Page 5 of Glitter
Chapter 5
“Yes, boo, yes! Touch me.”
Shit, his words, and the pleased tone he used to cry out his approval, were almost enough to crash me right over the edge of my climax then and there.
“Oh, yes, that’s it. Touch my cock, boo. Jerk it. Yes, just like that while you fuck me. Fuck, you’re going to get me off, boo. So good. Fuck, you’re so good at this.”
Yep. There was no doubt about it. As good as his ass felt around my dick—and it did feel good. Really, really good—it was going to be my angel’s words that were going to send me soaring while emptying my balls tonight.
“Are you close?” I asked desperately. I really, really needed him to be close, because I sure as fuck was.
“Mmhmm. Yeah. Yeah, I am, boo. So close.”
I’d thought so. I’d hoped so. His cock was hard in my hand and the smooth, supple, elegantly slender length was slickly sticky from the precum it had been leaking.
I continued stroking him, quick, firm, and just a shade on the careful side of too rough, a pace he encouraged by assertively thrusting his hips forward, alternating fucking himself forward through my fist and backward onto my cock.
“Wanna… Gotta… You gotta…” I babbled, in between my raspy groans of pleasure. “Please. You gotta…”
When we suddenly listed forward toward the stall door, at first, I thought I’d shoved into him too hard. But then I saw that he’d removed his left hand from the door and was now bracing himself upright, and me, by extension, with only the forearm of his right arm.
I didn’t have to wonder for very long why my angel moved his left arm, as I suddenly had his hand dragging through my hair and pulling my face closer to him.
“There. There. There !” he cried, although I wasn’t certain whether the reaction was caused by my dick driving against his prostate as I plunged and plunged and plunged in his tight channel or if it was from the press of my mouth as he pushed my face against the soft skin on the side of his neck.
Either way, one or the other must’ve set him off because I found myself with a hand coated, front and back, with cum as spurt after spurt of the stuff shot from the end of his cock.
The feel of him, the taste of him under my lips—a sweetness that almost reminded me of cotton candy and that I could see myself quickly becoming addicted to—and the pulsing clench of him squeezing my dick buried inside his ass… My own orgasm was swiftly triggered by his and I ecstatically followed him right over that cliff.
“ Anngh … Anngh …”
Thankfully, I was barely able to drag in enough oxygen to not pass out; I didn’t have nearly enough to groan out any sort of identifiable word. So, instead of deliriously verbally uttering the dubious gift of the sappy endearment I’ve been calling him inside my head, I merely sounded as though the strenuous effort of fucking him the way he’d wanted and deserved had left me as eloquent as a pathetically dying moose.
I felt his fingers unclench from the strands of my hair and his left arm fell to rest loosely next to his side. Taking that as my cue that he probably would like for me to cease my slobbering on his neck, I slowly lifted my mouth off his skin.
But before completely retreating from his personal space, I dared to run my nose tenderly along the line of his neck, taking in the equally cotton-candy-sweet scent of him, mingled with a hint of sweat and man.
“You know…I’m feeling a bit of déjà vu here, boo,” he commented. A brief wiggle of his hips made me realize—
Carefully easing my deflating dick from his ass, I apologized for once again not removing myself in a timely manner and rudely treating myself to a bit of cockwarming that he hadn’t consented to. “Oh, sorry, yeah, I’ll just…”
“No worries, boo,” he said, turning to face me now that our bodies were no longer joined together. “I just get a bit oversensitive sometimes, especially after a spectacular orgasm.” Perhaps my face asked the question I was too afraid and embarrassed to ask out loud. Because my angel’s full, pink lips curled into a teasing smile and he purred, “Yes, boo, that was a spectacular orgasm.”
I could feel myself grinning like a giant dork, but I had no way of controlling my facial expression. Not after he said that. The information was akin to getting a puppy, a brand-new car, a mint condition 1977 model X-Wing, and ten million dollars on Christmas.
My smile had no hope of fading when, just like the previous night, my angel spooled a long ribbon of toilet paper from the dispenser and sweetly handed over a generous section to me so that I could do a basic wipe down on myself and take care of the saggy, full condom still clinging to my dick.
While doing some clean up and setting myself to rights, I watched with amusement and awe as he nonchalantly and unembarrassedly shoved his length of toilet paper down the front of his jock and went to work at sponging up his cummy load. But after a handful of seconds or so, he seemed to realize that the task was hopeless—the goopy mess had thoroughly soaked the fabric and the fine holes in the mesh were acting like a sticky web, trapping and holding onto the creamy emission.
He seemed equally as unbothered by his failure as he had been to let me see his pragmatically casual cleansing effort. With one last glance at the sopping, moisture-darkened front of his underwear, his lips twisted up in a wry smirk. Then he pulled the gooey, dripping wad of cum-soaked toilet paper out of his jock and, shrugging, he lobbed it into the bowl of the toilet behind me.
“Meh. That’s unfortunate. Worth it though,” he stated, the wry smile still twisting his lips and now aimed in my direction. “Nothing I hadn’t really expected to happen either,” he added.
