Don't Do Anything

Two days before Christmas. I still have shopping left to do, and I’ve had a cold on burn for a week. I’m past the sore throat stage, past the worst of the stuffiness. But I’m drained, and tired, and even though I have the place to myself for an evening, all I really want to do is lie in bed in the dark, listen to some music, and work my slow way through the pounding in my head.

Runt texts me. thought we were getting 2gether 2nite, he says.

I text back to tell him I’m not at a hundred percent, and that I couldn’t be as aggressive as I usually am with him.

u r always making everything perfect 4 me, he writes back. now it should be my turn. even if its just me rubbin u feet. please?

In a moment of weakness I find myself tempted. Then he texts again. i am walking 2 the train and comin over, he says. Then a moment later, he sends me a smiley face.

He lives four blocks from the train station. I’m one stop and two blocks away from him. I’ve never made him take the train before, but it’s a quick and viable option. I’ll leave the front door unlocked, is the last thing I send him. Then I put my phone away, turn down the music, and wait.

The Runt is like a ghost when at last he slips into the room—a pale shadow, silent and luminescent in what little reflected light shines through the blinds. I remember too late that his dog collar is in the glove compartment of my car; he’s never gone without it since we bought it together. I’m too tired to get up, get dressed, and walk the block to where I’m currently parked, however.

Nor does he seem to need it. He’s obedient without it. I feel a touch of a hand on my foot. The warmth of a set of fingertips on my right calf. He uses my leg to balance himself as he removes his hoodie, his pullover. I hear his jeans hit the floor. There’s a soft, shushed rush when he frees himself from his underpants. My mattress quivers when he puts a knee on it.

I didn’t think I’d have the strength to muster an erection, but there it is, raging from nothing to full tumescence. It’s the scent of him, I think to myself. That careful, soaped, lightly perfumed odor he always wears. It’s sweet, like candy. Like candy, he’s easy to devour.

My hands reach up to hold him. I’m ready to grasp him around the waist and to shove him roughly into the mattress as I roll on top of him. I want to cover his mouth with mine, to rake his face with my beard. My cock wants to punish him, to make him pay for arousing me. But “No,” is what he says. It’s just a whisper. If I’d been sniffling, or clearing my throat, I would’ve missed it. “No,” he orders. “Don’t do anything.”

It’s cute. His hands are wrapped around my wrists. He holds my arms out to the side, pinning them into L-shapes onto the bed. I could break the hold easily if I wanted; his hands aren’t large. He’s not strong. I’m much bigger than he. I’m curious, though. I want to see what he’s going to do. So I don’t resist. I lay there, and let him hold me still.

I see the pale arc of his head as it moves down. I feel the warmth of his lips against my chest. They move to the side, to my left nipple. I gasp as his mouth wraps around it. His teeth close onto the tiny pyramid, fasten on. My dick becomes more rigid; I catch my breath. He chews on my nipple the way I’ve taught him, the way I like it. Not too soft, but not hard enough to draw blood. His knees draw in on either side of my hip. I can feel his little ass just out of my cock’s reach. I thrust up and forward, trying to make contact, but he presses down on my wrists and doesn’t let go.

My right nipple, now. The waves of pleasure he creates there radiate out over my body. I thrash a little, beneath his weight. I’d been content to lie still for a few moments, but as his mouth travels down, kissing and licking beneath my rib cage, across my belly, down my navel, across the hardness of my pelvic bone, I find I can’t stop moving. My legs writhe and kick; my back arches. I grind my dick into the dark air. But not for long. Soon I feel his mouth, warm and shallow, trying to take my length.

I had to teach Runt how to suck when we met. His efforts, when he met me, were amateurish at best. Too much teeth. Not enough moisture. He’s learned eagerly, though, and we’ve had plenty of practice. He’s scarcely got his mouth on me when I feel globs of his spit slipping from those pretty lips down onto my balls. I want to push his head down, to test the limits of his throat this week. But I respect his wishes, and leave my hands at my side. No, I pull them up and put them behind my head, so I won’t be tempted.

