Thesightthatgreetsme is the stuff of dreams. My dreams. A beautiful, beautiful boy on my bed. My boy. Stark naked. Legs spread. Smooth, velvety skin wrapped snuggly around solid muscle. Hamstrings tensed and ass tilted up. A pretty pink hole perfectly presented for me.
A seam rips as I divest myself of my shirt and shuck my shoes off. I fall upon him. Hands, face, mouth, tongue. I use everything I can. Everything I’ve got. I lift him by the hips, fingers sinking into supple skin. I lift him until his knees are clear off the bed and his legs fall open even wider. I lick. I lick and lick and lick. Outside. Inside. Any part of him I can get hold of, I take. I take and take until his arms give way and he’s crumpled face-first into the mattress, held up only by my grip on his hips.
“Please, Daddy,” he sobs, writhing in pleasure, “please.”
Every beat of my heart pumps pure arousal into my veins. I’m thick with it. Sick with it. Hard everywhere. Rigid and stiff. Fully engaged. Almost dangerous. Almost, but not quite. I lie beside him, knowing I’ll be unable to hold back if I fuck him from behind in this state. I look up at his face, lubing my cock slowly, careful not to tip myself over the edge.
“You want me to ride, Daddy?”
“Uh-huh,” I groan.
“Want me to turn around so you can see my ass?” he offers.
So obliging. So sweet. So goddamn adorable it makes my heart beat five times in a time that only needs two.
I reach up and stroke the side of his face. A downy cheek creases, and he curls into my touch.
“No, baby,” I say, throaty and true. “I want to see this pretty face.”
He smiles harder. Big and uncool. Happy with no hint of restraint.
He throws a leg over me and scoots down, reaching back and guiding my dick to his hole. I don’t take my eyes off his face. I see it all. The look of concentration, consternation almost, as he brings the blunt head of my cock into contact with his tight pucker. I keep still as he sinks down on me, relishing the tiny flinch, the quick clench and hiss, the slow blink of surprise, and then the look of pure bliss as I fill him completely.
He posts up and down on me the same way he does everything, with rampant enthusiasm. I let him, watching and moaning as he makes me feel good. And Jesus, he makes me feel good. His body is perfect for mine. Perfect. A perfect hole for this dick. A perfect boy for this Daddy. He makes himself feel good too. His hand slides up and down his beautiful cock, making it leak and making it pink.
I let him set the tempo until his chest is heaving and a fine sheen of sweat beads on his chest and neck. Then I take his hips in my hands and hold on to him firmly. I dig my feet into the mattress, toes curling for better grip, as I thrust my hips like I mean it. I drill myself into him, tunneling into him hard. His eyes slam shut and his mouth falls open in a silent cry that lets me know he’s close.
I take his hand and move it off his dick, smiling as he keens from the loss. I take his other hand for good measure, holding both of them down at his sides by the wrists, bracketing him in place as I start to grind. Quick and fast shallow thrusts that hit his spot hard. His eyes are still on me, but they quickly turn vague and unseeing. His thighs start to shake. Not tremble. Shake. Hard.
“What’s happening, Daddy?” he whimpers helplessly.
“Don’t stop, baby,” I grind out, thrusting harder and faster, clenching my teeth as I stave off the orgasm that threatens to take me over. “Keep going. Don’t stop.” I thrust again, letting go of his hands and cupping his face, making him look and making him see because I want him to hear this, and I want him to remember it. “Good things happen to good boys.”
His pupils dilate almost impossibly wide and his ass spasms around me. A thick jet of white sprays out of him, splattering all over my belly and chest. He cries out. Loud. Frantic. Digging his nails into my chest as I slam my own release into him.
I’m blind for several long seconds. Standing still. Hurtling through space. Warm and untouchable. Drenched. Drowning. Engulfed by such profound pleasure that my throat feels hoarse when I find myself again.
“Did that hit the spot, baby?”
“You have no idea,” he groans and then starts laughing, collapsing heavily onto my chest. Nestling his face into my neck, biting me softly as my dick softens inside him. He doesn’t move, and I don’t ask him to. Not even when I slip out of him. Not even when he slithers into the space beside me and throws an arm and leg over me.
I don’t need to fall asleep and wake up again for my thoughts to find me tonight. I’m wide awake, but they come at me anyway. Still jumbled. Muddled and disjointed. Hot and upsetting.
Why the fuck does it matter that he’s Jeff’s son? Who the hell is Jeff to think he has some sort of ownership over Elliot when he hasn’t done a damn thing to be a father to him? And who the hell is society to tell us I’m too old and Elliot’s too young.
Who’s business is this but ours?
And when and why did I buy into all of this bullshit?
Despite my restlessness, I lie as still as possible so as not to disturb Elliot. He’s wrapped himself around me like a weed. A climber. A vine. He’s wound himself so tightly around me there’s no way I can move a muscle without him feeling it. Far from feeling suffocated and starved of oxygen or light, I feel like I’m right where I need to be. Right where I belong.
I know I’m old for forty, and he’s young for twenty-four. That hasn’t changed. I know it’s a lot, and I know it would be a big deal to most people. A few months ago, it was a big deal to me. It’s just that as I lie there, sated and spent, immobile, buried under a heavy heap of beautiful boy, I count the years. I count them over and over. There are years between us. Years and years.
It’s just that, right now, not one of them matters.
26
Elliot
