The Climax

I’m going to start at the climax.

His climax.

When it’s close, we’ve already been fucking for over two hours atop his bed, in a posh hotel on the upper east side. The pillows are in a haphazard pile. The windows are slightly ajar; sunlight is pouring in. It’s a beautiful, spring-like afternoon, but neither of us care about the weather. We’re naked and covered in a thin film of sweat from our exertions. I’m on my back, hips slightly raised, knees bent slightly and pointed at different angles to the ceiling. My dick’s jammed all the way into him, as deeply as I can plunge.

And then an inch more, out of lust and spite.

He’s sitting on top of me, head tilted back, hand on his thick, hard dick. His knees seem so firmly planted into the mattress that they might have taken root there. His body quivers and quakes as it determinedly grinds down on me. His nipples are dark whorls, the size and shape of half-dollars, that pucker slightly the closer he gets to his orgasm.

“Do I belong to you now?” he whispers. His eyes are closed. His face is pointing to heaven. But he’s praying to me.

“You belonged to me the minute I dumped that first load in your hole,” I tell him.

“Yessss.” It’s a long, drawn-out hiss. Relief and joy, wrapped in luxurious sibilants. “Please. . . .”

“Oh, you’re mine, boy,” I tell him. He’s a year older than I, but he’s getting called boy nonetheless. “You’ve got me for a master now.”

This man could have anyone he wanted. Anyone. I’d told him so when we’d ripped the clothes from each other and I’d first seen that perfect body in person. The planes of his massive pectorals, the broad shoulders, the muscular arms. His waist was narrow, his ass round and bulging from discipline and work. He looked like he’d been sculpted from dark river clay by the hands of an artist, an aesthete who had shaped him into a perfectly proportioned sculpture.

I’d seen that body in the short videos he’d sent me—little greetings he’d taken in front of his bathroom mirror in his California home, in which he’d stripped down to a very self-consciously-selected pair of expensive briefs, held up his iPhone, and shyly spoke to me for a few moments. I lost a little part of my heart to him with each one. I hesitated to tell him how much.

Those videos alone had told me so much about this picture of perfection, one of my readers. They told me he was a man torn between a natural desire to exhibit his beautiful, picture-perfect body, and a fear that I or someone else might laugh at him for doing so. They told me he was a man who was sincerely and objectively beautiful, but was frightened to believe it of himself. Buff and muscular as he was, every one of those sweet and touching video clips made me want to cup him in my hands, like I might a fluffy, newly-hatched chick, and protect him from the world.

He doesn’t need my protection, though. He’s not a fluffy chick. Those vulnerabilities are not something the world sees. A glimpse of them is his gift to me, and I'm appropriately touched by them. No, to all appearances, he's a hot stud who wouldn’t look amiss in any porn production. I’m a little overwhelmed at the notion that a man this handsome, a man this built, a man this hung, could walk into any bar and leave with the stud of his choice—and yet he’s flown to Manhattan for the express purpose of meeting and spending a day with me.

No, protection isn’t what he needs. What he needs is my approval. My ownership. My dick. “You are going to compare every fuck to this one, from now on, hear me?” I promise him, so fervently it comes out as a growl. “I want to make you regret any cock after mine.”

When he opens his eyes, there’s a film of happy tears across them. “I’ve never had sex like this,” he says. He sounds weak, and helpless. “I’ve never had it so good.”

I’m not immune to compliments like that during the act. I stabbed upwards, plunging my rod deeper into a hole that had grown progressively looser and sloppier over the hours I’d been inside it. “Damn right you haven’t, boy,” I growl. “‘Cause you haven’t had it from someone who knows what the fuck he’s doing.”

I’ve always thought I was the biggest pre-cummer around, but this man has me beat. His cock is leaking with sticky goo. It adheres in threads to the hardness of his abdomen, connects to the lightly fuzzy skin of my own. At my words, another glob slides down his meat, like melting ice cream on a scorcher of a day.

“This is what you’re made for, isn’t it?” I find myself snarling at him. “Taking a stranger’s dick in an expensive hotel room in the city? Taking a strange man’s cum up your sluthole?”

“Yes,” he whimpers. “Yes. Yes.”

“Fuck yes. You know it. Is this what your ass is made for?” I ask this man, this successful, wealthy paragon of the business world. The words work magic on him. He’s getting closer and closer. “Sluttin’ in up with raw cock pounding away at you? This is all you’re good for, huh? Tell me.” He nods, but I'm not appeased. "Tell me. Say it."

His head tilts back to heaven again, as he becomes lost in the sensations taking over his body. “Yes.” The word is half-murmured, half-sighed. I recognize it as his amen. “Yes. All I’m good for. It’s all I’m good for,” he echoes.

When he comes, which he does seconds after, it’s the biggest load I’ve ever seen come out of a dick. It seems like a half-pint of semen overflows my chest, my stomach, my pubes in warm, sticky jets. He’s panting and grinding and clamping down on my dick like he never wants to let it go, all while from the enraged tip of his cock gushes a flood of the stuff. I’m so overwhelmed that I shoot immediately after, deep inside. It’s my third.

By the time I leave him later in the day, he’ll have collected two more.

Afterward, when he’s in my arms, holding me so tightly that I wonder if he’s afraid of ever letting me go, I realize to myself how fiercely I meant those words I spoke at the height of our passion. I do want him to regret every dick he takes after mine. It’s a selfish thought. Regrettable, even, for someone like myself who claims to have a philosophy in which sexual jealousy plays no part. But there it is, a nugget of post-coital insight, unannealed and raw—the realization that I wish I did own this man. That I could keep him to myself, for my use only, whenever and wherever I wanted.

Or is it that I’m the one who frightened to believe that I could have given him something that good—something better than he’d had from anyone else? I don’t know. Perhaps I am.

It’s moments like these, in the quiet times after climax when I couldn’t be any closer with a very special man, that I feel the melancholy of the two of us, lost boys, adrift upon the sea, stranded upon a life raft of our own making. How we cling to each other for comfort, and solace, and company. I run my hand over the short, cropped hair of his head. He murmurs, and nuzzles closer. Relaxing in the warmth of his body, I allow myself to close my eyes and bask in the sunshine and the sound of life coming from outside the windows, and drift. And drift.

He’ll be leaving the next morning. These moments of touching, of kissing deeply and wetly, of holding each other as we listen to the distant sounds of New York’s streets a dozen stories below, will begin receding the moment the hotel door closes between us. Next to him now, I’m already anxious about it.

But for now, there’s just the two of us, and time. My dick’s still hard, even after that third load. Maybe it’s because he’s kissing me on the neck. Or maybe it’s because he’s down there between my legs, sucking me clean with his amazing, unceasing mouth. How can he be so tireless?

He looks up at me with that handsome face, his eyes pleading. “Let me give you pleasure,” he begs.

“All right,” I say. It’s an easy agreement.

And he begins again.