He knowsexactlywhat I like.
He knows the perfect pressure, the perfect speed. It’s not just the best blowjob of my life because it’s August, or because it’s been years, or because his mouth is the most wonderful thing in all creation.
This is tailor-made sex.
And if he can do this for me…
“Slayer, come up here.”
He kisses the side of my cock. “Slayer? I like that.”
“Let me fuck you.”
“If you can resist me.” His thumb and index finger, slick with spit, form a tight ring that runs down my dick. His mouth follows firm and fast, and I can’t even resist fucking into him. He pulls up and does it again, the sound of it filthy and divine, the feeling beyond tolerable. He cups my balls, and I’m close to losing control, when he pushes his finger up my ass, and how the fuck does he know all the things?
Yeah, I know, but fuck!
“August!”
He grunts out a response that dares me to coat his throat with cum. The only thing that stops me is that view of his ass. Nothing on this planet could keep me away.
I slap his hand off, grab the back of his head, and sink my cock deep as I thrust forward. He gags on it, and it’s the hottest sound I ever heard, because his fingers sink into my thighs, and he wrenches me closer for more, begging me to punish his throat.
I oblige, shifting forward on the couch. My hand cracks down on his ass, and my dick hits the back of his throat when he jumps. I take my hand between his ass cheeks and pull him around roughly. My dick’s still deep in his mouth, he’s working me mercilessly, but now I’ve got him. I sink my thumb deep into my mouth, then press it to his ring.
He loses some of his determined concentration when I massage him, firmly, just pushing in a little, and that’s good. I want him to lose himself completely. I take the back of his head and push him a little harder, his ass rising up to me in response. Now it’s my index and middle fingers I take in my mouth, wishing they were his cock. My tongue coats them, indulging in the image in my mind as he indulges in me. But I need more. Islap my hand back down on his ass, expecting the little cry now and living for it.
I do it again, and his eyes flare at me, lust-fuelled vengeance written in them. This man could make a fortune if coquetry were his profession.
I wrap my hand over the curve of his ass, pull him closer again, then let that first finger sink. His eyes roll back, lids fluttering closed, and though I’m nearly drowning in the pleasure he’s giving me, the image before me takes over, and I want nothing more than to watch him.
I’m playful with his ass, sinking that first finger in and out, just toying with his sweet spot. He’s wild for it. Every time I stroke that spot with my fingertip, I feel him double down on my cock. It’s barely resistible. In fact, it’s not. And before I know it, the next finger’s pushing inside. The vibration of his groan runs through my whole body. I’m careful with him. I want him to love this, but I know I’d like it a little rough, so I don’t hold back. “You like that, Slayer?”
He whines around my wet cock, and I curl my fingers, pulling him wide. His tight tunnel resists me, but I can do this all night if he keeps making that sound. I scissor my fingers, easing him open, dreaming of the moment my cock’s going to slide in. But it’s not necessary. The way his tongue wraps me is all the pleasure I need. The feeling of his hair against my thigh. Making him happy tonight is enough to last me the rest of my life.
“August,” he whispers, breaking off. Then he sucks me down again, and I fuck him a little harder with my fingers. “August,” he tries again, so I press a third in, and he almost falls on the floor, his arm days at the gym saving him at the last. But I slip down behind him. My hand wraps around his shoulder, and I pull him up onto his knees, then fuck him deeper again with my hand. “August,” he begs. But I know I’d want more, so I pump into him, curling, pushing, and he’s a wreck. It’s a mess of my name, andcries of “please” and “fuck me,” and my name and his name and all of it mingled together until I can’t take another second.
I let him go, and he whirls on me, lips smashing into mine. I fall back against the floor, barely supported by my elbows as he comes down on top of me.
“I didn’t come here,” I try, through more kisses, “planning to do this.”
He shoots me a half-bewildered look, then another kiss, then, “Why not?”
“What?” More kisses. “What do you mean, ‘why not?’ Have you seen yourself?”
“Every time I look at you. And if I look half as hot as you do right now, I would have come here to do this. We need to do this.”
He wrenches me to my feet, always deploying that immense strength at the most unexpected but wholly necessary times. He doesn’t let go, turning, locking my hands around his waist, walking backwards and leading me to the bedroom while he kisses me.
He makes a sharp turn, twists me, and throws me down on the bed. Then he yanks the cupboard door open and pulls out a small orange box. He upturns the contents onto the bed, and my heart slams into my throat.
Yes, there are condoms. Yes, there’s lube, several varieties of it. There are handcuffs. Three vibrators of different sizes. Anal strings, cock rings, and I don’t even know what half the other stuff is.
He clambers on top of me and says, “Anything you like. We’ll do anything.”
Well, that’s terrifying.
I don’t know how to use half this stuff.
