Page 19 of Muscle Cub

The initial touch of our lips was soft and dry.

The kiss was patient and tender, nothing like the fast, hot, open-mouthed tongue-wrestling I’d seen happening in the showers earlier. It wasn’t a confirmation of pheromones or a gratuitous prelude to fucking. This kiss was a thing in its own right, like the most private and intimate conversation we could have.

I was grateful to him for initiating it, but I couldn’t maintain the simple, passive sweetness. My nostrils filled with the warmth of Austin’s breath and the smell of chlorine. Need took over, and I rolled on top of him, deepening the kiss with greedy, urgent thrusts of my tongue.

I could have made out with him for hours.

I’d come to the campground hoping something like this might happen, and my expectations may have been way too low. At least in terms of a partner. But I could still fuck up the act itself. For several years since becoming single, whenever I’d tried to hook up with another person, I had an issue getting hard enough or staying hard long enough. I woke up with morning wood, and I didn’t have any problem jerking off alone.

It was some kind of performance anxiety. Another mental block like the one I was experiencing with writing. My therapist suggested I overanalyzed perceived judgment by strangers, so casual partners didn’t provide me with enough emotional safety.

Ask your doctor if you’re healthy enough for sex.

I had.

He’d assured me my testosterone levels were normal, and there was nothing physically wrong. It wasn’t unheard of for any man, especially one over forty… ED medication wouldn’t hurt if I wanted to try it.

I definitely wanted to try it with Austin.

If it went badly, at worst, it’d be a temporary blow to my ego, a few minutes of awkwardness while I either got rid of him or he made his own excuses to leave. Since it was a one-night stand, I’d never have to know what he thought of me. Whether or not I was any good.

God. I was so in my head. This wasn’t an audition. There’d be no review. But I already wanted Austin to go on liking me after tonight.

I trembled with the effort of hovering over him in a plank.

He tapped the backs of my arms, urging me to let go, to lie fully on top of him. He’d never know the leap of faith I took in that moment. My hope bordered on recklessness.

I allowed myself to melt onto him.

We both groaned at the revelation of our bodies pressed together with only the fabric of my clothes separating us.

I ground against him, wishing I could crawl into him.

Crushed between our bellies, his cock felt huge. I was suddenly overcome with a need to see it. I wanted to see all of him. Not a glimpse from the corner of my eye before he slipped into the pool or the casual nudity he displayed for anyone. I wanted to see him here laid bare for me, excited to give himself to me.

I pulled out of the kiss, sat back, and looked down at him. I’d seen a lot of naked men in the last eight hours—as many in a single day as I’d seen in a lifetime—but in the glow of the lantern light, edged in shadow, Austin’s body was a miracle. His cock was nicely shaped, shorter and thicker than mine, with a shaft that tapered into the head. It was like the rest of his body—a little too thick for its length and too pretty to be believed.

He rose up on his elbows, probably wondering why I’d stopped, and grinned. “What are you doing?”

“Just looking at you.” My voice came out thin and rusty. I’d never touched anyone with a physique like his. Maybe I was a dorky angel after all, coming to earth for the first time and seeing a new creature lying naked in the Garden. It was a strange epiphany to find such beauty willingly laid out before me. “I don’t mean to be creepy, but I’d probably be happy just to look at you all night.”

His eyes gleamed in the dark. “Well, throw in some touch, Prof. At least for my sake. And you can do anything you want.”

Anything.

He was better than perfect. He was real.

I explored him with my fingertips. I stroked the scruff of his beard, the hair on his chest, the fur on his belly. I traced the thick veins down his biceps and forearms to his heavy, callused palms. I massaged his feet and squeezed his thighs. I gently lifted his nuts, weighing his sac.

God, I’m petting him.

It might have gone on for five minutes; it might’ve been a half hour.

Austin watched me, his expression shifting from amusement to wonder to torture. I grazed the sides of his stomach, and he sucked in a breath and contracted his abs. When I finally rubbed the slit at the head of his cock, his eyebrows drew together, and his mouth opened in a silent cry. I dipped my thumb into the precum pooling in his navel, painted the underside of his cock with it, and he hissed.

He looked like a Renaissance painting of a beautiful saint in agony.

I caught his eye, and his expression broke into a bright, encouraging smile. He seemed to delight in my objectification of him, not because he needed the attention but because he was giving me an experience.