Page 7 of Tribute Act

So that’s what you like, I thought. And I liked it too. I wasn’t into spanking or anything, but I’d always been a little bit on the toppy side.

After a while—and with a supreme effort—I pulled him off me, urging him to meet my gaze by tilting up his chin with my fingers. He blinked at me, glassy-eyed already.

“Can you take me deep?” I asked softly. “Right to the back of your throat?”

His eyes gleamed and he nodded.

“Okay, then, show me what you can do.” I loosened my grip, giving him his head, and he dived back on to my cock, taking me all in one go, spluttering a little in his eagerness.

“Hey,” I murmured. “Easy, okay? We’re not in a hurry.”

He nodded without glancing up and went down again, more slowly and smoothly this time.

It was hard to stay on my feet as he serviced me. The physical sensation of his mouth on my cock was amazing enough, but it was his eagerness that grabbed at me like a riptide. How he reacted to my words, to my touch.

His cock stuck out from his body, hard and dripping. He went to touch it, but I tightened my grip in his hair and whispered, “Not yet.”

He dropped his hand, moaning round my shaft, seeming to love being told what to do.

“Good boy,” I said tenderly.

I let him suck me another minute before I carefully pulled him off me. He strained a little to get back to my cock, and I smiled, enjoying his ardour, and the ebb and flow of this strange new dynamic we were building between us, the hints we were each throwing out and responding to in turn.

I tugged his hair again, more firmly this time, and he stilled. “Come on,” I coaxed. “Let’s get you ready for my cock now, shall we? Get on the bed on your stomach.”

He obeyed, quickly getting to his feet and climbing onto the bed, though he growled at me impatiently, “I don’t need you to get me ready. You can fuck me now.”

I ignored that. “Do you have some lube?”

He sighed, but answered me. “Wash bag near my rucksack.”

I found the wash bag tumbled to the floor, its contents falling out onto the thin, rough carpet. I snagged the lube and a box of condoms and, on my way back to the bed, grabbed a hand towel from the folded stack on the shelf outside the bathroom.

Mack lay on his front on the white sheets. His arse was phenomenal. Firm, rounded buttocks with deep dimples at each side. I settled down beside him, stroking his back, his pale buttocks.

“Spread your legs,” I murmured.

“I don’t need any prep,” he insisted, even as he did as I said. “Fuck me now. I want your cock.”

“Trust me,” I soothed. “You’ll enjoy this. I’ll have you so ready you’ll be coming as soon as I get inside you.”

He moaned at that promise, and I smiled, drizzling lube over my fingers.

One thing about being a serial monogamist—you get really good in bed. Well, you can’t beat regular practice at any activity, can you?

It wasn’t just the sex I loved, though, it was the intimacy. And this—what I was about to do to Mack—was one of my favourite intimate things to do to my partners. To work them up, so slowly, so inexorably, that they’d be sobbing and begging to be fucked, riding my hand in desperation.

Somehow, I just knew this was exactly what Mack needed. The way he’d pressed his head against my hand as I’d stroked his hair. The way he so eagerly sucked me down, then told me he needed nothing. These clues pointed to a man who wasn’t comfortable asking for things with words but his body was crying out for what he needed, silently begging me. For some reason, it felt like I could read him—and that maybe he could read me too. That maybe he knew how very much I liked my side of this.

I started slow, trailing my fingertips down his crack, easing his legs further apart before gently grazing his hole with my lubed fingers. Pressing a little harder, I rubbed at the taut ring, carefully slipping a single finger inside before topping up the lube. I added a second finger as I kissed his neck, his shoulder, and began to work his hole in earnest. My fingers dipped into him shallowly, then more deeply, until finally, I crooked my fingers inside him, brushing his prostate so that he just about came off the bed with pleasure. And through it all, he moaned and cried, hips helplessly jerking, a barrage of incoherent pleading on his tongue.

All of it so sweet to me.

“Look at you,” I marvelled as he writhed beneath me, near sobbing. “Christ, you’re gorgeous.”

“Please— I can’t—”

“Are you ready for me, Mack? I think you might be close now.”