Throughout the years I've spent a lot of time watching men.
Young, old, smooth, hairy. Large and small and average. African, Caucasian, Asian and Indian. Blond, brown, black, grey, red.
I've watched their arms and chests, legs and backs; muscled, skinny, toned, broad, fat and slender. Their necks, shoulders, chins, mouths, noses, ears. Their eyes. Their hands. Their feet.
I've watched how they sit, how they stand, how they move. How they run and walk, jump and crouch, swim and sprint, stop and start. I've watched them play. Ride bikes. Drive cars. Read and write and work. Eat and drink and dance and fight. Shout and shove each other, full of testosterone. Or hide away, shy and timid, where they think no-one's watching.
No two are the same, and, variety, as they say, is the spice of life. But, if you were to ask what my all-time favourite thing about a boy or a man is, one common feature that stands above the rest, I could answer in a heartbeat. Quicker than a heartbeat. I'd answer before you finished your sentence.
Don't get me wrong, cocks come in at a close second. No question. Especially long, thick, juicy ones dripping with pre-cum, or huge, mystery bulges aching to be unzipped. Cut or uncut, veined or not, I don't mind. But naked or fully clothed, a pair of pert cheeks gets me going faster than a bullet fired from a speeding train.
James really did have the best I'd ever seen. At least back then. His was sensational. His was the kind of arse I loved to watch.
As he clambered to his feet and wiped away the strand of saliva from his chin that had moments before connected us, his empty lungs still pulling in deep refilling breaths, my balls tingled with anticipation. But not because of what I was going to do to him.
I was thinking about that, of course. I'd thought about that since we'd met. Thought about it harder since he'd replied to my text. Ideas and images and scenarios of eating his virgin hole until he was relaxed and wet enough to be stretched open, a couple fingers at first, then more, had always swarmed my mind.
But as I kicked off my trainers, pushed my jeans and underwear down to my ankles, stood out and to the side and bundled it all up in my arms, I knew, as he took two steps up the stairs, his perfect little arse, coated in his spotless white briefs, would be level with my face.
For however long it would take him to lead me up the grand, sweeping staircase, I would have the perfect view. Each delicious cheek would be in line with my eyes and nose and mouth. I wasn't going to rush this part. I was going to enjoy every second.
He locked his eyes on mine. They shined even bluer through the tears. The kind of tears that come hand-in-hand after you've had your windpipe filled for the first time. His panting subsided. He cleared his throat.
He paused. Checked a large wall clock ticking quietly to my left.
`We don't have long.'
`I said walk slow.'
He paused again. Then grinned, realising why.
It took us three minutes to reach his room. Not because of the size of the house. Yes, it was big. Bigger than any I'd been in. It was exactly what you'd expect from an Edwardian manor house in the nice part of town.
The staircase reached up and to the right onto an open first floor that spanned the square of the grand room below. Directly in front of the landing stretched a long, tall hallway illuminated by three miniature chandeliers hanging in a perfect line.
More ancient oil paintings in expensive frames – I didn't look closely enough to notice of what - dotted one side of the corridor. Large, curtained windows that in the daytime would no doubt reveal a finely manicured garden below, punctuated the other.
We passed a closed door of old, polished oak hiding an unknown room and reached a thinner, steeper spiral staircase, set into the wall that wound upwards. Leading to what James called his floor.
Two fit boys could easily have made it up in under sixty seconds. Even at the pace we took. Slow and steady and unhurried. It's just by the time we were almost at the top of the second stairway I couldn't help myself. His arse was almost touching my face and the voice came back, unable to be silenced.
Throwing my bundle of clothes to the landing below I grabbed hold of his hips and stopped him dead in his tracks, four steps from the top. He flinched, making my hard cock twitch and bounce in the air between us.
I moved my hands closer together until they cupped each cloth-covered cheek. When he'd jumped into my arms they'd felt great. But now, no longer squashed by his body weight, they felt better. It was clear they were the ideal combo of muscle and fat. Toned but not hard. Soft but not flabby.