He’s not trying to get me off. Not with his mouth. That’s not how he’d want it. He’s just attempting to give me pleasure. I feel his hands on my nuts. His fingers trace a timid circle around my hole. He kisses and licks my shaft, going down on it as far as he can without choking—maybe just a little to the choking point, even. For long minutes I allow myself this pleasure, the enjoyment of this boy on my dick, sucking and slobbering over me in the dark room.

I hope he has more in store, though.

When he backs off my dick and adjusts his position so that his face hovers over mine, I try to look him in the eye as best I can. Mostly I feel his hair hanging down on either side of his face, as it touches mine. His lips brush across my own. I kiss him back, slipping him tongue. But no. He backs off at that. I’m too aggressive, again.

His hand closes around my dick. I feel the pressure of his body’s weight as he tries to connect the spike of my meat to his hole. We pause for a moment so he can find the lube on my shelf, and then start again. This time, my cock head reacts instantly to the slickness around his entrance. I don’t need to lunge my hips to get into him. He’s greedy enough for it, sliding down and forcing himself to the base.

He doesn’t shoot, though. I’m used to him ejaculating violently when I enter him. This time, he merely gasps, and shivers, and sits there as his body sorted through the various pains and sensations accumulated during the opening. Once processed, he starts rising and falling on my dick.

It’s pleasant, this. His ass is warm, and super-tight. I enjoy the sensations of his quivering legs, like a fledgling foal’s, as he pushes himself up and down on my shaft. It’s sweet. It’s lovely.

But it’s not especially erotic. Not like the sex we usually have. He senses it, too. After a few minutes, he says in frustration, “What am I not doing?”

“Let me,” I tell him.

He protests. It isn’t what he had in mine. “But—“

“No,” I say, echoing his words from earlier. “Don’t do anything.” I know what he needs. What we both need.

I lift him off me, and gently lay him onto the mattress. I put the pillow beneath his head. I kiss him roughly, until he responds by giving in. I can’t grab him beneath the collar like usually, but I keep his mouth fastened against mine by cupping the back of his head and pulling him against me until he’s short of breath. “You need me to fuck you,” I tell him. “You need a man to fuck you. You need a real man to fuck you.”

“Yes,” he breathes.

“You want my big dick?” I ask him. “Is that what you want?”

“Please.” He’s whimpering now.

“Yeah? Then take the fuck, son. Take the fuck.”

He’s already slick; his hole’s been opened by the minutes of sex we’ve already had. But when I spread his legs and drive into him in a single, savage thrust, it’s as if we hadn’t fucked at all. He’s tight as hell. His resistance gives way. He cries out into the dark with a long, piercing howl.

Then he starts to shudder. I feel his cock against my stomach, leaping and spewing sticky fluid. He’s still crying out in hushed sobs and genuine tears. This is what he needed, that sense of being taken, of being used. Sweet as his impulse was to take care of me, he can’t help the way he’s wired.

He’ll never be the kind of boy who’ll get off from gentle, kind, lovemaking. Lowering himself onto a dick and sliding up and down might satisfy a basic need, but it won’t get to his core. Not ever. He needs the force of a man bigger than himself, the roughness—the invasion. There can be a sweetness and romance of its own kind in that kind of fuck. There’s an intimacy to it of its own quality. But the heat between us now is roaring; since I took over, it’s a furnace compared to the mere lit candle of a few minutes before.

I let him finish his orgasm before I start pounding him. I hold his legs out to the sides, and take him, the way he was meant to be taken. My cock punishes his hole, stretches it. If there were more light, I know I could watch his hole turn from pink to scarlet. My own pleasure is swift. The intensity of his reactions always brings me to climax very quickly. My own howl matches the one he let out earlier, when I shoot deep inside him. He’s just as anxious for my load. I feel his hands on my ass, pulling me in, then refusing to let me go once my motions cease.

The bedroom is suddenly hot, and full of the sound of heavy breathing. For a long moment we remain in that position. “Don’t pull out,” he begs me.

I listen to him. I roll us both onto our sides. We’re face to face on the mattress. I’m lying on one of his legs; the other is atop my hip. We rest like that for a moment, and then he moves in close to hold me around my middle.

And it’s in this position that I end my last fuck of 2012. The Runt and I. Connected by flesh, glued together by my semen, as he holds onto me as if hoping I’ll never pull out of him.