“Other circumstances?”
“I don’t bottom for anyone who hasn’t himself bottomed at least once, dahling. Topping involves more than just mechanical, artless plunging in-and-out or up-and-down. Topping is an intimate performance where the bottom is the critic.”
“You don’t want to get a bad review, do you?” William asked. “No one’s going to buy a ticket for that show.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?” Matt asked. “Bottoming?”
“Not unless it’s amateur hour. Do I look like I have a high threshold for pain?”
Matt didn’t answer. The zombie memories were still there, still clamoring in his head. But another thought was beating them back: maybe bottoming for William was the baby step he needed to take.
“Can I see your cock?” Matt asked.
William hesitated. After a minute he shimmied out of his jeans and briefs.
“Ta da!” he joked. “This isn’t the stage entrance I planned.”
Matt appraised William’s body, its skinny, pale legs with their carpet of black hair. Neatly trimmed bush (as expected). Cock and balls limp and saggy, disinterested in what was happening.
Matt had seen plenty of other cocks in locker rooms over the years. He had never touched one—besides his own.
He fondled William’s lumpy cockhead. Began massaging the frenulum (as William had done to him a week earlier).
Soon enough William Jr. stirred and stretched its way to a standing position, very much interested in the goings-on around it.
“That’s bigger than I expected!” Matt exclaimed. He was rethinking this whole bottoming idea.
William smiled. “Optical illusion. I’d say we’re about the same size. Mine just looks big against my smaller body. Plus, a well-trimmed shrub makes the tree look larger.”
Matt gave William’s cock a few test strokes and was pleased to see it dribble out some pre-cum. He still wasn’t keen on bottoming but planned to soldier through it. “What do I do now? Get on my knees?”
William coaxed Matt into lying down beside him, facing him.
“Throw the script away,” William whispered. “This is Improv. Do only what you want to do. Stop whenever you want to stop.”
“I want to get out of this jock,” Matt said, pushing it down and kicking it away. His cock, finally freed, sprang up like one of those inflatable tube men businesses use to attract customers.
They kissed.
Their tongues darted into each other’s damp oral cavities. Their cocks, snotting pre-cum, bounced and bobbed, trying to find their own accommodating orifices. Their bodies fused. Tanned, toned, smooth athlete pressed against pale, soft, furred Godmother. Their hands explored, caressing, teasing nipples erect.
Matt felt William’s hand on the back of his right thigh, gently pulling the leg up into a bent position where, with that leg straddling William’s body, Matt’s ass cheeks separated.
A part of Matt’s brain worried, given their positions, how close William’s cock was to his hole.
Another part, the part that was enjoying the sensory overload, surrendered conscious control of his body to a deeper, subconscious desire to mate. It was that part, that pulsing hunger, that impelled Matt to arch his ass. It was a primal signal hard-wired in the DNA.
William understood the message.
William explored the contours of Matt’s crack with his forefinger, softly tracing a line from tailbone, through muscled gluteal canyon, then down to the base of the ball sack.
Matt’s sphincter tingled each time William’s finger grazed it.
William fumbled around on the floor until he found the lube he had placed there earlier. He smeared some on his finger, then whispered into Matt’s ear: “Just relax.”
Matt found it impossible to relax—not because he dreaded the moment when William’s finger would be the trailblazer for the soon-to-follow dick—but because he was impatient for that to happen.
And then it happened.
