Arden hummed in agreement, mouth around my cock. The vibrations were sending me over the edge.
“He’s ready now,” Franco said. I was relieved someone else was making executive decisions because my processing skills were offline.
Arden sat with his knees up, one hand stroking his cock, while two slick fingers forked in and out of his hole in an erotic display of self-gratification. Distantly, I remembered we were filming this, and I was glad. I wanted to relive every moment.
“I miss Marquis,” Franco said, tugging my singular attention away from my lover’s performance. “You should see him on the pole, Michael. Beautiful. He was a gymnast, you know. We should go to Carousel and watch him dance. Make him jealous so that he has to take me back.”
Franco opined about his ex while I watched Arden finger-fuck himself with an exhibitionist’s delight. I rubbed my tongue over my teeth compulsively and squeezed my dick until I couldn’t hold out any longer. I made a clumsy lunge for Arden, and he landed on top of me, kissing my mouth while laughing. He guided my wrists to Franco, who held them fast. Arden pulled back and hovered gracefully over my groin, then fed my ravenous cock into his warm, willing body again. His hair was damp, and his skin glistened with sweat. My lover glowed like a woodland fairy. He wouldn’t let me touch him, though. I could only watch him work me over.
“He’s an angel,” I said to Franco. I’d never seen something so beautiful.
“If you say so,” Franco said, but I heard the teasing in his voice. Arden, oblivious to our commentary, focused solely on his movements, how to wrest the most intensely personal sensations from me, how to make my spine curl and my vocal cords beg. He sat fully in his mount, rose up and came down again, swiveling his hips in a tight circle so that he could bury my cock deep. My hips jutted involuntarily, defying gravity to fuck into him.
“Arden,” I said.
“Yes, Michael?” he said without interrupting our perfect rhythm.
“I think you should marry me.”
He threw back his head with a throaty laugh. Behind me, Franco snickered.
“Right now?” Arden clenched his ass so tightly that it stole my breath away. He knew what that did to me.
“Yes, right now. Arden Evans D’Agostino.” That was how I’d introduce him to my family. As my husband, my partner. I could see it in my mind so vividly. Was it only because I was a writer?
“What if I want you to take my name?” Arden teased. I didn’t care that he was making light of it.One day, I thought to myself.
“That’s a debate for another time,” I said, lucid enough to know I’d lose in this state of mind. Arden smiled, the glow of his expression flooding me like warm sunshine.
“I love you,” I said to Arden and then to Franco. “I love you both.”
“I love you too, Mikey,” Franco murmured and swept the damp hair from my forehead. “Are you going to propose to me too?”
“I could never marry you, Franco.” He’d broken my trust too many times.
“Ah, Mike, always so truthful,” he said with a twinge of pain.
I didn’t have the wherewithal to know if he was only being dramatic. And soon, my attention was back on my lover, flush with color. Burning incandescent like a comet through my dark skies. Arden’s sweat-dampened curls hung in his face, and his hungry, hazel eyes centered on mine. His mouth was open enough that I could see his tongue as he panted from exertion. His erection bobbed freely as he picked up speed and rode me toward completion. I tried to reach for him again, but Franco held me back.
“Look at your angel, Mikey, fucking himself on your thick cock. Riding you like a pony. See how he loves it? You’re going to make him come just by lying here, you dumb, sexy beast.”
Arden’s mouth parted in an expression I knew well, his body going rigid as he held his breath. It was a Pavlovian response to see him on the brink, and all of a sudden, my own climax was upon me. I arched upward to meet Arden on a downstroke. He sank down impossibly deep, to the subterranean place where our flesh had already fused. I unraveled in those fleeting moments of ecstasy before flooding him again.
Arden made a grab for his cock, smashed it down roughly, then turned it on himself. He spurted like a fountain, thick white plumes splashing across the smooth planes of his chest. His ribcage heaved as he caught his breath, and I watched the thick ropes drip down his tanned skin like an abstract painting. I thought about my own seed twice inside of him. This was how I wanted him, soiled by my sex, inside and out.
We dropped like dominos, wrung-out and pleasure-drunk. The shadows moved across the ceiling, and our bodies slowly shifted until we were a pile of overlapping limbs. My ass was sore, and my mind was blank, but my dick still throbbed like a reanimated corpse.
“I’m halving your dosage next time,” Arden said wearily. He’d brought blankets and pillows to where we’d collapsed. Franco droned on about his plans for winning back Marquis while I drifted in and out of consciousness. Every time I was on the verge of slumber, I’d find myself brought back from the edge by Arden caressing me with his hand, or sometimes, it was his mouth. I climaxed again in a half-comatose state, hardly even opening my eyes. Arden cleaned me with a warm washcloth and finally, let me rest.
In my dreams, I was fucking Arden in a field of wildflowers, and when he came, his perfect mouth parted, and butterflies spilled out.
Part III.
“My ear hurts,” the boy said. It had been two weeks with it steadily getting worse, and now the thing was red and tender with a yellowish-green ooze dripping out of it.
“Put some rubbing alcohol in it,” the captain said.
“I’ve done that, and it still hurts. I need some medicine.” Even at ten the boy knew the drill. You get sick, you go to the doctor, you get the medicine, and you feel better. Simple. His mother had known that. Why didn’t the captain?
