Worship

Worship.

It’s a word a lot of wanna-be bottoms use around me. I want to worship that beautiful dick of yours, they say.

The word appeals to me. Worship. Acts of devotion by true believers. Supplication before a deity. The thing is, I’m cock-proud enough to think my meat deserves it.

My experience, though, is that when a bottom tells me he wants to worship my dick, I know what I’ll probably end up getting is five minutes of head—if that—indifferently given and accompanied by a too-hard grip. Then while the guy lies there like a lump, I’ll be expected to mount and fuck him, doing all the work, every step of the way.

I think any minor deity would tell you the same thing: that’s not fucking worship.

This kid knows what is worship. His big, plump lips are wrapped around my dick. They quiver and extend as he engulfs my rigid meat, inch by inch. When he reaches the base for the first time, those thick lips are still pushing out, nursing at the root, rubbing themselves onto my smooth nuts, grazing against my pubes. His breath is hot and moist. It warms my thighs. I can feel the pulse of his heart as his throat closes around me.

His digs aren’t fancy in the least. Hanging on the walls are two posters of some tarty Spanish-language singer I don’t know, tacked there with Scotch tape. His tiny bedroom is mostly occupied by the mattress on the floor, covered with a cheap bedspread and a pile of thin, worn-out pillows. He’s got a student laptop on the floor, anchored by a spider’s web of wires and cables; it’s open to his mail program, and to one of the emails we’ve exchanged. If I turn my head, I can see a photo of my own dick on the screen.

No, his room’s not very fancy—but he’s treating me like royalty. He’s doing the best he can. He’s carefully arranged the pillows behind my back and made sure I was comfortable. He’s undressed me reverently, clumsily folding each article of clothing down to the socks and stacking them on the cluttered floor. Only once I’m settled and relaxed, and once he’s kissed me deeply and thankfully for being there and urged a remote control into my hand, does he arrange himself between my spread legs to apply himself to the task at hand. His act of worship.

I don’t need the remote. I’m not watching the porn playing on his little TV. It’s a distraction, if anything. I’d rather watch the kid go at it. I want to watch the ritual he’s set himself. I’m his omnipotence, observing those reddened lips that distend themselves around my shaft. I’m his all-seeing judge, watching him struggle to get it all in his mouth. I take pleasure as that pencil-thin trace of hair he fancies is a mustache turns into an upside-down arc—a horseshoe that loses all its luck around my girth.

What he’s giving me is worship. Long. Slow. Attentive. Present.

Deliberate.

He grunts when I cup my hand on his head. His barber has trimmed the front of his hair into a razor-sharp line. There’s dark bristles in a fade up the sides, longer on top, though still barely more than stubble. Beneath that demarcation, there’s nothing but the creamy, caramel-colored skin of his forehead, his narrow nose, his dropped jaw. The swollen pinkness of his spit-slick lips.

His long-lashed eyes are half-closed. He’s almost humming to himself as he deep-throats my cock for long, sweet minutes. Down he goes to the root, impaling his own throat without seeming to care how viciously it’s being opened and stretched. Then up he comes again, slowly, carefully. Lingeringly. His eyes will open when he’s withdrawn it all, to catch sight of the very thing he’s been making a part of him. Occasionally he’ll rub his nostrils along the length, inhaling the scent of me. The scent of his own saliva and warmth. The both of us, mingled together in sweet perfume.

Then down he’ll go again, gratefully losing himself in total obeisance to my stiff beast of a prick.

He loves my cock. I know—I can tell—that right now, it’s the only thing in this kid’s world. It is this kid’s world. What he’s lived for. What he craves. What he needs. His narrow little hips are grinding into the mattress where he lies, but I know it’s just his body following its own instinct. Every act, every thought, every conscious flicker of brain activity is directed not at his own gratification, but mine. He’s not even trying to get me off. Not in the short run, anyway. He just wants to show me how much my cock matters to him. How insignificant he is in its mighty presence. What he can do for the thing he most worships.

That’s the kind of attention I can handle, and for long, long periods of time.

“Good boy,” I whisper to him from time to time. The words inflame him. He’ll grab my dick at the very base, but not to whack it crudely. To direct it, to point it, to angle it so that he has the maximum access. He could do this for hours. And from the look of things, he just might.

It’s not until a long, long time later that he comes up for air. My dick’s a raw, savage red; it’s sopping and swollen, as if it’s been left for too long in the hot tub. But it’s still rock hard. Holy or unholy, it’s ready for more of his worship.

“I gotta have you inside me, papi,” he says, looking at me with nut-brown eyes.

I nod. I’m ready. I pull myself up from the pillows, ready to get on my knees and take over. But he’s pushing me down with slender hands, settling me back again onto the altar of pillows. His lord and master. His deity. “Please, relax,” he says. “I want to ride you.”

His hand rests on the side of my face. I kiss the palm. This is what I want, this absolute devotion, this entirety of a handsome boy’s attention. I know that while he’s on me, while I’m inside him, the night and the stars will rotate around us. The universe will wheel and shift with us at its center.

That’s what worship is.

And I’m cock-proud enough to know I deserve it.