The Dancer

Spencer’s face looks sculpted from clay, as if by deft and expert hands. His brow, smooth and at a gentle slant, seems smoothed by an invisible palm. His chin is broad and flat and square, as if formed by the gentle butt of a fist from beneath. His eyes, close-set—the wells from two thumbs pressed deeply into the soft molding material. His nose, made pointed and straight between two fingers running down its length. And finally his cheekbones, high and sharp, stretched by the artist grasping and pulling his medium to almost comical proportions.

He’s beautiful.

When I tell him so, he chuckles. It rumbled in his broad chest. “I’m glad you think so.” It’s a reply he’s given before. It tells me that he’s not yet come to terms with his generous good looks or even the proportions of his body. It’s a dancer’s body—broad shoulders atop a muscular torso that narrows to a trim waist. His butt is ample, even large, but those muscles are there for a purpose; years of running and leaping and lifting partners has filled it out. It’s a butt that fills out his jeans or slacks, and catches the attention. It’s a hairy butt that I’ve spent the evening rimming, off and on. Every time my mouth has met his hole, I delight in his soft, contented sighs, in the sounds of his fists clenching the bed sheets, in the shifts of his body as he thrusts back his hips to open himself to me.

Yes, he’s beautiful all over, from the thick dark hair thatching his head, the dark brown eyes, the broad sideburns that threaten to take over his face, the cascade of fur running down the center of his chest. I’m infatuated by the thick bush of his pubes from which his erect penis juts, angry red. I love his thick and muscular thighs, his rounded calves, the triangular wedges that are his feet. When my hands finish trailing over his body, he pushes himself up on his thick forearms. Over the curves of his shoulders he looks at me, mouth parted. My lips meet his in a kiss that’s soft and slow; the tips of our tongues meet, then glance away to explore other areas. I nuzzle his ear, and nip at his lobe. The bristles on my chin scrape his neck.

“You smell so good,” I say, inhaling some kind of scent from the back of his neck. It’s citrus, and spice, and the clean tones of vanilla and mint, all at once. “What are you wearing?”

For a moment he can’t speak. He’s enjoying the sensations too much. Finally, when I give him some relief, his lids open lazily. “The blood of innocents,” he tells me.

“Mmm,” I reply, just as deadpan as he. “Tasty.”

There’s nothing innocent about Spencer. His hole has been well fucked in the few years he’s been sexually active. It’s both the loosest and tightest hole I’ve had of late. When I enter, I scarcely need lube, or pressure. He opens to me without labor, taking my full length without stress or strain. When I’m in, though, he clamps down with a vengeance, surrounding me with heat and his own moisture mingling with the loads I’ve already left inside. His legs are in the air, his knees by his ears, effortlessly flexible. The flats of his feet rest upon my shoulders.

My own hair hangs around my face and eyes as I fuck into him. Softly. Slowly. I want to savor every thrust with him, my new infatuation. “I hope you don’t mind if I’m more of a lover than a pounder tonight,” I tell him, aware of how lame the apology must sound. “It’s just. . . .”

I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I’ve only met him for the first time that night; we’ve only been sharing each other for a couple of hours. To say what I want to say would frighten the boy away. It’s just that for some reason, this particular encounter matters to me, maybe. Or, It’s just that I really like you, and I want you to keep coming back.

“I like you,” I told him, getting the courage to say the words. “I want you to come back again.” I add a third thought. “I just want to keep making you feel very, very good.”

My cock has been rigid to the bursting point the entire time I’ve been with him. Now, face to face with the boy, close and wrapped in his legs, I feel as if it’s doubled in size. I’m not usually fond of fucking men on their backs on the bed like this; too many seem to be trying to push me backwards and off-balance, or backing off of me from the intensity of my size in their folded position. Spencer, with his dancer’s balance and his incredible flexibility, however, is managing to make this the most intimate of positions. With him, it’s suddenly the only position I crave.

My thrusts are catching him at an unexpected angle. Every time I hit bottom, he grunts and contracts. For a long minute he lets out a drawn-out sigh that’s half groan, half prayer. I don’t really care about whether or not I shoot. I just want to give him pleasure.

I use spit to lube his dick, and wrap my palm around it. His response is almost metallic, hollow. Instinct makes his hips buck forward to thrust it through the tube my hand makes. Soon he’s moving back and forth, drawing my own dick in and out of him as he thrusts into my hand. His eyes are closed. His nipples, when my left hand draws across them, are hard, pointed nubs.

“You can’t . . . I don’t. . . .” I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me, but I can feel his pre-cum leaking onto the back of my hand.

Whatever I can’t or he won’t do, I never find out. His hips clench; his ass tightens to the point of nearly expelling me. Semen gushes from the tip of his dick, spraying my chest, the underside of my chin, his own body. After a moment, I’m surprised to find that he remains just as hard after he’s shot. There’s a certain lessening of rigidity, but he’s still up and stiff between my cum-slick fingers.

“Fuck me,” he commands, the soft-voiced little dictator. “Shoot in me.”

I don’t need any more permission than that. I’m already close to another orgasm. Knowing he wants it brings me all the closer. My thrusts are like a rabbit’s, swift and shallow, focused on bringing as much stimulation to my cock head and the inch below it.

I release my load inside him with a gasp. It’s astonishing, how hard he makes me come. The dazzle hasn’t even faded from my eyes when his fingers trail up and through my hair, pushing it away. “You're perfect," he sighs. His hands travel across my face like the sculptor's would, feeling its curves and planes and irregularities. "You don’t have to be what you’re not, you know,” he whispers to me in the darkness. “Be what you want to be. Be what you are.”

I’ve never received that permission before. It’s honestly the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me during sex.