For Me

I leave the door open for Spencer these days. He’ll park his car, sit for a moment on the dark street in his car with the door ajar to give him enough light to wrap the earbuds around his iPod, and then he’ll shuffle up the driveway and through the side door into the house. Once inside, he’ll come find me, whether I’m in the den watching television, or reading a book on my bed, or cleaning up the kitchen.

The day I arrive back from my new year’s weekend trip, he doesn’t have to come find me. I’m waiting for him.

The landing is dark inside the side door when he steps indoors, unaware how close I am. From the shadows further down the stairs I watch his silhouette as he leans against the wall and kicks off his leather boots. His hands grab to remove the oversized wool cap he wears in chilly weather. He shakes his head to clear his ears of the cold.

I make myself known by shifting my weight. The stairs creaked a little; he whips around to see me against the darkness of my basement, hands at my side, staring at him. “Oh fuck,” he pants, and then lets out half a laugh. “You scared the shit out of me.”

I don’t really care. I take two steps up and close the distance between us. My right hand grips the back of his head, pulling him into a rough kiss. He melts immediately. His own ice-touched fingers rest weakly on my hips; I can feel the aching cold of them through my T-shirt. His chest, though, is warm where my left hand travels over it, beneath his sweater, shirt, and undershirt.

When I tweak his nipple, he groans involuntarily and slumps backward. His body hits the door with a thud, still glued to mine. His lips part to admit mine and his tongue helplessly succumbs to my probing. His head tilts back. When I withdraw slightly, his body protests. His hands grip me hard, pulling me back in, and then scramble to hold the sides of my face so tightly I feel as if I’m being squeezed for my juice. He’s hungry for me; he can’t have enough of me, or have me quickly enough.

He lets me know how aroused he is by thrusting his hard dick against my hip. Spencer never wears underwear. I can feel his heat and hardness through a single layer of denim. He’s gone from zero to eight inches in seconds flat; I can hear his heart pounding hard and fast beneath his skin.

I pull away and, in the dim landing’s light, look at him. His hands are still fixed to my cheek. My right hand chips his chin. “Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he says back.

I’ve left the house dark. Hand in hand, I guide him through the familiar shades of black and slantwise shadows cast by the street lamps near the end of the block. When we reach the bedroom upstairs, he wants to kiss some more. His mouth quests for mine, hungry and needy, but I refuse to give him what he wants. Instead, I turn him around and wrap my arms tightly around him, gripping him so tightly he almost loses his breath.

My hands unbutton his jeans, and shuck them to the floor. He tries to step out of them, but I’m too greedy, too impatient; I shove him roughly down on the bed. His feet wriggle helplessly in the mess of denim surrounding them. He struggles to gain his balance, to adjust himself, but I’m already positioning him as I want him—butt high, knees spread, face down in the sheets. His three layers of shirts bunch in a wreath around his shoulders when I haul his ass into the air. He gasps the moment my tongue dives into the hole.

This is no lovemaking. It’s rimming at its most primal, its most necessary. I eat and bite at his hole like a hungry dog at his steak dinner, slopping it up and not caring if he likes it or not. I’m so riled, so in need of what he’s there to give me, that his pleasure is incidental. His loud cries could be of pain, but somehow I don’t think they are. They’re music to my ears, regardless.

I drool onto my dick and let the spit slick up the shaft. Then I’m in, pushing past what scant resistance he has to offer and deep into the depths, where it’s hot as a furnace and wet as a warm river. My dick swells. I can tell it’s releasing precum, just from the feel of it, and the way in which it seems twice as slippery after. I’ve not fucked for a week. I’ve been saving up for him, and this is where I intend to be.

Ordinarily I pride myself on my control when I fuck. I like to switch it up, vary the rhythms, keep the bottom guessing what will come next. Not today. Not now. My hips and my dick are in collusion against me. They have their own rough agenda and no intentions to hold back from it. I feel as if someone else is pushing my shaft in and out of his hole at top speed, slamming into him so hard that the bed is leaping from its feet and scudding back down onto the hardwood floor. He’s whimpering now, or crying—it’s difficult to tell which.

And to be honest, I don’t much care.

“This one’s for me,” I tell him. My voice issues deep from within my chest, husky, low, and full of command. “So just shut up and fucking take it.”

I’m not going to last, I know. I’ve been too long without, and my dick is already buzzing with the impending sensations of orgasm. My thumbs hook beneath the hems of his shirts and sweater, as my fingers reach beneath the necks; I’ve created a yoke that lets me pull and push his body onto my cock as I need. And I do need it, more and more urgently.

“Rape me,” he pleads, tears in his voice. “Fucking rape my hole. Please.”

When my orgasm arrives, it hits like a speeding train. I’ve known it was coming, and yet the sheer intensity of it is a shock that seems to blur and bleach my vision. My dick spews over and over again into him, filling him with seed that he begs for with every blast. I realize I haven’t been breathing. Exhaling is painful, and inhaling even more so in the moments that follow; every nerve ending inside me seems to jangle at the sensation of the cool bedroom air filling my lungs.

Still deep inside him, I pause. My fingers tickled around his hole where my dick meets his ass, where the two of us are one and inseparable, for now.

That one was for me.

The next one was for him.