Page 96 of The Words Beneath the Noise
“Faster,” I urged, bucking up to meet his thrusts. “Harder, Art. Show me how much you want it. Ride me like you mean it.”
He did, chasing it now, hips snapping, his cock bouncing in my grip, every sound he made filthy and wrecked and utterly beautiful. He was lost in it, eyes wild, hands moving from chest to throat to shoulders, touching everywhere, unable to get enough.
I spat in my palm again, slicked my cock where we were joined, then let it run down over his balls, making it all messier, wetter. I squeezed his cock, twisted my wrist just right, and watched him arch back, keening, body bowed in pleasure.
“You feel that?” I panted, gripping his hip, slamming up into him. “That’s me, inside you. That’s me making you feel this good. You’re perfect, Art—so fucking perfect.”
He choked on a sob, fingers clawing at his chest, pinching his nipples, leaving them red and swollen. “Feels so good, Tom—so full—can’t—can’t?—”
I tugged him down, burying my face in his neck, biting and kissing, tasting the salt of his sweat, the desperation in his skin. My other hand never left his cock, stroking him harder now, matching the frantic pace of his hips.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered against his ear. “Give it to me. Show me how much you want it. Ride me, sweetheart—ride me until you break.”
He did, grinding down with abandon, losing himself in the rhythm, using me as much as I used him. Our bodies were slick with sweat, the air thick with our breath, the slap of skin and the sound of our gasps filling the room. I watched every shudder, every twitch, every desperate movement of his hands on his chest, twisting and teasing his nipples, making himself gasp and whine and beg.
I felt his body clench around me, fluttering, hot and desperate, and I squeezed the base of his cock, thumbing the sensitive place just beneath the head, wanting to keep him on the edge, wanting to see how much he could take.
“Good boy,” I growled, letting my praise wash over him, hoping he felt how much I meant it, how much I wanted every piece of him, every broken sound, every desperate plea.
He rode me harder, thighs trembling, hands never stopping their filthy dance over his chest, pulling, twisting, stroking his own skin, giving me a show I’d remember for the rest of my life.
I wanted more—needed it filthier, rawer, desperate. “That’s it, beautiful,” I growled, letting my hands roam, one sliding up to grip his throat—not choking, just holding, letting him feel the claim, the weight of my need. My other hand squeezed his hip, guiding him as he bounced on my cock, sweat and lube making everything slippery and obscene.
“You like that?” I taunted, fingers tightening just a little on his throat, the power of it making my blood sing. “You like being my good boy? Like showing me how much you can take?”
He nodded, wild and breathless, hips slamming down with every bounce, cock drooling precome onto my chest. “Yes—God, yes, Tom—please, don’t stop—want you to ruin me?—”
“I’m going to, sweetheart,” I promised, voice shaking as I thrust up into him, matching his rhythm, fucking him harder from below. “Going to fuck you until you break. Want you to come for me, make a mess—want to see you cover me, Art. Want you filthy.”
He sobbed, hands moving from his chest to my mouth, pressing two trembling fingers against my lips. I opened for him, sucking them in, licking, biting, moaning around them as he gasped and rocked even harder, the sensation almost too much.
“Fuck, Tom—God?—”
I pulled his fingers free, then spat on them, grabbing his wrist and guiding his hand down to his own ass, pushing his fingers against the place where I split him open, still buried deep inside him. “Touch yourself. Feel where I’m fucking you. Feel how wrecked you are for me.”
He whimpered, sliding his spit-slicked fingers down, circling the base of my cock where it stretched him, spreading his own cheeks as I thrust up, balls slapping against him, everything wet and noisy and raw.
“You want to feel me come inside you?” I panted, barely hanging on. “Want to be filled up, bred, dripping for me?”
“Please, Tom—please—need it—need you—” He was frantic, grinding down in desperate little circles, thighs trembling, hands on his ass, spreading himself open as I pounded into him.
I brought one hand up, slapped his cheek, then his chest, watching the way he gasped, the way his cock twitched, leaking more. “You’re filthy, Art. My filthy boy. Look at you, riding my cock, fucking yourself open for me, so needy—so perfect?—”
He whimpered, hands clutching his own ass, using my cock and his own fingers to stretch himself wider, to take even more of me. I watched the way his hole fluttered around me, the way my cock disappeared inside him, the way his body shook as he fucked himself, completely lost.
“Touch your cock,” I ordered, voice guttural. “Stroke it for me. Want to watch you come.”
He obeyed, fist wrapping around his length, pumping in time with my thrusts, hips bucking, face twisted in bliss and desperation.
I slipped my thumb into his mouth, let him suck and bite, then dragged it down to tease his nipples, rubbing and twisting, making him shudder and gasp. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it—feel you clenching, milking me?—”
“Tom—please, I—can’t?—”
“Come for me, Art,” I demanded, voice wrecked, hips driving up into him, pace brutal. “Want you to cover me, want to feel you fall apart?—”
He let out a broken sob, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as his orgasm slammed through him. His cock jerked, spurting thick ropes of come across my chest, my throat, my face, hot and sticky and endless. Some hit my lips, and I licked it up, tasting him, groaning at the salt and heat.
I grabbed his hips, held him down, fucked up into him mercilessly as his body seized around me, squeezing, milking my cock for all it was worth.