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39

Ben Stirling

Jeremiah stands under the arch over the gate. He’s a riot of curls, pink cheeks, and lips, with a baby-blue sky behind him. He’s perfectly framed by climbing roses. The buds are in full flower, petals unfurled and open. Buttery yellow blooms humming the song of summer. A complex mix of musky myrrh-like notes blend with ripe floral overtones, leaving the air heavy with perfume, possibility, and new things.

I stand in the doorway as he approaches. He keeps his hands at his sides, arms a little stiff as he all but trots toward me. I suspect the stiff arms are there to disguise the fact he’s in one hell of a hurry to get to me. Ordinarily, something like this would amuse me, make me laugh, make me crack a joke, but not today. Today, I can’t wait for him to get to me either.

The second he’s within reach, I grab him by the waist and pull him toward me, kicking the door closed and kissing him hard. He’s breathless and blinking harder and faster than normal by the time I release him.

I stroke his cheek lightly to reassure him. His skin is soft and smooth on the way down, rougher on the way up.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

He wavers, searching my eyes as though he expects to find the answer there. When he doesn’t, he nods hesitantly.

“Excited?”

He nods again, eyes fixed on mine and vaguely frozen.

I take his face in both hands and kiss him chastely. “Are you scared, baby?”

He nods and shakes his head at the same time. Before I can say anything else, he pushes himself onto his toes and whispers, “Everything, Ben. I’m everything. All the things. All the emotions. I feel them all,” in my ear.

His voice is soft and spluttery, so sweet and sincere, so vulnerable that I can’t help but be vulnerable too.

“I’m nervous too.” I’m surprised to hear myself say it. I haven’t said anything like this to a partner I’m about to sleep with in years. Decades. Maybe ever. “I was really nervous last night. And this morning before you got here.” I kiss him again, still chastely, but I let my lips linger a little longer this time. “I feel better now that you’re here.”

“You do?” He looks up at me with such hope that I lean against the hallway wall and let myself slide down until my eyes are level with his. I sink down a fraction more and pull him close. He takes the invitation for what it is, a chance for him to lead and for me to follow.

I tilt my face up to receive his kiss.

He smiles as he leans in and his tongue slips between my lips in a way that’s timid and cautious. As shy and sweet as a kiss can possibly be.

I open my mouth in surrender.

It’s instantly hot. Instantly boiling. Our tongues melt together, blending and fusing, delivering a clear message: we can’t wait another second.

I straighten to my full height, altering the angle of the kiss without breaking apart, taking back what’s mine. The lines between us blur. My hands are on him. On his neck, on his face, in his hair. His are on me too. One is knotted in my shirt, and the other is clawing my bicep, working its way up my arm. I was hard before he got here. I got harder the second I saw him. I’m more than hard now. I’m aching.

His chest is heaving when he comes up for air. He looks at me in a way I love. A quiet way, a passive way, a way that pours power directly into my bloodstream.

I hold out my hand to him and he places his hand in mine without question. I lace my fingers through his and squeeze to reassure him, then I turn and lead him to my bedroom.

Jeremiah is naked, standing in the middle of my room, near the foot of my bed. There’s a fine dusting of freckles on his shoulders, but otherwise, his skin is even, taut, and tight, draped over a little more muscle than I expect.

It’s still a surprise to me when I see the slight bulk of his arms and chest. The hard lines cut into his hips.

I fucking love it. I fucking love his flat chest. I love his small nipples. His blunt nails. I love that his hands are a couple of sizes bigger than what I’m used to. I love the way he stands with his hip cocked. His cock is cocked too. And I love that as well.

I love it in a hard-to-explain way. A deep tug, a wrench that makes lust pool under my tongue.

I’m close to him, but I’m not touching him. I’m soaking it in, the sight of him.

He reaches for his dick and strokes twice before he catches himself and bites back a moan as he drops it.

I pace around him, slow, considered steps as I take in every inch of him. It’s the third time I’ve done it. Every time I get back in front of him, I take off a piece of clothing. My shirt’s on the floor. So are my shorts. All I have left to lose are my boxer briefs.

