Page 21 of Taste Test

With my mouth still tasting of his genitals, I licked the salty skin of his chest. He was hairless, smooth, skin corrugated by ribs and a thin shield of bone. I put my mouth to his nipple, tongued and sucked it, and felt his pulse through my lips.

Letting his nipple slip from my mouth, I dragged my tongue up into the hollow of his armpit, where the heat and sourness clung thick to his skin. He bucked and writhed and laughed at me while I washed the tangle of wet hair there, taking the musk onto my tongue.

“You’re really licking my armpit?” he said, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Is that a thing?”

“Only if you’re into it,” I said, and went back for another taste.

When I’d finished licking out both pits, I pressed my mouth to his lips, determined to feed him back the rank taste he’d brewed under his arms. The cold bite of his lip ring grazed me as he stiffened, as if kissing me was more dangerous than getting his cock sucked.

His lips mashed tight, jaw locked. He even made this small, stubborn “mm” in the back of his throat.

But I didn’t back off. I pushed until the seal broke and his lips parted, and then there it was—the wet slide of his tongue, tasting faintly of cigarettes and the gum he’d given up chewing half an hour ago.

His cock stayed rock-hard between us, nudging into my stomach every time he shifted, betraying him with every pulse.

“You wanted everything, right?” I said when I finally pulled back, kneeling between his spread legs. “Dick. Balls. Crack.”

He nodded, though he looked unsure.

“Turn over,” I said.

“What?”

“Turn over. You said you wanted the full treatment.”

He rolled onto his stomach, arse up, and I could see him gripping his bundled clothes beneath him. From this angle, the view was even better—his arse cheeks slightly spread, dark hair visible between them.

His arse was everything I’d fantasised about for the last twelve months—small, bubbled, and smooth brown skin.

I ran my hands over his cheeks, scarcely able to believe they were mine to play with.

I slapped the right one then the left, watching his flesh tighten as the satisfying smacks reverberated in the stockroom.

I prised his cheeks apart and dragged my tongue slowly down the length of his crack. The taste hit instantly—ripe with dark heat, the musk of skin kept under jeans all day, and that secret sweat that marks a man’s arse as his own.

Hungry, I lapped at his hole, my nose brushing through the wiry hair as spit slicked its way down his crack.

I traced every crease with my tongue, my free hand reaching under to toy with the compact little nutsack squashed between his thighs.

Sucking and nipping at his pucker, I pushed my tongue in deep, chasing the bitter taste while he squirmed and rocked back for more.

“Fuck!” Dash gasped, voice breaking as he tried to grind back onto me. “Oh fuck, that’s—”

I did it again, tongue spearing in and withdrawing, this time keeping my focus right on the ring of muscle.

Releasing my grip on his balls, I rubbed along the backs of his thighs, feeling the curls of leg hair unfurl under my palm, the muscles twitching at the touch.

I let my fingertips roam higher, kneading the firm meat of his arse while my tongue made lazy passes from tailbone to balls.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted into his bundled shirt. “I can’t—I need—”

His hips were jerking now, half-running from the sensation and half-chasing it, the backs of his thighs trembling under my hands. I watched the way his hole clenched and flexed with every breath, spit glistening in the dim light, and knew I could keep him here for hours if I wanted.

“Turn back over,” I said, pulling away. “I want to finish you properly.”

He flipped onto his back so fast he nearly scattered his clothes bed. His cock was flushed dark now, precum beading at the tip.

When I took him back into my mouth, he was already on the edge. I ran my finger between his legs again, gathering the spit I’d left there, and pushed it between his cheeks to find his hole.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he said, but he didn’t move away.

I pushed harder, just a little more pressure, and his hole began to give way.

“No fingers. I ain’t—Oh, fuck.” His voice cracked, breaking into a sound he probably didn’t mean to make.

I pushed to the knuckle, curling until I felt that little bump of his prostate.

The reaction was immediate—his arse gripping my finger, his thighs flexing hard enough to tremble.

I kept working his p-spot, my finger brushing over it again and again.

His hips started these short, jerky thrusts, half instinct to fuck my face, half panic at the unfamiliar sensation in his arse

“Fuck, fuck, bro,” he said. “Your finger’s gonna make me fucking nut.”

The taste of pre-cum thickened on my tongue, warm and metallic, dripping back towards my throat.

“Here it comes. Here it comes—swallow it, bro, swallow—swallow—swall—ahhh, fuuuuuck!”

Dash’s arsehole clenched around my finger in rapid pulses, his whole body jerking like he’d been hit with a live wire. Both hands clamped to the back of my head, holding me down on his cock while he fed me the contents of his balls.

“Drink it! Drink it! Drink it! You thirsty bitch!”

I might’ve been offended if it wasn’t true.

But I was guzzling that ball juice down, down, down…

much like a thirsty bitch. He didn’t mean it with malice anyway.

Dash was a virgin parroting porn, throwing out lines he’d picked up online without knowing how they landed.

He’d figure out sooner or later (probably after a well-deserved slap or two) that real sex didn’t need derogatory commentary.

I milked his cock with my fist as he twitched and spasmed, wringing the last dribbles out of him. The taste wasn’t great—coffee, cigarettes, maybe pot—his whole day distilled into the mess coating my tongue.

Definitely not as nice as Jared’s.

When his body finally stilled, I eased my finger free of his arse.

He let out this mangled hybrid of grunt and squeal, half-manly, half-bitchy, like he couldn’t decide what side of himself had just come out.

I sucked the last drops from his cock, and when he pulled away it left a string of spit and cum dangling from my chin.

He stared up at me, wide-eyed, like post-nut clarity had just slapped him across the face. Then he scrambled to his feet and started hauling on his jeans.

I wiped my mouth and chin, swallowing the last dribbles.

“Bloody hell,” Dash said finally, his voice shaky as he yanked his zip. “That was… that was something else.”

“Good something else?”

“Really good something else,” he admitted, still a little breathless. He gave a short, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, uh… bro, you were proper fucking me with your finger. Like… am I half gay now?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“Still felt gay as shit,” he chuckled nervously, then shrugged. “But fuck it, if that’s what being gay feels like, I could get used to it.”

I sat back on my heels, watching as he sat on the crate and tugged his socks on and shoved his feet into his sneakers. I couldn’t stop my eyes tracking the damp glisten in his armpits—my spit still clinging there from when I’d buried my face in him.

He grabbed his shirt off the floor, shaking it out before hauling it over his head. Halfway through, with his face still hidden in the fabric, his voice came muffled but clear. “This won’t make shit weird between us at work, will it?”

“Only if you make it weird.”

The shirt settled across his shoulders, and his grin appeared under the hem as he adjusted it into place. “Sweet as. I’ll just call it staff training. Perks of being a supervisor.”

I laughed. “Guess that makes me the obedient subordinate then. Sir.”

He waggled his eyebrows like he was about to take it literally, then just smiled and went back to straightening his sleeves.

Some detached part of me was faintly impressed I could sound so unbothered after what we’d just done. Casual sex and I were no strangers but that didn’t mean I was always so laidback about it.

We went back to work like nothing had happened, while I tried to ignore the hard-on still leaking precum into my boxers. I’d just sucked off a guy I’d been crushing on for months, yet the satisfaction felt incomplete. Worryingly, I don’t think it had anything to do with not ejaculating.

Especially when all I could keep thinking about was a certain whisky glass with a rugby ball etching waiting for me at home.