I search my brain for a coherent and helpful answer. “Play with me how you would a woman. Get me ready how you would a woman.”
Marcello’s snort is quick and loud. “I am far from an expert on female sex anatomy and I have never seen a woman look like this.”
“You said yourself, women have buttholes. Everyone does.”
“Right, but I’ve never met a woman with glutes the size of yours and hamstrings that look like pistons.”
I smile to myself. “But you have done anal before, right? That’s what you said. Just do what you did for them.”
“Yeah, there wasn’t much getting them ready when I did anal before. And I’m starting to realise how terrible that was of me.”
“Did they ask you to get them ready?”
“No, most of the times, we barely spoke. I’m embarrassed to say there was drink involved. A lot of it. And with Kris, my ex, she did it all herself the very, very few times we did this.”
“Okay, well, let me do—”
“No!” Marcello’s voice is louder. “I want to do this. Let me try. And just tell me if it’s awful.”
“And if it’s good?” I turn my head the smallest amount over my shoulder.
“Then write it up in my next report.”
I’m about to say something in response, but Marcello shifts his fingers, a blunt pad – his thumb, I think – coming to cover my hole. I shiver a little.
“That’s good,” I tell him.
He circles the digit. “And this?”
“Also good.” I close my eyes. “Squeeze some more lube out and spread it around me there.”
Another click and then I do feel the cool sensation of lubricant dripping onto my hole. “Like this?”
“Yes,” I whisper. I clear my throat. “And if you want to, you can push some of it inside me.”
“With my fingers?”
“Yes, Marcello.” I try to keep my voice as level as I can. There’s something about his inexperience and his innocence and his fearless vulnerability that is affecting me. It’s sending blood to my dick, but also to my heart. My heart is pumping fiercely for him, for whatever he will do next.
“I feel like I need to find and call up all those women I didn’t do this for,” he says as he applies a bit more pressure to my hole.
“Maybe later, huh?” I huff out a rough laugh. “Now, I need your fingers on me.”
I hear a rumbling noise and it takes me a moment to realise it’s Marcello, growling. “I like it when you tell me you need me. It makes me feel like I can do this.”
“Youcando this. And I do need you. I need you to stretch me.”
He says something in Italian, and then, “How much do I need to stretch you?”
“A lot. You’re not small, Marcello, and it’s been a few months. I need you to help me take you.”
That seems to break through whatever barrier was holding Marcello back as I feel one of his digits - his index finger, I think - breach me. There’s that familiar stretch, tinged with a mild burn. I feel more pressure as he pushes in deeper, past the second ring of muscle and then I feel him inside me.
He’s nowhere near my prostate, not yet, but there’s something about this connection that has me feeling like I’m on the edge already, but maybe not to coming, just to something else. Something even bigger than that.
“You’re so hot,” he tells me as I feel his finger move. “And so tight.”
I moan. I can’t help it.
