Toying with men, particularly strangers I have just met, is sometimes amusing, which is exactly what I do with him. “I’m not that type of guy.”
He dabs a kiss to my chin, laughs. “I can make you that type of guy.”
I down the remaining finger of alcohol in my drink and set the tumbler on his gaming table. “You can’t. I won’t let you.”
One of his hands moves to my center, beneath my belt, and he brings me to life almost instantly, firming up my cock. “Bet you I can.”
My junk swells, craving time with him, minus our clothes and cares for the rest of the world. Shivers work their way through my neck as he uses his tongue along its veins and smooth skin. His stray hand keeps busy with the plump mass between my thighs, stroking it through cotton fabric, up and down, up and down. Our lips meet, tongues slip alongside each other, and we share soft groans, beginning a wild, sweaty, and exasperating game between two adult men, ravenous for play.
Clothes drop to his apartment’s floor, and tongues discover shoulders, pecs, and abdominals. Before he falls to his knees, next to the sofa/bed, he studies my naked chest.
“I like your hairy and beefy abs. Very handsome. Just right for what I want in a man.”
There’s more that he likes about me: my uncut six inches of erection inside his mouth and my furry ball sack slapping against his chin. The motion of to and fro of my hips. Our connection.
I lodge my beef down the back of his throat, sliding in and out of his body, huffing and puffing. I hold his head at his temples, careening his skull forward and backward, plowing his face. It isn’t raunchy sex, yet it’s not beautiful. Rather, it’s the roughness of lovemaking between two men. A private romance. A sense of peacefulness and longing between us. The euphoric and surreal motion of faultless pleasure. This is us. Us.
He quickly pulls away from me and turns the sofa into a bed with a button, switch, something. I’m pushed to the bed, and he opens my legs. His right palm finds my chest and drags down its center, over the length of my throbbing dick and balls. The hand falls to my pink and tight center, which he fingers open and presses the tip of one digit inside.
I feel as if I’m whisked away by a wintry blizzard, wrapped in a snowy tempest. His fingers toy with my bottom, one after the next, repeatedly, endlessly. My head feels as if it twirls, around and around. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t…
“Jesus, Nevin. What’s going on down there?”
“Let me be in control. I’ll make you feel good.”
He does, one finger at a time, two inside me at once. His extension of pointed tongue replaces his fingers. The tip of it dabs at my center and licks against my soft entrance, upwards and away, over and over again.
I become something different on the bed, bemused by him and a prisoner of his game, whatever the risk entails, motionless, and barely able to breathe. Truth is, I feel like Brick Cutter, powerful and courteously saving the world in another video game, having battled the wicked and now being rewarded.
He comes up for air, heaving. Nevin climbs over me, dragging his tongue along my frame, staring at me. Once at my left ear, he begs, “I want you inside me, Brett. Please. I have to have you inside me.”
And our game within his apartment continues…
* * * *
My dick is covered in lube, a condom, and more lube. I push his legs apart, opening them for the use of his tight and pink rump. Steering the tip of my tool inside comes easy. One inch of lubed dick pushes forward…two inches…four…six.
“Do it.” He looks up at me. His green eyes are on fire, glowing. His bushy, ginger-colored eyebrows are raised. He looks surprised, but knows exactly what’s going to happen next. “Do it, Brett. Don’t hold back.”
I slide in and out of his center for a minute, numbing his core, welcoming him to our naked romance. I grip his ankles, humping his middle, swinging to and fro for two minutes…three minutes…four minutes…five minutes.
During the sixth minute inside him, he becomes weak beneath me, like gelatin, numb under my action. He closes his eyes and mumbles that he likes me, that what we are currently doing isn’t a one-night game or affair. Eventually, he comes to, reaches up with his right hand, grabs one of my pecs, twists it in his firm and steady palm.
“You’re mine tonight. All mine.”
I pump him with ease, inch after inch. I please him. I become a part of him. I taunt and tease him. I…
After seven minutes in Nevin, I pause, just for the effect, still lodged within him. We make eye contact.
I ask before continuing, “Can I be rough, Nevin?”
He laughs, spreads his legs wider, and demands, half grunting, “Bang me…and bang me hard.”
