Bent

As the cold bite of winter takes hold, I've started noticing several concerning developments:

Firstly, I've become more and more aware of a peculiar phenomenon. Initially, this thing with Ethan felt

other

, in the shadows, on the down low, while the rest of my life seemed normal and real. Now, more and more, I'm becoming aware of the fact that work, my friends and my social life outside of Ethan seem strange, one dimensional, and appear to be in dull shades of black and white.

In stark contrast, time spent with him is in blinding, full-colour. I only feel real when I'm with him and I crave him with every cell in my body, every second I'm not. I can only assume, that somehow, some way, Ethan has literally managed to turn my life upside down.

I'm still trying to get to the bottom of it, but something tells me that this issue, is related in some way to the next, which is that I've developed some very unpleasant feelings towards Liza. I used to enjoy spending time with her, I thought she was interesting and funny, but now, I find my skin crawling when I see her. I spend ages analysing the way she moves and the things she says. I can't help wondering how often they fuck.

Do they still fuck?

Is it good when they do?

I tried asking Ethan in a roundabout way, but he shut me down quickly, with a roll of his eyes and a predictable, "Oh, shut the fuck up."

So, I don't know about all that, but I do know that I feel physical anguish when I see her near him. I can't believe there was a time when I used to masturbate to the thought of him fucking her, or that I once fantasized about a fourway between me, him, Liza and Jess. Now, that easy way he puts his arm around her, like he knows every inch of her body like the back of his hand, makes my guts clench. And I can't stand the subtle way he strokes her side, strumming his thumb unbearably close to the curve of her breast. But most of all, most of all, I

hate

the way he ends calls to her, with me sitting there, the piece on the side, as he lies about where he is and what he's doing, finishing off with a casual, "Love you, too."

I guess that brings me neatly to the next issue I'm having. It's about what happened at the cabin. What I thought, or rather, what I stopped myself thinking. Well, since then, that feeling has been coming over me more and more often. I've tried to stop it, tried not to think it, I swear I have. It's using every single bit of my strength, but this thing keeps coming at me, rising in my chest, and I swear, the force is nothing short of colossal.

I've starting avoiding being on top, because when I'm inside him and he's beneath me, those wild eyes looking up at me, that ass enfolding me, grasping me tight, sucking me in, it takes every ounce of my power not to think it and above all, not to say it.

Just keep your mouth shut.

So, I'm doing my best, I really am, but now that he's tried it, he's got a taste for it. And truly, it doesn't matter who you are, when a man like Ethan offers his ass...you take it.

And so that's how I got here. Standing behind him, taking him slowly, letting his pleasure build. I've got his dick in my hand and I can feel it pulsing, throbbing each time I thrust. Mine's throbbing too.

We're beating as one.

He's moaning softly, his animalistic sounds sending deep tremors through me. I'm panting behind him, groaning in pleasure, trying not to cum, when the words spill from my mouth. I didn't mean to say it. I didn't even mean to think it. It starts as a moan, and ends as a breathless, "I love you."

To his credit, he reaches back, his hand hard on my neck, and pulls me towards him, kissing me deeply. His mouth open and hungry, his tongue searching for mine. I explode instantly, my body lurching, hips thrusting forward, senselessly trying to plunge even further inside him.

It's not until I'm sitting in my car, about to head home, that I have the sinking, sickening realization...

He didn't say anything back

*

I spend much of the next couple of weeks trying desperately to convince myself that he didn't hear me. In fairness, there was a lot happening time, so it is entirely possible.

Isn't it?

I've almost managed to convince myself that this is what happened and I'm starting to feel myself returning to something resembling an even keel. But then, I do it again.

He's on his back this time, looking right at me as he takes my dick. It's those fucking eyes that do it. His head is back slightly, making them appear hooded. When I have him like that, his eyes move slowly, I feel them tracking up my body and my God, when he makes eye contact. He looks right into me. Cutting through bone and I swear, my brain sizzles.

Why does he look at me like that?

Oh, shit.

There's no denying it this time. He heard what I said. But now, there's also no denying that I feel it.

I feel it

.

I can't help it, and it's starting to hurt. My black and white life has turned grey, and I live for those messages from him. When I don't hear from him, I'm agitated and unhappy. I no longer enjoy anything that doesn't involve him. My entire life is carved into pieces, those small slices of stolen time with him, now, my sole reason for living. It's killing me that I can't talk to anyone about it and it's killing me even more that I can't talk to him about it.

*

I've actively avoided topping him for a couple of weeks now, which has helped at little, but truthfully, not that much. It's a Saturday and I'm at his place in the afternoon. Liza has plans with Jess, so we are free and clear. As soon as I open the door, I can see the mood he's in. He reaches down and grabs my junk through my pants, instead of, "Hello".

I smile, and slap him away a little. He bites his bottom lip and says, "You gonna be like that, huh?"

He grabs my neck, pulling me to him and kissing me hard, forcing his tongue deep in my mouth, in and out, fucking me with his tongue, a clear message of what's to come. He undresses me slowly. We hardly ever have this much time. I run to the bedroom stark naked, with him at my heels. I can't help laughing from the pure joy of being with him. He's laughing too, that infectious, deep, rumbling sound. It's making me giddy. I leap onto the bed and as I do, he lands a blistering, slap on my ass.

"Ow! Fuck." I yelp. "That hurts."

"Aw," he says with mock sympathy and a lascivious grin. "Want me to kiss it better?"

"Stop it." I say, pushing him away playfully, but he rolls me over and makes a big fan-fair of assessing the damage, holding me down and kissing my ass, chuckling as he does it. I'm squirming, but not because I'm trying to get away.

"Want me to kiss anything else?" He teases, rolling me onto my side. He's on his side too, his face mere inches from my cock.

