Pinned

Three times I’ve been to The Decorator’s house since I wrote about him last. The first and second times were both about a month ago, when online he caught me and invited me over late at night. I ended up arriving at eleven and stumbling out of his front door again at one-thirty in the morning, drained and warm and barely able to walk.

He texted me two nights later to thank me, and to let me know he’d been thinking about me. It ended (as I’d hoped) with him inviting me over again. Since his king-sized sheets were in the washer, we fucked like dogs in his spare bedroom, ruining the sheets in there with our mixed cum and sweat. I was a happy man, to see one of my most sensual and favorite fucks twice in a week.

Both times I was over there last month, I’d noticed on his bedside table, next to the lube and a bottle of poppers, a pair of wooden clothespins. The first time I saw them, they registered in my head with surprise. I knew The Decorator liked his nipple play, but he’d asked for anything other than my fingers, mouth, and teeth on them. I’d forgotten about the clothespins on my subsequent visit, until I was pulling on my shoes afterward and noticed them lying there on the spare bedroom nightstand.

This week, I didn’t forget.

I was sitting at home last week, feeling somewhat neglected and out of sorts, when The Decorator sent me a text message asking if I happened to be available that night. Hell. For him, I jump at the opportunities. I shut down my computer, jumped in the shower, and was there within fifteen minutes.

The scene started as usual. I entered the dark, unlocked house and tiptoed up the stairs. The Decorator lay face-down upon his soft-sheeted bed, between the shadows of the dim indirect lighting that shone upon his artwork. I pulled his legs apart and lapped at his butt hole, my tongue savoring the tangy, almost metallic taste of the membrane inside. Neither of us said a word, not even when I pulled him up, like a limp rag doll, into a sitting position and pressed my lips against his.

In silence he undressed me, removing my thick sweater and my V-necked T-shirt, then my pants, socks, and shorts. He knelt on the ground and with his mouth engulfed my dick, sucking it in a way that made me shift and sigh on the sheets. His eyes closed in worship, he licked and sucked at my balls, and then pushed me down into the pillows, so that he could kiss and lick my shoulders and neck. He discovered this sweet spot of mine a few visits ago, that erogenous zone that makes me lose all sense of time and place.

And he’s good to me, when he plays there. It’s not a simple sweep of the lips against my shoulders, or a flick of his tongue against my nape. He works the area for a long, long time, using his mouth and chin and nose to stroke and brush against the skin, his fingers to scrape and knead and push and pull the muscles. The more loudly I gasp, the more broadly my lips part to catch my breath, the more vigorously and passionately he chews, and licks, and sucks, and abrades ever nerve ending in the vicinity, setting them all afire.

At last I couldn’t stand any more. I pushed him to the bed and shoved inside, enjoying the helpless sounds he made as my cock parted his tight hole. Small grunts and groans were the sentences we spoke as I fucked. The sounds of our lips connecting and the sloppy sound of my wet dick plunging in and out of his hole were our punctuation. For a long time, our dialogue was only that soft exchange of the mildest and sweetest of sex noises.

Then, when his eyes were closed and his body at its most accepting, I produced the clothespins.

I’d actually palmed them when he’d been working on my neck and shoulders. During one of my flailings, I’d let my hand land upon the night table. Then, when I was sure he hadn’t been looking, I’d taken the pair of wooden pegs and concealed one in each hand. Now, still fucking him with long, deep, slow strokes, I reached around and twisted his left nipple with my fingers, pulling out. He gasped at the sensation. When I clamped the clothespin around his distended flesh, however, his eyes popped open and he made a sound that surprised me in its ferocity. It was bass, and base—it was the sound of sheer sexual pleasure. Around my dick, his hole first contracted, then expanded, opening wider and with more depth than I’d ever before heard.

His groaning was almost uncontrollable. I’d positioned the pin so that it hung from his nipple and swung there; every time he moved, it would tug and twist at his sensitive nubs. I flicked the end of the clothespin with my finger, sending it flying. He responded with an arched back, a dropped jaw. His eyes rolled back into his head, leaving only the whites. When I pinched the wooden jaws even more tightly, I thought he’d melt into a pile of twitching and quivering nerves.

He didn’t expect when I applied the other clothespin. I tugged his right nipple out and pulled until I could fasten the second peg to its tip. The extra sensation shut up his groans immediately. Instead, he began to shake, and then to whimper. It wasn’t a human noise, that whimpering. It sounded like an animal wounded so badly that it knew the end was near. The Decorator pulled his ass from my cock so quickly that I was fearful I’d damaged him. For a moment, I worried I’d gone too far.

I needn’t have. The moment my dick hit the air, my partner pushed me onto my back, then straddled my hips and impaled himself back onto my still-slick meat. Up and down he raised and lowered himself. His hands clutched for mine and pinned them above my head. His lips connected with my own, and I found myself kissing him passionately. Between us, the clothespins swung and caught at and grazed my skin. Every time they pulled at his nipples, he’d gasp, and slam down on me even harder.

Two tears were on his cheeks, one from the corner of each eye that had escaped and run alongside his nose. When I reached up and brushed one away, his eyes opened. We stared at each other for long moments while his hips rose and lowered, and mine gyrated to match his motions. Then he turned my head to the side, and ran his mouth along my jaw. His chin dug into my neck as he licked and sucked. I tried to pull my hands down, to regain control, but he was determined. And in heat. It felt as if his insides had risen ten degrees in temperature.

He came on me, solely from the pressure of his stiff dick on the underside of my rib cage. The load squirted between us and our torsos crazily mashing together spread it thin. I wanted to roll him over and finish off, but he was insistent. His hips buckled and writhed, and churned. He was determined to take the load from me in that position. Pinned down and willing to be helpless, I let him. In five long, sweeping gushes, I let him. Then, when his grasp lessened, I reached up and removed the clothespins, one at a time. I held my palms over his nipples, to help them return to their normal levels of sensation.

I could feel my semen seeping out of his hole and around my nuts as I lay there, panting. He took a moment to enjoy the sensations, then unmounted. Without asking, or being told, he knelt between my knees and cleaned off my dick, my nuts, and my thighs. Then he rolled me over, lay on my back, and applied gentle kisses to my neck once more.

We stared at each other again when he was done. Then I spoke my only words of the evening. “Why are you so nice to me?” I whispered.

His reply was soft and sincere. I could still see the tracks of moisture from the insides of his eyes, as he stared into mine. “Because you make me feel better than anyone ever has,” he said.

And then we started again.