There’s a rash of goosebumps on his side now. Tiny bumps on his skin that aren’t there because of a drop in temperature. They’re there because of a spike of heat in the room.

I drop my gaze and take in the back of him. His spine draws my eyes down. There are two dimples, not deep, barely noticeable, but pretty all the same, that dip in above each cheek. Later, when the fire’s out and I’m sated, I’m going to kiss them. I’m going to suck my mark into his cheeks and maybe into the small of his back as well.

As soon as I’m back in view, his eyes find mine and don’t leave. It makes me weak that he does this. I only told him to do it once, yet every time we’ve been intimate, he’s done it again. For me. Because he knows I like it, and because he wants to please me, and because he’s a sweet, lovely, adorable pervy person.

I dig my thumbs into my waistband and push my underwear down. Jeremiah’s head tilts microscopically to the right and his chin dips slightly. His eyes bulge with the effort not to look down, but his eyes don’t leave mine.

I growl in satisfaction and pride.

He’s such a good boy.

“Do you want to look?” I ask quietly.

He presses a knuckle hard against his lips and says, “Yes, please,” so quickly the words bleed into each other.

I jut my hips forward and give him a nod. His eyes skid down my torso, screeching to a halt when they reach my dick. Both hands are pressed to his mouth now, and I notice a tiny tremor running through them.

“Do you know where this is going?” I ask, taking myself in one hand and slapping my head gently against the palm of my free hand.

Jeremiah does that thing where his whole body trembles. Hard and suddenly. Like someone’s holding him by both shoulders and rattling him from side to side.

It makes me lightheaded every time it happens.

“It’s going i-in me,” he says, voice lilting as though it’s a question.

“Where in you, baby? In your mouth like the other times?”

“Uh-uh.” His head shakes and his cheeks deepen in color.

“Where then? Where’s it going? Tell me.”

“I-in my ass.”

As he says it, a clear drop of liquid spills from the tip of his cock. Mine weeps in sympathy.

There’s probably only one, maybe one and a half yards, between us, but suddenly, that’s unbearable. Intolerable. Un-survivable.

I close it, standing at his side first to take in the sweetness of his profile, no more than a couple of inches away from him, and then move behind him, careful not to let any part of my body touch him.

His right hand shoots out toward me.

“No touching, baby,” I groan. “I want you to, but you can’t because I’m so horny I’ll come if you do.”

He groans too, and I drop my head and rest my lips in the crook of his neck. I run my nose upward to his ear, sniffing loudly as I do. “Fuck, you smell good.”

His entire body shakes again, and I lose it briefly, rutting my cock against his soft cheeks and grabbing roughly at every part of him I can lay my hands on. Chest. Belly. Ass cheeks. I kiss his neck hard too. Big, untidy, untamed kisses that involve teeth as much as tongue.

A guttural, rough voice inside me is chanting fuck, fuck, fuck .

A softer, quieter one urges me to slow down.

By some miracle, the soft one wins out.

“Jeremiah,” I murmur when I’m able to do so. “Kneel on the bed. Show me what you’ve got for me.”

His gait is wooden, but he moves quickly, looking back at me for approval when he’s on all fours.

“Spread your legs and arch your back. Make it pretty for me.”

He does. He really fucking does. He arches his back like he does when he’s doing yoga. When he’s done being a cat and drops his spine low and rolls his hips out. When he’s clad in Lycra so tight, it pulls at the seams. He does it like that, only better because he’s naked now. He’s skin and muscle and bone and male things. His balls hang between his legs, skin already pulled tight, tantalizing, as they obscure my view of his erection. There’s a shadow, a cleft between two perfect cheeks, that drags my attention upward. His hole is neat and pale pink. A tiny star that crosses where he meets in the middle. He’s bare. Totally hairless.

“That’s pretty,” I groan. “Fuck, that’s so pretty. I can’t wait to eat it.”

He blinks slowly, jaw parted as though he’s surprised by what I’ve said. I crawl onto the bed behind him and lick my lips as I hold his hips firmly to stop him from squirming. I keep my eyes open as I lean in and cover his hole with my mouth. I make out with it like it’s a pair of plump, pursed lips that have been begging for my kiss.

