yet.

Wolf

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.

Wolf.

Willing prey.