What He Wants

Spencer’s dick is bigger than mine. I’m under no illusion that I’ve got the biggest meat in any assembly of men, though I’ve usually got more than most—and more than enough to work with. Spencer’s longer than me by a good inch or so. The uppermost reaches of his scrotum begin higher on the shaft than mine do, so that from some angles, like the underside, it seems nowhere near as lengthy. But when he’s got his legs spread, and his dick pointing to the ceiling, and his head arched back and dug deeply into the pillows . . . yeah. It’s a big one.

We’re naked, and on the floor of the den, the carpet made pillowy even more by a fleece throw we’ve dragged down from the sofa. The sliding glass doors at the back of the house are uncurtained. Though the lights are low, anyone who happened to passing would see us embracing. The base of his spine is arched and raised from the floor. I’m able to slip my fingers beneath it. His big hands pull my hips harder against his own. In my childhood, my uncle used to call having sex the beast with two backs. It seemed an over-exotic allusion then, something archaic and quaint, the sort of Edwardian naughtiness whispered over cigars and port, away from the ladies.

But now I know what it means. Together we do form a beast, a writhing, squirming monster that moves across the floor in one direction and then another. The beast is hungry and seeks only its own satisfaction; it fills the air with ungodly cries and wordless sounds that would frighten the weak. Parts of it throb and pulse, angry, red. Others clutch and claw. Mouths open to devour. Eyes open, but they don’t see—not past the beast itself.

His dick is raw and pulsing, wet from the precum he drips. I feel it slide up from underneath my pelvis, and travel up my crack until it’s drooling at the base of my spine. The droplets of moisture cool there, making me shiver slightly. We kiss, savoring the sensation of our lips as they pull at the other’s.

Then his dick inches lower again. The head parts my crack. Instinctively, it burrows for my warmest part, and nudges against my hole. And there it rests for a moment.

When I feel his cock head swell, I almost pause completely. Is this what he wants?

All that fills my head for the moments following are the reasons why I shouldn’t. I didn’t clean out, inside. I’m not prepared. It’s been too long. I haven’t—I can’t—I’m not sure I could. That’s all it takes to fill my head with doubt, I realize. Nothing more than the sensation of his dick’s head, butting against me. He hasn’t done anything. Hasn’t asked me for anything. He’s just doing what feels good to him, in that moment.

I reach back, and wrap my fingers around his shaft. It swells. Beneath my hand it’s hot—hotter to the touch than any other part of his body. Gently, slowly, I rub the tip of his dick against my hole. He sighs, and shifts, and while he kisses me, his hips thrust up. Slightly. So, so slightly. Atop him, I rock forward and back to the swells and ebbs of his movements. His dick sweetly pulses against my entrance, icing it with his sticky fluids.

If this is what he wants, I will give it to him, I’ve decided.

I raise myself up enough to spit on my hand. I bring it down around his meat, getting it slick. His breath quickens; he thrusts hard between my fingers, splitting them further apart, splintering any resistance they might have. His dick batters against my pelvic bone, almost bruising it; again and again he bangs and thrusts, assaulting a spot an inch away from my hole. I only release him for another handful of saliva, which I spread on his inches until it’s slippery to the touch.

If this is what he wants, I’ll give it to him right there. And I half-wish he would.

His body jerks. Spasms wrack his frame. His jaw clenches, set and jutted like a rock shelf. I feel a spurt of juice first on my ass, and then running down my wrist. He shakes and nearly bucks me from atop him as he comes, his groans so loud that one of the cats runs from her nap on the nearby sofa.

When he’s done, I rub the cummy tip of his cock over my hole, and lower myself so that my head rests on his chest. It wasn’t what he wanted, that time.

But my mind can’t help but think about what might have been.