He shouts the second I touch him, and I don’t mean moans. I don’t even mean moans loudly. I mean shouts. It’s a loud, guttural yelp that cranks up the volume as it takes flight. It’s the kind of sound that would draw panicked glances and offers of help if it happened in public.

“Sorry!” he whimpers, clenching his teeth. “Sorry, that was too loud. I was r-ready, but I wasn’t expecting it to be lik—”

“Shout all you want, darlin’.” I smile. “No one can hear you.”

I eat him out messily. A sloppy, ungraceful business that involves lapping at him like I’m a man that’s been starved. There’s no order. No planning. No teasing even, and ordinarily, I’m someone who likes teasing.

I’m in control, but not by much. I’m hanging on by a thread because my dick is raging, pulsing, and beating. Beating so hard it hurts, and my mind is even worse. It’s vacant. Clear thought is notably absent. Everything, even things that matter a lot, is gone. All that’s left is an animal craving. An intense burn. A desperate yearning for something I know. Something new. Something I’ve never had before. Something I’ve had many times, but never like this.

I’m growling softly by the time I sit back on my heels and take in the sight before me.

Jeremiah has collapsed, face and upper body limp and mashed into the mattress, my bedsheets clenched in his hands, mouth open in a silent scream.

Lube.

Need lube.

I stumble to my bedside cabinet and open the top drawer. There’s a box of condoms, unopened, next to the bottle of lube. I bought them a week ago when I went to the pharmacy. I’m kind of amazed by my foresight.

“Condom,” I slur. “D’you want me to use one?”

“I’m negative,” he mumbles, ass still in the air.

“So am I.” He gurgles and nods and his lips turn up in a lax smile. “D’you want me to breed you, baby?” He nods drunkenly. “Want me to paint your insides?”

He nods again, half of his face still glued to the mattress, head loose on its hinges. His voice is a quiet, faraway, wispy thing, but it lands with the force of a stun gun.

“Shoot it so deep I can taste it, Captain.”

Right.

Okay then.

I wipe my brow and then my top lip, mopping tiny beads of sweat in a way I’m sure would look frantic to the casual observer. And it is. I need to get this boy fucked before he fucks me up.

My hands shake as I struggle with the lid of the lube. I spread a good amount over three fingers and dab a little on his hole. He grunts and purrs when I do, and I almost lose course and start eating him again.

No.

No.

Prep.

Dick.

Fuck now. Eat later .

My pointer slides into him like a coin slotting into a machine. A perfect, snug, made-to-measure fit. A sweet, gentle kiss. A soft suck as he pulls me in. I count to ten as slowly as I can as my dick screams at me to go faster.

Eight…Nine…T…

My second finger is inside him now too. It looks good. Two fingers look better in him than one. They pry him open more. His star is smoothed out. Stressed just a little. Tiny lines that usually fan out are invisible now. It sounds better too. Two fingers make him mewl the way I like. All squeaky and squirmy like a kitten that’s about to start hissing.

Three fingers make him hiss.

Three make him cuss.

Three make him beg.

“I’m ready. Ben. Please. Fuck. I’m ready.”

Thank God. I mean it. Thank God because I can’t wait a single fucking second longer.

“D’you want this?” I have my dick in my hand, though I’m being careful not to touch it more than I need to. His neck is craned, only one side of his face visible. A single, hooded eye trained keenly on me.

“Ngg.”

“Are you going to be good and take all this for me?”

“Nn…gonna try.”

Fuck. He’s sweet.

I withdraw my fingers and admire the sight before me. Jeremiah’s ass is glistening with lube, shining and spread open. Pink. Presented for use. For pleasure. My pleasure. And his.

I want to draw out this moment until his mind bends. I know it’s important to him. He told me weeks ago, when all this started, that he loves this moment. It matters to him. He loves waiting, knowing what’s coming.

I hold my cock at the base until I see stars as I give him his moment. I wait till I’m weak. Till he’s begging and I’m at death’s door, then I kneel behind him and line my cock up.

