He worked a second finger in and gently stretched Mikey further.
“Mm... yeah.” Mikey sighed.
He had the feeling both of them had been working up to this, maybe even subconsciously. And now all he could think about was going deep, merging, filling, and fulfilling his man.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah. I needyouthough, George, not your finger. Put that bad boy in me.”
“OK. Here I come,” he whispered. Mikey said nothing, remaining still.
George eased the tip of his cock in, breaching the seal and then slipping farther, feeling Mikey’s warm flesh encase and devour him, hot and snug.
“Feels like you’re ready. What do you think?”
“Yeah.” Mikey sighed. “Do me slow, George. All night if you can.”
George wrapped his arm around him again and began a relaxed grind, aiming again for the spot he’d pinpointed earlier and rhythmically striking it like flint, nearer to flame with each precise stroke. Occasionally, Mikey would arch back, enhancing the penetration and George would have to close his eyes and count to himself, riding the waves of pleasure, trying his best not to blow.
Somewhere, in the sea of slow-rolling bliss, George heard whimpering and was surprised to discover it was his own.
Mikey whispered. “Are you close, George?”
He didn’t want to be, but he couldn’t deny it. “Yeah. Yeah, baby. You feel so good. I’m sorry, but I am.”
“Don’t be sorry. Give it to me.”
With that brief assurance, George released the valve and spilled into Mikey, squeezing him tighter—panting, trembling, murmuring... in the moment, yet somewhere else entirely.
Mikey found George’s hand and brought it down to his cock. “Take me with you.”
George grabbed on, grateful for its tangibility. He had departed somehow, briefly gone somewhere else, and now, feeling Mikey engorged and throbbing in his fist brought him back. The lube on his fingers had long dried, but Mikey was oozing plenty. That, combined with the slack of his foreskin, made it easy for George to stroke him thoroughly.
“Oh, George,” he gasped. “Oh...”
He seized, then came.
Mikey’s orgasmic shudders reignited George, his subsiding waves resurfacing from the motion—especially the new constriction below. He clung to Mikey like a bucking bull in a bedroom rodeo, enveloping him, until both their spasms waned, and they lay locked together, flush and spent... filled and sated.
Inseparable.
* * *
When they did pry apart, they showered—each taking turns scrubbing the other. After, George put on some sweats and a t-shirt. He went into the kitchen to make them a snack, first stopping in the adjoining den to light the fire he’d laid earlier and plug in the Christmas tree.
When Mikey entered, he was wearing pajama bottoms, no shirt, and an open terry robe. He collapsed on the sofa. George joined him, bringing a plate of Irish cheddar, Kalamata olives, tzatziki, a bag of tortilla chips, and two cans of sparkling water with him. He set everything down on the coffee table and sat.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m great. Better than great now.” He grinned, reaching for an olive. “This is, uh, quite an international assortment you have here, Mr. Patras.”
George chuckled. “Yeah. I’m still a little fuzzy. I just grabbed what I saw.”
“It’s good. I like it. You take care of me, George. I need to find ways to take care of you.”
“Like singing to me in sublimely hypnotic Italian? Or maybe inducing multiple orgasms that teleport me to hidden dimensions?”
“That’s easy. I want to do more than that.”
