Thinking like this is doing exactly nothing to help with my boner. In fact, I’m starting to think if I don’t do something about it, I might injure myself. I take myself in hand and nut in thirty seconds flat. I spend the entire time looking down and thinking the same thing;this is the dick that’s been in Luke Bennett.
I’ve barely rinsed off when the bathroom door swings open and Luke strolls in. Buck naked. He opens the shower door like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do and steps into the cubicle with me, his erection leading the way. I shuffle around to give him access to the water, momentarily dumbstruck by the sight of a vast amount of smooth tanned skin, sleep ruffled blond hair, and a truly beautiful cock. He leans his head back under the water and it goes from messy to slicked back off his face. His eyes are closed and he looks like he feels how I felt when I felt the hot water hit me. Sore and aching, needing heat where muscle feels tense.
“H-how are you?” I ask lamely.
“I’m just…I feel a little swollen and sore. Like I’ve worked a muscle I’m not used to working out, you know? It feels okay most of the time, but when I clench it hurts.”
“Um, I meant how is the whole of you, not your asshole specifically.”
He flushes and chuckles softly. He laughs for a second and then he’s serious.
“My heart feels a little swollen, like it’s too big for my chest, and I feel like I’ve done something I’m not used to doing. Something big, you know?” He steps closer to me and whispers, “I feel okay most of the time, but when I’m away from you it hurts.”
It hurts me to hear that. It hurts me to see him like this. Big eyes. Scared and unsure. Scared and unsure of me. I grab him and crush him against me. Wet skin on wet skin. My hands snake down his body, cupping his ass cheeks possessively, stroking light circles into his flesh. He looks at me for a long time, unblinking, searching my face for something. When he finds it he smiles and brushes his lips against mine. We kiss slowly and unhurried, and as we do, I part his cheeks gently, letting rivulets of hot water run down his spine to where he aches. He squirms and sighs in my mouth.
“You know I said I’d take care of you, right?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know if that was just last night with the sex and all that. I’m not sure if you’re done taking care of me now or what.”
I trace the curve of his ass cheek with one hand. I follow it all the way round and then trail a wet finger down his crack. I touch him lightly, so lightly I can barely feel the tiny creases at his entrance against the pad of my finger. He feels it, though. He instantly drops his head, resting his forehead against my shoulder.
Before he can say what he wants to say next, I say the last thing on Earth I expect to hear myself say.
“I’ve barely even started taking care of you yet.”
I’m sitting at my desk, though I’m not really sure why. Habit from being a student, I guess. I consider calling my mom, but I don’t have any news that’s above board I can tell her about and I’m not really in the mood to hear her carrying on about Neil. I open my drawer and search around for a pen. Habit again, not something I need to do. I spin the pen around, over and under my pointer and middle fingers, then I click and release the nib a few times. It’s been such a long time since I’ve drawn anything, having a pen in my hand should feel foreign. It doesn’t. It still feels right.
I take out the sketchpad Rachel left in my room and open it up, turning the cover back on itself. I sit there for a while looking at the blank page. Smooth and creamy. Blank pages used to feel like endless possibility. Like characters and worlds yet to be created. This does feel different now. It feels intimidating. Too smooth. Too blank. Too permanent. Each line of ink wielding the power to obliterate possibility.
I spin the pen again. Over and under my fingers. I click the nib once and trail a squiggled line in the bottom right corner of the page. I mean to do it hard. To slash the page with the pen and throw it in the trash. I don’t, though. The ink glides onto the page flat and even. The buzz around me pauses and goes quiet. It falls away and leaves nothing but an ebony dance across an ivory surface. My mind feels vacant and focused at the same time. I think of nothing but the marks I’m making.
I start without a plan. No concept to strive for. No picture in my mind to infuriate me when I fail to achieve it. I almost feel like I’ve woken from a nap when I look down and see the finished product. Hard lines, soft curves. Jasmine flowers partially obscuring a blond boy being pushed up against a wall by a black haired boy. The blond boy’s eyes are open, and so is his mouth. He’s looking directly at the viewer with a mix of heat and wonder in his eyes.
I hear Luke at the door and quickly shove the sketchpad into my drawer.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Uh, nothing.”
I meant what I said about taking care of him. Even though he scares the shit out of me with his intensity and openness and the soft way he looks at me, I do take care of him. I make him feel good, obviously, I take care of him physically any way I can. I blow him and stroke him, and I make him wait until he swears black and blue he’s not hurting anymore before I fuck him again. I make him wait until he says he’s going crazy, until he swears he’s going to lose his mind if I don’t put my dick in him again.
I was wrong about our sex being average and I was wrong about it being a one-off. We can’t keep our hands off each other. It feels impossible to be around him and not have part of my body touching his. It feels out of control. It should scare me and I guess it does, but all my fear is currently aimed squarely at another even less expected development; when I look at him I feel something strange. Something singular. Something fragile that exists between us. Just for me and for him.
That thing, whatever it is, creeps under my skin and into my bones. I can’t say when it happens for sure, but it makes me feel different. It makes me act differently too. It makes me want to let him take care of me, too.
“C’mere,” he says, tapping his chest to show he wants me to lie on top of him. He’s lying on the sofa, with his arms and legs splayed out.
“Can’t, I’m tapped out.” It’s the truth. We’ve sucked and fucked and jerked off already today and we’ve only been up for a few hours.
“That’s not what I want. I just want to cuddle. Come here.”
“I’m, er, not really much of a cuddler.”Understatement much?
“I’m the world’s best cuddler,” he says with total confidence. “Get over here, I’ll teach you.”
I move towards him like I’m walking through water, carried towards him by the tide, rather than any conscious intent on my part.
“I don’t really do this kind of thing. I-I don’t know…I kind of feel like I’m drowning.”
