I smirked. He doesn’t realize how funny he is, that his unseriousness eases me into a place of comfort somehow. My attention centered on his form there, the way the shadow played off the curves of his round ass.  

“… got it.” I rose to my feet, joints screaming at me as I crossed the floor. There was glass everywhere. I felt dizzy.

“M’kay, now this is you,” he switched positions and pretended to hump at it. “See this hip action? You’re taller than me, so you got a bit of an advantage. It’s like a grinding motion…” Marcus paused, his attention shifting to dick, and then he just stared.

 “What…” heat started at the back of my neck.

“Just tryna remember what your dick looks like.”

I cleared my throat awkwardly and glanced down at the obvious, aching bulge in my shorts. Now I’m blushing, I must be. When was the last time I blushed? Fuck, I don’t know. He sucked my dick like twice, is there something wrong with it?

Marcus, of course, never missing anything, clocked my anxiety.

He flicked his hand at me dismissively. “Oh my god stop stressing, you’re so shy and nervous its fucking adorable. Dude your dick is fine, it’s more than fine, I’m just mentally confirming your shape. It’s kinda perfect for what I need.”

“O-okay.” I mumbled, my confidence fading the longer I stood under his gaze.

His expression softened, the energy behind it more patient and amused than anything. “Look, it’s like this,” he used his hand to demonstrate, “drive down like this on the in, then drag that dick in an upward motion on the out. I’m not concerned about foreplay, I want the pain, so take me hard and fast. You’ll figure out the rest, you’re a big boy. You got this.”

Do I? Fuck. It’s like he’s the one babying me now… but I kind of like it?

“But how will I know, uh, if it’s working.”

“Watch me, listen to me, you’ll know. I’m sure you knew when you fucked women. You look like you know how to eat.”

My cheeks got hot, “… understood.”

His eyes grazed over my body, flickered to my erection. “You know I’m mouthy, daddy…  hit it right and you’ll take my breath away. Shut me up. Think you can do that?”

I put my hands on my hips and took a deep breath, nodded. “Mm, yep. Yeah. Think I can do that.”

He’s so fucking hot, his confidence, the way he communicates—no, makes his wants, needs known. I like that, even if it does make me feel a bit like his errand-boy. Even if I feel so fucking unprepared.

Marcus chuckled, raked his eyes over me once more, the attention made me feel incredibly exposed, the pressure was on. I struggled to make eye contact.

“Gideon,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

I obeyed.

“You’ve got this, okay? Finish me off, blow your load in me, and then we can snuggle, take a bath, smoke a blunt. Don’t overthink it.” He proceeded to pull his shirt over his head and flick it onto couch back, the damage from our game already beginning to show. Bruises. Cuts from the glass, rugburn.

Overthinking is my superpower, though. Doesn’t he know?

“… okay, so fuck me then, old man.”  He wiggled his fingers and eyed me expectantly.

I had my orders, and the air between us shifted again, felt like it’d gone static; this was it.
Give him what he wants. What we want.

And suddenly I was upon him; it was a blur. I had him by the hair and delivered another searing backhand that flattened him. Time to shut this bitch up. Marcus collapsed and hissed, cradled his face, blood trickled from his swollen, bruised mouth. From his nose.

That pretty body was easy to throw around when it wasn’t fighting me; yes, he appeared to be over that. I threw his limp form over the armrest like he’d shown me—ass over.

He gasped. “Fuckin’ broke-dick freak.”

“And the whore continues to run his mouth; shut the fuck up.”

“Would like to see you try.”

I responded by yanking him back up by the hair until his back was flush with my chest; searched for something to stuff in his damn mouth.

Shirt will do. He said my job was to shut him up, so…

I snatched the shirt with my free hand, his body, sweaty and bloodied trembled against me; the helplessness of his form pressed against my hardened dick made me crazy. It strained in my shorts. Ached.

“Open your fucking mouth,” I commanded, grabbing him by the jaw to get the job done. He spat in my face and bloodied saliva hit my cheek. I dug my thumb into his temporomandibular joint, such pressure until he winced, mouth falling open from the pain, and stuffed his t-shirt into his mouth with such force that his eyes watered, nose ran. He started to gag.

Good.

My hand closed around his throat, squeezed, brought my mouth to his ear to utter one last offering of reprieve. “Raise your right hand if it’s too much. I’ll stop.”

He gagged again and managed a weak, single nod. He was so teary, so beautiful, eyes glazed over in pleasure. My fingers trailed down his bare chest, skin soft, with fair blonde hair between his pecs. I grazed my nails down his waist, to the equally pale hair trail of hair leading to his dick. He whimpered, shivered as I slipped my hand below his waistline and wrapped my hand around his erection. Arousal dribbled from the head as I swiped my thumb around that tender place. He was still so fucking hard, so hard, aching for release, despite all the pain I’d inflicted.

The thought alone, the feel of him in my hand, such a sensitive, vulnerable place, and yet he was at my command now. He’d given me his orders, now I’d give him the ass fucking he’d been craving all night.

I squeezed, stroked his shaft, he gasped, rolled his hips into my touch. It was just a taste, a moment of reprieve before this got ugly.

… and then it was over. I tore his pants down and slammed that ass back over the armrest—as requested—and got to work. He cried out, the noise muffled. Fuck, a gagged Marcus was a pretty Marcus.

His joggers fell to his ankles, his briefs, barely drug off his ass before I unleashed a stream of spankings so hard he’d have bruises. Imprints from my hand, no one else’s, not Dawson’s, not Drew’s. Mine.

I spread his cheeks and spat on his hole. Oh fuck, fuck his hole. Tight. Pink. Pretty to the taint, which was something I never thought I’d say about another dude’s junk. Until tonight.

Maybe I’ll eat his ass when I finish with it. Speaking of his ass… God, that sex tape hadn’t done him justice. He looked beautiful there, but fuck, now this ass was mine for the evening, and it was surreal… surreal to be trailing my fingertips over his heated skin. To be the one taking, tasting tonight.

I’d concocted countless fantasies over the past two weeks, but now it felt like they were premonitions all along, predictions of the inevitable, glimpses of what was now reality. He and I… we’d push the limits of this taboo dance between us until everything imploded on us; satisfy and fuel our hunger, he’d be my opiate, my vice, and I’d be his.

It was like I entered a trance, the hesitation left me, and then my hand delivered a blistering hit directly on that aching boy pussy. His back arched, cheeks clenched from the impact, labored gasps, grimaces, whimpers. I visually traced the red, raised lines that formed from my nails on his back; trailed my fingers the length of his spine, scratched his skin to watch the marks appearing. He was so reactive, so pale.

I pressed my hard cock between his cheeks, humped him through my shorts. He whined and whimpered, squirmed. Arched his ass; a silent plea, a need to be filled.

I’m gonna make him paint the side of that fucking armrest with his cum.