Matt crossed to Jake, crouched beside the chair. He leaned in and kissed this beautiful boy. He planned to do more than hug him.
He explored Jake’s chest with one hand, teasing his nipples. Quickly, though, Matt’s hand migrated south, inexorably drawn there by a force greater than gravity. Their tongues were locked in an ancient dance, exchanging saliva as prelude to other exchanges.
Jake slid down in the chair, eased his leg higher on the armrest, offering accessibility.
Matt’s fingers read their way to the hole as if the soft hairs beneath them encoded the map in a sort of braille.
He paused at the sphincter.
Instinct had led him this far but left him stranded with uncertainty. All he knew was that he wanted to plunge into the deep end of that pool, to make intimate connection with Jake. He hesitated, on the edge of the cliff.
Swim coach to the rescue! Jake broke off the kiss. “It takes lube, baby. Assholes aren’t self-lubricating like vaginas. Store-bought lube is the gold standard, especially for fucking. There’s some in the dresser in the bedroom. Pre-cum is second best. Saliva will do for fingering and maybe fucking—for guys smaller than you.”
“Thanks, coach,” Matt grinned.
He reached over and milked Jake’s cockhead until his fingers were slick with pre-cum. Soon enough Matt’s middle finger was deep inside Jake, tapping his prostate, eliciting low, guttural moans.
It was time to fuck.
Matt scooped Jake out of the chair, carried him to the bedroom, and set him on the bed.
Jake watched as Matt retrieved the lube and slathered it on his dick.
“Roll over,” Matt ordered. There was urgency in his voice. “I’m going to fuck you face down.”
If Jake was surprised by Matt’s new authority, he didn’t show it. He rolled over and spread his legs. His blue-shod feet dangled off the edge of the bed. He arched his ass in readiness. “Remember to go slow,” was all he said.
Matt straddledJake’s hips.
He separated the ass cheeks reverently, gazing down at the hole—the first one he had ever beheld—as if it were the Holy Grail and he a Knight Templar. This had been his fantasy for five long years—fucking a guy facedown. He knew, on a certain level, that this was rooted in his own experience, his thirteen-year-old self pinned down, penetrated, sobbing with pain. It didn’t take a psychologist to understand that some portion of this fantasy involved Matt’s rescuing his younger self. He would be the penetrator. He would be on top.
But this time things would unspool differently.
There would not be blood. There would be no sudden rage at Jake, calling him a filthy faggot, ordering him to clean up his mess and go home.
Matt would be gentle and caring. He would not take more than he gave. He would ensure that Jake was sated. Or, to borrow William’s imagery, he would earn a five-star review.
Matt teased the hole’s edges apart, stared into the tiny slot that looked barely able to accommodate a finger. Matt had often pondered whether these wonders were round and puckered like a cat’s, cratered like calderas, or yawned open like Venus fly traps.
This one was a perfect little buttonhole. It was outlined by a tiny, pale, pencil line ridge.
Matt’s throat went dry—again. There was no wine to wet it this time.
He swallowed. “Your hole is beautiful. You are beautiful.”
Matt positioned his cockhead against the event horizon of Jake’s Pink Hole.
He applied pressure, trying to squeeze in.
“You’re too high,” Jake advised.
Matt corrected the angle, pushed again.
“Still too high.”
On Matt’s third at bat, the buttonhole surrendered its secrets, much as the cave of treasures had opened for Ali Baba when he’d uttered the magic phrase “Open Sesame.”
Matt watched his cockhead squeeze inside, was fascinated as Jake’s ass sealed over it.