“Oh. Er. Uh…” I struggled to vocalize a smooth segue from his commentary on the messy state of his underwear and my desperate wondering if I was going to be granted the opportunity to get him all messy and dirty again.
His lips pursed into a moue of distaste as he slid his pants up and over his soiled jockstrap, a shallow groove also forming between his carefully groomed eyebrows, which were neatly groomed but intriguingly thick and prominent. They looked particularly striking in contrast to the delicate prettiness of the rest of his features and their mahogany brown shade stood out against the milky white paleness of his skin, while hinting at what his natural hair color might be.
“Right. Well…I’ll be off,” he stated, unaware of the sinking of my stomach at this careless proclamation. Not that I could disagree with his next statement. “Nobody wants to hang around in damp drawers.”
“No, no, of course…”
He didn’t seem to hear me, or else he was ignoring me as he continued, “And the last thing I want is for any of that…” He waved a slim-fingered hand gracefully in front of his groin. “…to soak through my pants, making it look like I pissed myself.”
He still hadn’t said anything I could refute, as much as I wanted to argue with him to stay. To not leave the club. To spend some more time with me. To take the time to promise me I’d get to see him again. Something .
“So, toodles, boo. I’ll see you around.”
And that was it. Another ambiguous ‘see you around’ was all he was going to leave me with.
I’d lost my chance to say anything. To plead my case. To beg, if I had to.
Snicking the lock on the bathroom stall open, my angel smoothly twirled around and blithely slank out of the stall, not looking back even once as he exited the bathroom.
Befuddled by his quick and sudden departure, I dazedly drifted to stand in the open doorway of the stall. Staring blankly at the empty space my angel left behind in his wake, the abrupt, loud whir of an electronic hand dryer blowing jolted me back to being aware of my surroundings.
So ensnared by my lust and the bewitching pull my angel had on me, I’d completely blocked out the knowledge that we weren’t the only two men in the bathroom. But now I was confronted with that reality, smacked in the face with it, as I found myself locking eyes with a man standing next to one of the bathroom sinks.
His body angled to face one of the mirrors, I watched his reflection as he ran his gaze over me from head to toe. My constant, low-level insecurity about my physique, which for some reason had surprisingly gone into hibernation both times I’d been near my angel, flared back to life as this stranger—an attractive, expensively groomed, silver fox dressed in stylish, designer clothing—communicated his opinion of what he saw with a fleeting lift of his eyebrows and a carefully neutral expression.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying,” he drawled, his tone hinting that he planned to say whatever he was going to say, whether I did mind or not. “Well done. I saw the man that you were in here with… That was the man you were with, was it not? The stunning, delicious, pink-haired morsel that just left?” he asked.
I didn’t care for the casual disregard in the way this stranger, who clearly had a decade, or more than likely two decades, on me, had boiled down all that my angel was to only his outward surface. Even if the description he proffered was technically accurate. Still, I found myself standing taller and puffing out my chest at his verbal acknowledgement that he’d noticed I was the one my angel had chosen. Out of all the men at Glitter that he could’ve chosen—so, so many men. Single, attractive, DTF men—me, I was the one he’d selected.
Not daring to open my mouth to answer him with words—I had the feeling that if I did open my mouth, more than likely what would come out would be a flood of words rhapsodizing about all of the things that made my angel so wonderful, not just his external beauty—I responded to the silver fox’s question with an upward-lilting grunt.
“Hmm. I thought so,” he commented.
He leaned in closer to the mirror in front of him, casting a critical look at his own reflection, then drawing one manicured fingertip over the immaculately trimmed arch of his eyebrow. Having taken care of whatever imperfection he thought he’d seen, the stranger then flicked his eyes over me once again.
“Well, like I said, well done, you. That was quite a pretty fish you managed to catch for yourself tonight.” Turning away from the mirror, all traces of the flimsy facade of congenial congratulatory comradery the stranger had donned completely fell away as his mouth twisted into a sneer and he stated, “But now that he’s sampled the gas station-quality bait you have to offer, I doubt he’ll be coming back for more. So, I hope you enjoyed him while you could. Because, the next time you see him, don’t be surprised if you see him chasing after my rod.”
Without giving me the chance to refute his claim and tell him that my angel had come back for more, for a second time at least, the silver fox—or would he be more of a silver shark within the context of his weird and creepy fishing metaphor—made his own way out of the bathroom, roughly shoving open the door and nearly smacking the man standing on the other side of it, in the hallway, with it.
I knew it wouldn’t be worth it to follow after him, track him down, and confront him with all the arguments about why he was wrong. Even if I wanted to wade through the dense crowd of men in the club to find him, which I didn’t, it wouldn’t be worth it. There’d probably be no claims or boasts that I could throw at him that would convince that arrogantly confident, older man that, of course, my angel would continue to want me over somebody like him.
I knew all that. Which is why I didn’t go after that cocky, condescending asshole.
But there was also the slight—or not so slight—fear that… What if he was right?