“Fuck me. Please.”
“All right.”
And so he did, slow at first, his big hands planted on my chest and hip and his hot breath tickling my neck and shoulder. Our closeness might have surprised me if we hadn’t done this before. If I’d closed my eyes and let my mind wander, I could have pretended we were something to each other.
But we weren’t. I saw him once or twice a year. We’d never done anything sexual while he was sober. He never used my name. I’d paid for this shitty motel room, these dingy walls, this squeaking bed. We used each other, and that was what it was.
“Harder.”
He increased his pace, but only a little. It wasn’t any more forceful, just quicker.
“Please, Skye. Fuck me hard. Give me your dick.”
That helped. It started feeling like I needed it to.
“My husband fucks me harder than this. Act like you want it.”
That did it.
His hand flew off my chest, reaching up to muzzle me, and the long fingers at my hip dug in like claws. I struggled against his grip, whimpering as though I were frightened, like it was too much. He just tightened his hold and kept rutting. The strokes were short, but they came fast and rough, and there was that ring, that thick metal ring with its big fat bead that wouldn’t leave my prostate alone, battering into it, never breaking contact, just pressing against it, making me shake, making my cock shiver and leak, leaving me exhaling hot breath against his hot hand so my lips grew damp with condensation.
I was his whore. His dirty, eager whore. I was his hole, and he was using me. The fucking felt good, a slick and brutal pounding. His breaking me down, though, his theft of my identity, his possession…that was why I’d come here.
He didn’t take long. I didn’t expect him to and I didn’t need him to. He’d done his work. He hammered me for maybe four or five minutes, rasping breaths, clutching me close, sweating against my skin. I whimpered into his cupped hand, and reached behind my body to grip his ass, and took him, feeling wild and free and conquered.
And then his hold on me tightened. He jerked me back, forcing my head into the hollow of his shoulder. He bit mercilessly down on my left trap, surely leaving a bruise, and growled loud against my skin, and then his dick got even hotter inside me as the latex sheathe filled with trapped cum.
His grip relaxed, though he pushed into me a few more times. Desperate, I let go of his ass and finished myself off using his sweat as lube while he lingered inside me. It didn’t take long for me, either, and when I shot it went past the edge of the bed and spattered onto the carpet.
We lay there for a while, still close, still hot, still panting.
Something had changed inside me. My eyes prickled, and I fought it. I could cry in a few minutes. Not in front of him. For now, I wallowed in my depravity, denying the emotional release. I’d been with five men in four days, but this was the first time I felt dirty. I was sullied and cheapened, in need of reclamation.
Mat would punish me, and then he would absolve me.
I loved this feeling of crossing a line and falling from grace, and I loved knowing I had someone who would let me fall and still cherish me.
Then Skye pulled out, and the wet snap of the condom as he tugged it off told me he was done with me.
I took a couple more seconds to be in that headspace, then got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and started the shower.
~~~
I felt like myself again when I emerged, damp towel wrapped around me. He still lay there, though the sheet covered him up to his hips. He had a third beer in one hand and the ass-end of his joint in the other, and he was watching America’s Funniest Home Videos with a flat gleam in his eyes.
“You staying?”
He shrugged.
I put on my glasses and gathered my clothes from the floor. “Check-out’s at eleven.”
No response.
Once I was dressed, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the two twenties I’d stashed there before locking my wallet in the car. I tossed them on the nightstand. “Get a pizza or something if you’re hungry.” His eyes slid over to me, down to the money, and back to my face. His expression was hard with…something. Maybe resentment. Maybe something more complicated. He didn’t refuse the cash, though.
He’d finished his joint by then, so I scooped up the ashtray, went back to the bathroom, and flushed the contents down the toilet. I grabbed the canvas bag from where I’d dumped it near the minifridge and pulled out the air freshener I’d bought. “Don’t smoke anything after I leave,” I said, and began spraying the room. “Or if you must, do it in your car.” I didn’t get the feeling they asked a lot of questions at the Mountain View, but it seemed dumb not to make at least this much effort.
After double-checking I had everything I needed, I took one last long look at the angles of his face and the riot of color on his chest and arms. He really was something.
“Thanks for the fuck. I’ll call you some time.” I didn’t know if that was true, but I always said it, and it felt right to say it now. He didn’t answer anyway.
Outside, the sun had set but the air was still warm. The shower had cleared my head a little, but I didn’t feel quite right to drive yet.
That was fine. I’d have to walk to the diner to get my car anyway. We’d fucked through my usual dinnertime, and eggs and coffee sounded just right. I took a deep breath, ran my fingers through my hair, then stepped off the sidewalk and back into my real life.
About The Author
Travis Beaudoin
Having lived in Miami, Chicago, and NYC, I eventually ended up twenty minutes from where I was born, in Nowhere, Virginia, where the days are quiet and the stars are bright. I share a big old farmhouse with my unbelievably supportive husband, a terrorist cat, and the world’s most neurotic dog.
I am nerdy about lots of things, including but not limited to classical rhetoric, the lives of the saints, Egyptian mythology, Shakespeare, contemporary fantasy, and the Muppets. Nevertheless, I am fun at parties.
I like rainy days, long drives, and cuddling. I drink more coffee than I ought.
Check me out at travisbeaudoin.com. Subscribers to my newsletter get a free (!!!) erotic short story. I am active on Twitter (@beaudoin_travis) and check Goodreads when I remember to.
Books In This Series
Bryce Can Play
When Mat's away, Bryce can play.
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BRYCE CAN PLAY is a series of hot gay erotic shorts. Each story features Bryce, a sexy submissive slut with permission to play around while his husband's out of town. Each story describes a different pairing (or more!) and explores a variety of kinks.
On Display
Couples Therapy
Turned Out
Throw Hips
Quick Study
In the Dark
Roadside Assistance
Reclaimed
Throw Hips: A Gay Hothusband Erotic Short (Bryce Can Play Book 4) Page 3
