“You’re being such a good boy, doing what I ask.”
He grunts and groans at the praise and my pussy clenches around him.
“Please, Dion, please. Let me touch you.”
“Not. Yet.” But as the words leave my mouth in a breathless staccato I don’t know why I’m stopping him. Yes, at first it was so I could edge him. So I could stay in control when so much of this situation feels beyond that already. But now, now I don’t think I want to stay in control. I want the chaos. I want the confusion. I want the possibility.
“Putain, you feel so fucking good,” he almost half-cries, that beautiful, pained expression back on his face as he throws his head back, exposing his long neck for me. I change positions, focusing on his bag, and I put my hands on the couch frame behind him and bend down so I can suck on his neck. Finding his pulse point, its rapid thump takes me by surprise as I kiss it over and over again. But I know mine’s the same, if not faster.
“Please, Dion, please, let me touch you. Let me hold you.”
Hold me?There’s so much more in those words than I expect. To be held is to be cared for. To be held is to be carried. To be held is to be loved.
I do the carrying and the caring. I am not loved like that.
But maybe I could be.
I lift my mouth so it’s right next to his ear. “Touch me, Benji,” I whisper. “Hold me.”
And he does. His arms immediately wrap around my body and his fingertips press into my flesh. I feel his bag press up against my stomach, and his nipples brush against my skin, close to my top surgery scars. He helps me move on top of him and he meets each one of my rolling thrusts. His whimpering and moaning only get louder and louder, until he’s telling me he’s close. And maybe I should drag it out longer, edge him more like part of me wants to. To stay in control just a little bit longer.
But a bigger part of me doesn’t want to. A bigger part of me wants to let go. A bigger part of me wants to lose myself and see if Benji will hold me through it.
So I do. I grunt and groan with Benji, rolling my hips as hard and fast as I can. I bite his earlobe. I kiss his lips with teeth and tongue. I give him my neck to graze as we pump our bodies together and chase our climax.
I come first, my pussy spasming and my body shaking as I stop rolling my hips. I’m so overwhelmed with the physicality of my orgasm that it would be impossible to keep up my rhythm, and I have just enough consciousness to feel guilty about that for Benji. But as it happens, while I’m still moaning and cursing my way through seemingly endless crashing waves of pleasure, Benji gives me three hard thrusts and then releases the most deliciously devastating noise he’s made yet. It’s part-yell, part-scream, part-call for help. I wrap my arms around him as he shudders through it all, and I don’t let go until he’s completely quiet and still, which takes many long, wonderful minutes.
TWENTY-FIVE
BENJI
NOW
I never wanthim to let me go, but eventually, he does, although it seems even our skin and our bodies resist it. We’ve stuck together in places, sweat and bodily fluids holding us in place. My bag makes a noise as Dion’s stomach pulls away from it. And I like it. The messiness, the animal nature of it, the symbolism. I like it more than I suspect I should.
“I should deal with this,” I start rolling the condom off my dick once Dion has lifted off me completely.
He points at a door underneath the spiral staircase leading upstairs. “There’s a toilet with a bin in it through there.”
“Thanks,” I say, and suddenly I’m feeling very naked and very awkward. I reach to grab my tracksuit trousers on my way as I stumble in that direction.
Once the condom is disposed of, I pull my trousers on and wash my hands, then check my bag. I almost expect something to have happened to it or my stoma. For it to havebecome dislodged or loose or unexpectedly full while I was having the literal ride of my life, but it looks exactly as it always does when it’s empty. It wasn’t a problem during sex – I was too far gone for anything to be a problem – but I was aware of it, and a small part of me couldn’t switch off, worrying it was going to get dislodged. I make a mental note to look into getting a belt as a matter of priority.
Not that I assume another round is on the cards. It’s just what I desperately, desperately want. But Dion owes me nothing. Not even the coffee and possible future we talked about earlier. I nod at myself in the mirror above the sink as if to cement this truth in my mind and then I walk out to find Dion again.
He’s still sitting on the couch and like me, he’s thrown some clothes on, namely his boxers and the T-shirt he was wearing earlier. He’s staring at his phone, a faint frown pinching his eyebrows together.
He looks comfortable. He looks casual. He looks so normal, it kills me. This is what I want. His nights off on the sofa scrolling on our phones in silence. Him choosing music for our evenings together. Lazy cuddles in our underwear. Slow weekends where we stay in pyjamas until the afternoon.
Fuck, I’m running away with myself again.
I guess if the situation were different, now would be when I would make my excuses and save Dion (and myself) from my runaway imagination and leave. But I don’t have that option.
“Dion, I—” I begin, but when he looks up at me, all words fail me. He’s so fucking handsome.
“Are you okay?” he asks and he nods to my bag. “I didn’t cause any damage or pain, did I?”
“No, God, no. Everything’s fine. Iactually feel quite relieved I can tick that off my list.” I foolishly act out writing a tick in the air in front of me. “Sex with a colostomy bag, check.”
