Page 94 of The Words Beneath the Noise

I lined myself up, cock slick and throbbing, and slapped it against his hole, rubbing the head in slow circles, teasing,pressing but not quite breaching. He writhed, hips pushing back, begging wordlessly.

I leaned in, lips at his ear. “Tell me if you want me to stop. Any time, Art. I mean it.”

He nodded frantically, then gasped, “Don’t stop. Please, Tom, I need you?—”

That was all I needed.

I gripped his hips hard, holding him in place, the bruise of my fingers certain to last. My other hand still tangled in his hair, pulling him up, arching his back into a perfect curve. I dragged the leaking head of my cock down his crack, painting him with spit and lube and sweat, then pressed it against his hole, circling, not pushing in, just letting him feel the threat, the stretch, the promise of what was coming.

He whimpered, knees trembling, muscles fluttering around nothing, his cock dribbling onto the sheets.

“You feel that?” I whispered, voice low, full of want. “You want me to fuck you like this? Want everyone to know who you belong to?”

“Yes, yes, please—” He was begging, lost, wrung out and desperate.

I slid the head up and down, teasing, not giving him what he wanted yet—just the pressure, the promise, the filth of it all. I pressed the head against his hole, not entering, just grinding in circles, feeling him clench and open for me, hungry, desperate.

With my free hand, I reached around and stroked his cock, slow and slick, thumb brushing over the wet slit, teasing him, pulling another sob from his lips.

He pushed back, trying to impale himself on me, but I held him steady, made him wait, made him take it slow.

“Patience,” I murmured, kissing the sweat at the nape of his neck, biting down hard enough to make him jolt. “You’ll get it. But you’ll get it my way.”

He whimpered, but obeyed, letting me manhandle him, letting me use him the way we both needed.

I dragged my cock up and down his crack again, smearing lube and precome everywhere, slapping it gently against his cheeks, rubbing the head along his rim, feeling the way he opened up for me, greedy, hungry.

I tugged his hair again, forcing him to arch, exposing his throat, his back, his flushed, trembling body.

“Good boy,” I growled, biting his shoulder, licking the mark, stroking his cock harder, faster, then slowing again, never letting him reach the edge.

He was shaking, sweat running down his back, hole clenching desperately as I slid the head up and down, pressing, circling, threatening to push in but never quite breaching.

I loved the power, the control, the trust he gave me. I loved the way he surrendered, the way he begged, the way he took everything I gave and begged for more.

“You ready?” I whispered, nipping at his ear, grinding the head against his hole.

“Please,” he sobbed, voice breaking. “Please, Tom, I need it—I need you—please?—”

There was nothing gentle left in me. Only want—raw, aching, volcanic—boiling over after months of longing, hiding, denying. I spit in my palm, slicked my cock again, then let it drip right onto his hole, watching it glisten as I rubbed the head in slow, filthy circles.

His body was tight, quivering, fighting me and begging me all at once.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” I groaned, pushing forward, feeling that first stubborn resistance, the trembling heat of him stretched to his limit. “Christ, Art—you’re perfect. You’re gonna take all of me, sweetheart, every fucking inch.”

He whimpered, body arching, pushing back to meet me, needy and frantic. “Want it—want you—want to feel you fill me up?—”

I braced both hands on his hips, holding him steady, and pressed in slow, letting the head breach him, stretching him open. He gasped, choking on a sound that was almost pain, almost pleasure—his knuckles white on the sheets, forehead pressed to the mattress.

I paused, just the head inside, letting him breathe, letting his body adjust. I stroked his back with one hand, soothed him as best I could. “You’re doing so good for me. So fucking good.”

He nodded, shuddering. “More. Please, more, I can take it—need to feel you?—”

I spat again, this time letting it run down the length of my cock and drip over where we were joined. I rocked my hips, grinding the head inside him, then pushing forward another inch, then another, forcing myself not to slam in all at once, no matter how much my body screamed for it.

He was so fucking tight, so hot and perfect—his body gripping me, swallowing me, the pressure making my vision blur. I spit again, slicking myself, using every drop to make it easier, filthier. Every time I moved, the sound was obscene—wet, desperate, hungry.

“That’s it,” I panted, voice guttural. “Just like that—open up for me—fuck, Art, you feel incredible?—”