I ease myself into him slowly, though every cell in my body screams at me to thrust. He’s snug, very fucking snug, but not too tight. Not so tight it will hurt. I opened him well because I know what I have will feel intense no matter how much I’ve stretched him, but I don’t want to tip the scale to pain. I want him to think of his first time with me for the rest of his life, and every time he does, I want him to remember nothing but pleasure.

He tenses and relaxes, tenses and relaxes, as I work my way in. The pressure on the head of my dick is almost enough to make me lose my mind. Almost enough to make me come apart. His muscle circles me, a sweet, warm vice that accepts me over spluttered swear words and guttural moans.

In a matter of seconds, I’ve gone from being outside on my own to inside somewhere warm. Inside someone warm. The glide is smooth. Magic. Butter melting. The resistance is perfect.

“Oh, baby,” I croon. “You’re doing so well.” I have his hips in my hands and I’m pulling him onto me, deeper each time. “You’re taking me like such a good boy. Can you take a little more?”

He throws his head back as I give it to him, pushing himself onto his hands when I’m fully seated in him. His cry is ancient. Ageless. A battle cry. A victory cry.

I slow my pace out of necessity. I’m dizzy. Drunk. Pulse racing unbridled. All I can feel, all I can think, all that exists, is the velvety tissue clamped around my cock and the soft, racing thrum of Jeremiah’s heart beating inside him.

I’m going to come.

I know this. I dread and welcome it in equal measure. I need it. My sanity and possibly my survival depend on it, but I don’t want this to end. I want stay here forever inside him.

His body is as tense and primed as mine. Maybe more.

“Don’t come,” I rasp. “Please, baby, please don’t come.”

It’s the last thing I say or think as my own choice is taken from me. The pressure, the urge, the need are too great to ignore. My orgasm reaches into me and clenches. My balls, my muscles, my insides, my spine. Everything tightens.

There’s a quiet, heady moment. A kind of peace.

Then, a violent eruption.

Thick, hot lava spews out of me in endless ropey spurts. I’m hot inside and out. On fire. Irrepressibly strong and completely weak. My life force drains out of me and into Jeremiah, who willingly receives it. All of it. Every drop.

He doesn’t move or try to touch his dick despite the fact that his entire body is shaking.

“Flip over,” I tell him when the last of my pleasure has been wrung out of me.

He obeys quickly but with difficulty, his limbs stiff and seemingly not under his full control. His movements are jerky and lacking his usual grace.

As soon as the back of his head hits the pillow, his hands fall open on either side of his face. Despite the futility of it, my dick throbs helplessly at the sight.

Jeremiah is primed, every muscle in his torso clenched hard enough to snap something. Legs wide open, toes curled.

I don’t waste a second. I stuff three fingers into his sloppy, gaping hole and swallow as much of his dick as I possibly can.

I bob my head and suck gently, tiny spurts of precum urging me on as I feel around inside him until my fingertips graze against something firm. A small rubbery swelling that makes Jeremiah’s hair stand on end. His entire body arches, head and feet the only part of him making contact with the bed.

He swells in my mouth, impossibly, and then he swells again.

His wail when he comes is torn from his throat. From his chest. From something deeper and lower. It’s ripped directly from whatever it is that makes him Jeremiah.

I’m on my back, under a pile of floppy arms and legs, by the time I come back to a version of myself that I recognize. I’m leaden. I can’t move, not that I want to. I’m unbearably light at the same time. Things that belong on the inside of me are on the outside. Things that are mine don’t feel like they belong to me anymore and things that should feel small feel overwhelmingly big.

“Are you okay?” asks a sleepy voice that travels through dense fog to get to me.

Jeremiah lifts his head from my chest and blitzes me with a pale blue flare. Ordinarily, I like being the one who’s okay. It’s important to me. It matters, but the truth matters more. I’m boneless. I’m aching, and I’m empty, and I don’t know where I am or how I got here. My eyes sting and something wet trickles down one cheek. I don’t want to upset him, but I want him to know what I’m going through, though I’m not sure how to describe the emotion.

Eventually, I say, “Everything. I feel everything.”