Ounce by Ounce

“I don’t care what you do when you’re out there on your own,” I whispered into Scruffy’s ear. “I don’t care who you talk to or what you do with them. But when you’re here, when you’re with me, you’re mine. All mine. Have you got it?”

Scruffy lay on my bed last Wednesday, face down, mouth in the sheets. I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. Now that it’s summer, he’s back to living at his folks’ place near the state capital, and it’s not quite as easy for him to come over when he needs me. Nor is it as easy for me to text him to see what he’s up to. His hands were above his head, grasping onto the wooden slats of my headboard. Scruffy wore nothing but a jock. Its pouch was printed in a camouflage pattern. When he’d undressed himself for me, moments before, ripping off his T-shirt and then lowering his pants like a shy boy, he’d waited for my reaction.

“Did you wear that just for me?” I’d asked.

He had let loose one of those sideways, crooked-jaw grins that lights up my day. “Do you like it?” I’d nodded, very slowly, as my dick had stiffened in my pants. “I got it at Pride. I wanted to make you want me.”

Oh, I’d wanted him. I’d wanted him just where I had him with my dick was three inches inside him and aching to go deeper, as I growled the words into his ears. Though the air conditioning was on, a thin layer of sweat glued our bodies together. “So whose boy are you?” I asked.

“Yours,” he whispered.

“Whose?” I repeated, raising my voice.

“Yours!” He let out a muffled sob as I stabbed the rest of my inches into him. “Fuck. I’m yours, I’m yours, all yours,” he cried out. “You boy. Always your boy.”

“Say it like you mean it.” I was fucking him steadily, now, sliding in and out. Scruffy’s outermost ring is always tight, and when he clenches down on my meat, it feels like he’s taken his thumb and forefinger and squeezed as hard as he possibly could. Inside him, though, is always warm, wet, and loose. I let his hole clamp down on my swollen base while the rest of my dick enjoyed the soft, pillowy heat of his insides.

“I do!” he protested. “Don’t you know I mean it? Every time you have me, I’m more yours. Every load you shoot into me makes me want more of you. Every ounce. Fuck. If you don’t know that. . . .”

I didn’t say anything. I knew he meant the words. Instead, I pushed down on the back of his neck and raised myself so that I was in more of a mounted position, and began to piston back and forth, very slowly, letting him feel the length and girth of me.

“I’m totally yours,” he murmured, almost as though he were falling asleep. “I love having you in me. I love carrying your seed. I love. . . .” I raised my eyebrows and waited, but he had fallen too far into the fuck. He was all sensation now. His skin prickled with gooseflesh where I kissed his moist back. When I looked down at his hole, it was pinkening. His ass jiggled with every thrust.

“You know I feel the same way,” I whispered to him. His hand clawed for mine. I let him squeeze my left fingers tightly.

“Please come in me,” he said, very quietly. “Come in me so I can have you inside me all today. You don’t know how good I feel when I can carry you inside me.”

“You know,” I said to him, very softly, just above his head. “My favorite part about rimming you is that I carry your scent in my beard for the rest of the day. I can smell you whenever I want.”

“Oh fuck,” he said. My thrusting was faster, now. “I love smelling you too. I love doing what you want. I love thinking about the next time we can meet, and what I’m going to wear to make you smile.” His eyes were closed as he spoke. Every one of my thrusts he met with his ass, taking my dick to the root and massaging it instinctively. “I love it when you make me your boy.”

“You are my boy.”

“I am your boy,” he repeated, agreeing. “I don’t care how old I get or how old you get, I will always be your boy. For life. I love being your boy.”

I yanked at his hips and pulled him so that I could thrust harder. Like a limp ragdoll, he complied. Over and over he repeated the words as he let me use him. When I began to shoot, he came to life again. His eyes opened. “I feel it,” he whispered. “That’s you, inside me.” I held still, gasping and choking until the orgasm began to ebb, and then we sank onto the mattress together. “Now I’m more your boy than I was before. Every single time, more your boy.”

“My boy,” I whispered, shushing him. My left hand traced down the side of his body, tickling his underarm, his nipples, the curve below his ribcage. Finally it wrapped around the length of his big, wet dick and began to stroke. His back arched, but he pushed his hole down around my still-hard cock to keep it in him, as I began pleasuring him.

Maybe every load I give Scruffy does make him, ounce by ounce, more my own. I like the thought of him absorbing me in installments.

What I suspect he doesn’t realize is that ounce by ounce, he’s taken away my interest in lesser fucks as well.