Soft

Soft, his ass is.

You wouldn’t expect it to look at him. The first time I met the man five years ago, was after hours at the college where I worked full time. I had to leave my desk to let him through the security doors. He stood on the other side of the glass, skin the color of dark molasses, the ropes of his muscle taut as he waited with crossed arms. He wore a ragged gray sweatshirt with the neck and the arms ripped off. The holes exposed tendrils of his armpit hair, wet with sweat, and the rounded sides of his pecs. One nipple poked out provocatively.

I hit the bar and let him through the door. He swaggered in, nodded, and pretended not to look me up and down. He thrust his hands deep into the grimy pockets of the orange athletic pants he wore. Their swish-swish-swish was the only sound we made as we walked back to my office. He followed me with a swayback posture, his narrow waist jutted forward.

Once my office door was closed, he said nothing. He rarely does, even now. Instead, he stared at me, eyes hooded and half hostile, until I said in the softest possible voice, “Take it off.”

Again he nodded. His thumbs hooked beneath the elastic of his sweatpants, and with one swift motion sent them skidding to his ankles. He was naked beneath them. His thighs were perfect columns, flaring down to his knees, and his calves were covered in springy hair. The edges of his pelvis were visible beneath his brown skin; the cut muscles of his stomach pointed down to the dick that was already three-quarters hard, and pointing outward. It was cut, and dark as the rest of him, and as large as mine.

He didn’t say a word as he shucked the ratty sweatshirt. I took a moment, that initial visit, to enjoy the sight of him. So lean, so muscled. So hard-bodied. “Turn around,” I ordered. His head dropped and he obeyed, for the first time showing me his round, perfect backside. His ass was like twin water droplets swollen to fullness, pulled out and down by gravity, but stubbornly clinging to the slender reed on which they’d fallen. “Jesus,” I muttered.

When I walked over and put my hand between his legs, letting my index finger trace the length of his crack, he sighed, and bent over. That’s when I felt how soft his ass truly was. Despite the spare hardness of every plane of his body, that butt was soft, and round, and filled my hands. He craved a man’s touch down there. As I explored, he sighed and bent further, arching his back to lift his ass high into the air. “Tell me what you want,” I said in the quiet.

“I want your white dick in me.” I could barely hear his words.

I gave it to him.

That’s how it would begin, in those days when I was an academic. He’d come to my office, either after hours or during lunch, strutting through the halls with that pelvis leading and his shoulders swaying to some invisible rhythm. He’d nod at me as I closed the door and turned out the overhead light. Then he’d strip naked—completely naked—climb up onto the desk, spread his knees as far as he could, lower his head, and wait for me to invade him.

After I left the college, we started reconnecting at my home. He would write me an email and show up a few minutes later, sometimes in his dirty gym gear, sometimes in his blue work coveralls. It didn’t matter what he wore. It came off the minute he stepped through the door. His shoes might lie just inside, followed by his socks, his pants at the bottom of the staircase, and his shirt or sweatshirt just outside the bedroom door.

If he wore underwear—and usually he didn’t—it would be a pair of his girlfriend’s panties. There was always a new girlfriend, it seemed. If he showed up wearing something soft and lacy, I’d ask. He’d tell me in as few words as possible that the new one had three kids, or that she was divorced and childless, or once, when the drawers were unusually elaborate and of good quality, that she worked as a dancer at one of the many strip joints on the outer borders of Detroit, where the clubs have names like ‘The Captain’s Club’ or ‘The Landing Strip’ or ‘Trumpps,’ or some suggestive moniker. Once, after he made some rudimentary inquiries of whether I had a wife or a girlfriend, he asked if he could wear a pair of her panties to start. I made sure to give him a pair on his next visit. He’s kept them since.

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The panties are nothing to me. For him, though, they’re a sign of submission. They’re an outward symbol of what he wants to give to me, and how he wants to be made to feel. When he wrote me over the weekend, he simply said, can u make a baby in me tmrrw?

Of course, I wrote back. I will knock your cunt up, boy.

On my bed yesterday he buried his head beneath one pillow and used the other to prop his ass in the air for me. Like an ink stain splashed on the linen, he was, dark and impossible not to look at. His hands grabbed hold of the headboard and creaked it forward as I knelt on the mattress to inspect his hole. “So damned soft,” I whispered to it, from only a few inches away. The breath from my lips made him twitch. When I licked out with my tongue, his body flinched. Every muscle seized when I buried my face in that cleft and ate at it savagely. My beard raked against the tender, exposed flesh there and left him shuddering and hissing.

Hard as his body is, and tough as he wants the world to think him, he knows that when he’s exposed, and vulnerable, and in my hands, he’s soft. He’s made for use, and he signs himself over to me for it, every time. I enjoyed lapping at his sweet dark hole for a long time and making him jerk and moan. But every time I always end up asking, just as I did the first, “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your white dick in me,” he said yesterday, from beneath the pillow.

He got my white dick once again. I went in slow, using nothing more than my own spit as lube. He always claims that I’m the only man fucking him. It may or may not be true. I really don’t care. He’s tight enough to be telling the truth, though. When I pushed through that rigid, tiny hole yesterday, his entire body seemed to lengthen and grow two inches taller. It’s as if taking my dick makes him larger, somehow—bigger and even more of a man than he already is.

He was so soft inside, though. Sweet and tender. When I fucked in and out, the round cushions of his ass responded with a quiver. My skin slapped against his, slowly and deliberately. The pillow fell away; he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe how deep I was inside him. I watched the muscles of his arms rearrange themselves as he gripped more tightly to the headboard.

My friend is not built for endurance. He wants a fuck, not a lovemaking session. He doesn’t kiss. He merely comes to display himself for me, to strip, and to take my dick. So I made the most of it yesterday, plunging deep in and then pulling back slowly so I could see the insides of his chute cling to my meat as I withdrew. Seeing how much I stretch him open always turns me on. Yesterday the sight made me fuck him harder. Soon I was clutching the rails of the headboard as well, the edges of our fists touching, white on black, as I drove into him. Save for our gasps, weak grunts, and swallowed cries, our fuck was silent.

Until I came, that is. The orgasm ripped out of me almost painfully, making me rasp out and leaving my throat raw. He buckled and twisted, and shuddered. Every time I shoot, he shoots as well. For a moment we lay there, still as a photograph. Then his ass clenched down, and squeezed me out.

I knew there would be a puddle on the bed from his own dick when he got up. It was there, a fat comma-shaped moist spot on the blanket. While I still panted and rolled into a sitting position, he had already slipped into his baggy sweatpants, cut at the knees into shorts. “Yeah. Later,” he said in a gruff acknowledgment before he ducked out in the hallway. From the railing he grabbed his sleeveless T-shirt, and at the base of the stairs he stepped into his grimy sneakers, one after the other. He didn’t even bother to pull on his shirt until after he’d stepped out through my screen door and as he took the porch steps down to the street. Anyone passing by at that time would’ve seen his taut torso stretched and on display for the neighborhood, still glistening with our mixed sweat. Hard, lean, and chisel-sharp.

And if they’d been especially sharp-eyed, they might have seen me naked, standing well back from the door, watching him go. I might be the only man who knows how soft he truly is.