I refuse to hurt him even though my dick throttles his behind, slamming inside his hole, pulling away, slamming inside again…again…again. My balls smack against his bottom, striking its bony skin, meeting his spine. And my grips on his ankles burn. I feel his bone and cartilage, digging nails into his flesh.
He turns a mercury shade of red beneath me, twisting his head left and right, grunting like a wild animal. He murmurs indiscernible sounds. Sweat surfaces on his hairy chest, illuminating his ginger fur. And his nipples grow to firm points, excited by our play together.
Strike after strike occurs to his rear as I overpower him. Another seven minutes of raw motion happens between us, then another seven minutes.
He gazes up at me and begs, “Make me come. Just a few strokes to my cock. I can’t keep my load in much longer.”
And so his request is fulfilled as I continue to dick-handle his rear, bolting my lumberjack weight against him, falling away. My right hand loosens its grip on his ankle and wraps around the firm meat at his center. When I begin to stroke the veined slab up and down, a string of groans escapes his perspiration-covered frame. His torso rises and falls. Heavy and thick growls are released from his core. He huffs. He puffs. He can’t keep his load in and…
My hand-action on his shaft heightens and becomes intense. My bolts to his bottom are hyper, a continuous wave after wave after endless wave of relentless thrusts.
As our orgasmic explosions build, I say, “Come with me, Nevin. Come.”
It happens between us. As a fountain emerges at his center—four arcs of white ejaculate fire out of his spike and splat against his furry chest—I feel an irrepressible combustion between my legs and empty my cargo inside the condom that separates us. Elation emerges. Potent orgasms. Emptiness at the very same time. The beautiful and artistic work of arched backs, opened mouths, sweat on foreheads and abdominals, and pert nipples. A celebration like the night itself.
* * * *
Empty, I fall on top of him, sticking us together. We hear yelling outside and fireworks going off like loud bombs. Midnight has finally come, welcoming the New Year. He wraps his arms around me and kisses me, mumbles something I can’t understand. I feel his gooey erection against my navel and stomach, not that I mind. I feel his breath inside my mouth, cocktail-laced, heated, necessary.
The residents of Pittsburgh continue to yell, cheer, and celebrate the New Year well after midnight. A January wind howls among their festivities, shaking the windows in Nevin’s apartment. I roll off him, letting him settle and come to after our mix. Beside me on his sofa/bed, I feel his heartbeat and smell the post-sex stench that seals us together.
On my back, just like him, I stare up at the ceiling, turn my view to his shadowy face, and whisper, “Happy New Year, Nevin McBane.”
He kisses me again, potently this time, somewhat attacking my lips, still hungry for me. When the kiss ends, he huffs for breath and says, “Happy New Year, guy.” A second kiss occurs. He holds me, breathes against me. “Don’t even think about leaving. You’re staying until lunchtime tomorrow, or longer. Who knows? I might just want to keep you.”
Soothing words. Nice to hear. Boyfriend-like verbiage.
“You’re playing me,” I tell him. “You’re going to get all the sex from me you want
and then ditch me.”
“Not this time…not with you. Something tells me I could fall for you. Don’t know why. Don’t even know how. But I can feel it might happen, and quickly.”
Again: soothing words. Nice to hear. More boyfriend-like verbiage.
“You’re continuing to seduce me, aren’t you?”
He pinches one of my nipples, laughs, and admits, “I know it’s too soon to call you my boyfriend since we just met tonight, but I will…someday, and sooner than you think.”
I like what he has to say, listening to his soft voice, falling for him, maybe as quickly as he’s falling for me. We kiss again, and the room spins around us, blending our bodies together in a second round of heated sex. I’ll be staying for breakfast, I know…through dinner.
Hell, I’m having such an agreeable time with him that I probably won’t return to my own place for the next couple of days, a month, many months, or years, telling myself that it’s a possibility that we’re going to be a married couple, someday. Together. Men at play.
THE END
ABOUT R.W. CLINGER
R.W. Clinger is a resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies. His work includes Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, The Last Pile of Leaves, The Weekender, Cutie Pie Must Die, Frat Brats, Panama Dan, Spoil Me So, The Shower Police, Splash Boys, and several stories with Starbooks Press. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine The Writer’s Post Journal. Visit him online at rwclinger.com.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
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