"Hmm?" He asks. He's in the mood to make me say what I want. I know him well enough by now, to know that he'll get what he wants.

I roll my eyes and say, "Fine, just kiss my dick, alright?"

"Uh, uh," he says, shaking his head, eyes dancing with glee, "you gotta ask nicely."

"You know what," I say, as I grab his head and force his face onto my cock, "maybe if you have all that in your mouth, you won't talk quite so much."

He's gurgling with laughter, as he licks and he sucks.

My God, I love that sound

. I can't help noticing that his dick is near my face too, so I lean forward and take him in my mouth. I sigh with pleasure.

What could feel better than this?

When we come up for air, he rolls on his back, pulling his straining cock back a little so it's pointing straight up, as he rolls the condom on.

"Sit on it." He says simply.

His voice is raw and husky, I can hear his need. I know that desire. I don't like riding. Something about it feels kind of wrong. I like it when he does the fucking. The feeling that's he's doing it

to

me. But I can see that he's wanting, and by now, I know there's nothing I can deny him. So, with one foot on the mattress on either side of him, I squat down and slowly, deliberately, impale myself on his massive rod. He's watching me intently and I love/hate the feeling; the quick sting and the pain, that beautiful fullness, the heavy force of my own body weighing me down.

No matter how many times we do this, it's always the same. That moment of shock. The unreal pleasure.

How can anything feel this good?

I'm fully skewered now, and he has my dick circled in both of his hands, making a perfect pussy for me. I'm suspended in time, trapped in an awful predicament. A rock and a hard place. The more I rock my hips, the more currents of pleasure flow from his hands to my dick, but every time that I do, his cock fucks me deeper. Harder.

Heaven in front, hell in the back. Me in the middle, the only thing stopping heaven and hell from colliding.

My body takes over, animal instinct rising, rocking. I'm in a frenzy and looking down, I can see that he's right there with me too. His head is thrown back, neck arching up. His body is shaking but his eyes are on me. It's always those eyes that do it. I feel it rise up in me, from my root to my heart.

Keep your mouth shut.

I clamp my hand over my mouth.

Just

keep your mouth shut

.

And when that's not enough, I lean down and sink my teeth into my arm. I moan long and low as I let go. Unsure if this time was a victory. I may have escaped saying the words this time, but I know now, every cell in my body is trying to betray me.

*

Afterwards, he asked me if I have time to hang, code for: stick around for a while, and I'll stick it in you again. So, we're chilling in the living room. I'm talking about work. There's been some talk about a promotion and I tell him about that.

"What about you?" I ask, when I finish.

"Yeah, work's good. Same old, same old." He says trailing off, and then like an afterthought, he adds, "Liza's getting pretty serious about moving in."

My heart lurches and clenches like a fist in my chest. I steady my breathing, "Mmh?"

"Yeah," he adds, "she's turning twenty-eight in a couple of weeks and she has this whole plan. She wants to live together for a while before we get engaged and she wants to be married before she's thirty." He laughs a small, defeated little laugh. "She's spelt it out pretty clearly."

I clamp my lips together, trying hard to think.

How can he say this to me? Is this what he wants? Where the fuck does that leave us? How the hell will we see each other if she lives here too?

"She wants to have two kids." He continues, "Did you know a woman's fertility dramatically declines after thirty-five?"

Yes

, I think, seething,

I did fucking-well know that

.

When he's finally done, my mind is reeling. When I finally speak, all I can do is ask, "Is that what you want?"

"Sure," he says with a non-committal shrug, "I mean, I guess."

He guesses? He fucking guesses??

"

Ethan!" I spit, "Don't you think that this is one of those pivotal moments that really require certainty?" I'm trying to keep my voice neutral, but there's more than a hint of bitterness in it.

"What's your problem?" He asks, sounding bewildered.

What's my problem? My fucking problem?

I swipe my hand hard across my forehead. He must be emotionally retarded.

"My problem," I say, a little too loudly, "is that I'd like to know where the fuck that leaves me?" Now that I've started, I can't seem to stop, so I add, "I'd like to know what this thing between us is." When even that's not quite enough, I finish with, "

And

, I want to know how you

feel

about it?"

I see a quick flash of anger, as he leaps to his feet, waving his hands back and forth, "I can't take this!" He says, almost yelling, "I can't spend all day dealing with her dumb shit, only to get home and have to deal with all your dumb shit too."

Dumb shit?

All

my dumb shit?

This has been going on for months, and I've asked him for nothing. But now, I don't back down. I can't. So, I hold eye contact. I look at him plainly, waiting.

He looks away quickly, sinks a hand in his pocket, shrugging a little, as he says, "Aw, shut the fuck up."

He smiles a little, trying to lighten the mood, "Come on, don't be such a little bitch."

And just like that,

I know

. Not for one second have I thought that this thing between us would last. I just didn't know how it would end. But right here, now,

I know

.

This

is how it ends.

I get up, walk to the counter, pick up my phone, wallet and keys, stuff them deep in my pocket and say, "Don't call me again."

"Huh?" He looks bewildered, hands open at his sides.

"I mean it," I say emphatically, "lose my number."

"Oliver!" He exclaims, "What the fuck?"

I turn and look back at him pointedly, pressing my lips together and raising my eyebrows, waiting for him to answer my unanswered questions. He holds eye contact for a second. Then, as I suspected, he turns his head to the side, and looks away.

I walk down the hall, pausing briefly before I open the door. The pain is indescribable. My heart is hammering in my chest. I have nothing left to lose.

"Just for the record, Ethan." I say softly, taking a long, careful breath, trying to steady my voice, "I know you love me."

And with that, I swing the door open and without looking back, I walk out of his life.