My fingers were long enough for the tips to still reach his hip bone and I dug into him as my thumbs pushed his cheeks apart, playing with the warmth of his hole now less than a centimetre and a millimetre of flimsy fabric away. I squeezed him. Once. Twice. Three times.
The underwear had to go.
In a single movement I pulled his briefs down to his feet. I heard his hard cock thud against his stomach on the way back up. Then I took hold of his hips again and buried my face. Nose first and slowly.
Closing my eyes, I felt his smooth skin against me. His arse cheeks were cool in comparison to the heat radiating against the tip of my nose. I took a deep breath and savoured his smell in the darkness.
Sweat. Soap. Boy hole.
Arching my neck, I stuck out my tongue and licked his entire crack bottom to top. He shuddered and moaned into the air, high pitched, but not girly, as the sweet saltiness of his body swept over my taste buds and mingled with my saliva. I swallowed it down.
Then I ate.
Standing I held his cheeks open and pushed and pushed my tongue against his hole as my lips kissed around it. He was jammed shut. Tight and pink and hairless. I poked and prodded, trying to get inside. His back was arched and pushing against me. He was too tense. His muscles were constricted. But after fifty aching seconds he finally gave in and I broke through.
The dull, hot rust taste of blood-filled capillaries smacked my tongue before flowing around my mouth and setting my brain ablaze. I closed my lips around his wet hole and sucked. Then I pulled my head back, held his cheeks further apart and spat.
He had to hold onto the banister with one hand and push against the wall with the other to keep his balance while I enjoyed the view: my thick blob of bubbled spit dripping over his hole, down his crack and then the inside of his skinny but toned left leg, catching on the odd wispy ginger hair.
`Is everything ok?' he said, breathing heavily.
`Clean as a whistle.'
`Are you sure?'
I looked up. Over my hands and his arse cheeks. Up his back, still covered in his tight green t-shirt, to his craned neck and cute face. Into his wide eyes looking down at me, filled with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. I smiled. Then I let go of his cheeks and spanked his right one, not hard, but hard enough to make a loud slap that echoed through the empty stairway.
`There's only one way to find out. Go.'
Past an adjoining bathroom his room was the size of a tennis court and looked like a cross between my living room at home and any teenager's bedroom.
On one side was a small L-shaped sofa, a couple of beanbags, an old box TV probably passed down from mummy and daddy when they'd upgraded to whatever giant flat screen they now had in their personal cinema. On the other was a neat and tidy double bed with navy sheets and two pillows; its simple, masculine headboard against the wall. Wardrobes. Chest of drawers. Bedside table. A desk. A chair.
I hesitated. For a brief moment I was spoiled for choice. Then I remembered I didn't have time to waste. I chose the easy option. The bed.
Putting both hands around his waist I pushed him towards it. His short legs kept up with the acceleration and, as though he could sense what was coming, jumped in time with my lengthening arms. He landed on the mattress and bounced. Flat on his stomach, legs apart. His t-shirt had ridden up his back to reveal two thin but muscled lines running up and under the rest of the fabric.
`Take it off.'
Without a word he reached behind, pulled his shirt up and off and threw it to the floor. Then he wiggled higher up the bed and propped himself up on his elbows. His bare back was curved in all the right places, and the bunches and bulges of his lean shoulders were accentuated by his porcelain, white skin. Reaching over to his bedside table he slid open the drawer. He pulled out a small blue pump-tube of lube and a reel of four condoms.
Putting one in his mouth he tore it free and placed it, still in its foil packaging, on the back of his neck, directly under the sharp line of his shaved undercut. Then he placed the rest next to the lube, next to him on the bed, and looked forward. Butt naked and ready.
I was impressed. No doubt a move he'd picked up in porn. I looked him up and down, from the top of his head to his slim, blemish-free back. Over his heavenly arse and down his legs. His long, thick cock poked towards me, underneath his balls, and looked huge compared to his small frame. He shifted his legs wider. I saw his hole. Still red and tight and tiny.
He was being a good boy. A very good boy. So I told him. Then I took my position over him: my knees pushing into the dark blue either side of the backs of his kneecaps. My muscled thighs, looking bigger than ever, framed his arse in a V of smooth, young skin and hair. The head of my cock rested against the dip of his cheeks.
Picking up the lube I pumped it twice into my left hand. Then I threw the tube on the bed beside me and covered the translucent gel over my right index and middle fingers. Whatever remained I smeared sloppily between his legs and over his hole.
`Chilly,' he said with a giggle, moving his arse from side to side.
I said nothing. I was busy thinking. I figured we had forty minutes, max, before his parents returned with his brother, and I was in no rush to play happy upper class families. Take away ten for clean-up and getting dressed and five to fill him in about Adam left us with twenty-five. Twenty-five short minutes. We didn't have long. I got to work.
He took the first finger nicely. I used the index. Smaller and thinner than the middle. He winced and sucked in sharp breaths through his teeth as his slippery, soft inner tissue wrapped around me like a latex glove. But his hands stayed grasping at the bed sheets by his head. They didn't push back. He didn't try to stop me.
I kept going, pushing until I felt the warm, gooey skin of his gouch against my knuckle and the hard but soft lump of his prostate against my fingertip. I curled my finger against it gently.
His hole clenched tight around me and his body tensed as a wave of intensity rolled over him. I heard the squeak of fabric in his mouth and saw the miniscule hairs on his neck stand on end. He began to whimper, fast and loud through closed teeth, as I flicked at him from the inside.
`Breathe,' I said, as I pulled my finger out to the tip and slid it all the way back to repeat my process. `Breathe.'
Like I said, he was a fast learner.
After a few minutes his hold on the sheets had relaxed and he'd lifted himself up slightly with his knees. He began to rock his body back and forth in time with my hand.
Reaching my free arm around I pulled his face towards me. His back bended upwards and his skin folded as his arse pushed deeper onto my finger. I kissed him, filling his mouth with my tongue. Then, still kissing him deep, I pulled out my finger and pushed two back in.
His animal reactions kicked in and he tried to squirm away. I held him close, forcing him open from both ends. I knew he wanted it. His hungry mouth against mine was all the proof I needed. He soon stopped wriggling, pushing through the pain until his breath warmed my face slower and slower and pleasure turned his whimpers into satisfied moans.
`That's it,' I said, resuming my position behind him and easing both of my fingers in and out. In and out. `Relax your hole. Concentrate on your breathing. Good boy.'
`It burns,' he said, half of his face now pushing into the bed. He bit his lip. Closed his eyes. Winced.
`It won't for much longer. Just relax.'
`Think about all the times you've laid awake in this bed wanting this.'
His eye I could see opened, wide, and his mouth hung, half filled with dark, saliva-soaked sheet. He closed his eyes and began to moan again.
`Think about all the times you've jerked off, dreaming about someone doing this to you.'
`You. I've wanted you to do this to me.'
`So enjoy it. This isn't a dream anymore. This is reality.'
He nodded wildly into the bed and pushed his arse against me. I pushed as deep as I could in response and twisted my fingers. His hole stretch even further as they turned. Then he cried loudly in pain and pulled his arse away; his legs writhing under me. I slid out of him quickly but gently.
`Fuck that hurts,' he said.
I nodded and smiled at his flushed face, looking back at me through the right angle of his elbow, propping up his hunched back. A smile that said "I know your pain". Eventually he smiled back, nodded and resumed his position. The sheets whispering as he slid over them.
Lowering myself onto him I kissed his neck, just like I'd done all those weeks ago in the library toilets. But this time my cock slid in-between his naked arse cheeks and rested a fraction of an inch from his hole.
And, when he said those three same words, I happily obliged.
To be continued ...
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Copyright Jack Ladd 2016
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