Mr. Bigland's best intentions fall by the wayside.
Thanks, as always, to LarryInSeattle.
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I'm standing in the archway that separates the kitchen from the hallway. The house is small. The kitchen is small. Matt's cock is not small. It takes only a few steps for him to cross the kitchen. With every one of those steps I'm transfixed by his swaying cock.
My intention is to step back, to give him room. My intention is for him to take a quick shower, in the house's only bathroom, in the tub that should have been re-glazed or replaced several years ago. My intention is that after he's cooled off in that shower, that he slips his raggedy cutoffs back on and goes home.
My right hand goes to the back of his neck. I grip it, hard. We're roughly the same height. His eyes are locked on mine. My intention is to tell him to take his damn shower and then please just go. I open my mouth to tell him but I don't speak.
My mouth finds his. My tongue meets his. They wrestle for dominance. My free hand goes around his waist. I pull him close. Our bare chests touch. I can't feel his chest stubble through the thick, mostly still black, hair on my own. His hands grip my ass and he grinds his cock against the top of my leg and my bare belly.
I push him away and glance over my shoulder. The shades are drawn, to keep the hot sun out, but they provide privacy as well. On one can see us, not unless they're standing on the porch and looking through the small window in the front door.
I suspect Matt is stronger, physically, than me but he allows me to push him up against one side of the archway. My left hand finds his elbow. I lift his arm, force it up, bend it over the top of his head, opening his side to my gaze and my mouth.
I admire the finger-like ridges of his lats. I bend slightly. My tongue touches one of the many rivulets of sweat running down his side. He shivers as I lick the trail of sweat, imbibing the salt of his body and his youth (if only the latter were true). I close my mouth over his pit. The stubble of hair rasps against my tongue as I lick his pit. As much as I love his swimmer's body, I wish he didn't shave. I'd dearly relish burying my face in the hot wet hair of his armpit.
He doesn't stink nor does he smell of deodorant or AXE or Old Spice or any other such idiocies. He smells like Matt. He smells like Man. He smells like Sex.
I lower my head and drink again and again. He shivers each time. I long to give him a hickey, mark him, right dead center in his pit but I'm sure he has little desire to answer questions from his parents. In this heat, I can't imagine he wears a shirt at home. I hope he doesn't wear a shirt at home; he certainly doesn't in my imagination.
He rubs his cock against my leg, as much as he can, given how I have him pinned. I slide my body under his upraised arm. My chest presses against his right side. I twist him slightly with my right hand and take his left nipple into my mouth. He has, I notice, strikingly small nipples. I nip at them softly with my lips; he moans. I take his small nipple in my teeth and gently bite down. He moans louder. I increase the pressure, pulling slightly until I feel his body stiffen; I release. Now I have a sense of what he can tolerate. I grab his nipple with my teeth, bite, pull, release. I do this as fast as I can without risking hurting him. My hand finds his cock. My God, is he hard, fucking magnificent. I lube my palm by rubbing it over the head of his cock. His precum wets my palm. I wrap my fingers around his beautiful glorious cock and slide my hand down the shaft. I don't squeeze very hard. My hand is slick but not that slick. I don't want to pull the skin.
I apply a bit more pressure on the upstroke. I roll my palm over the head. Down stroke, slicker now, tighter. Up. Roll. Down. Up. After a few strokes, my hand glides over his cock, slick as if I'd used Wet. I haven't quit playing with his nipple.
I shift my attention to the right nipple. I'm biting harder now, really pulling. His fingers are in my hair. He's not pushing me away. He's pulling my mouth tighter against his tiny man nipple. His hips begin to move, matching the rhythm of my stroking hand.
I let go of his cock.
"No, dude. I'm so close," he whimpers.
"I know. That's why I stopped."
"Fuck, man. Just finish, please!"
"I thought you wanted to suck my cock?"
"I did," he stammers. "I mean I do but Jesus, don't leave me hanging like this."
I grab him behind the back of the neck and pull his mouth to mine. I shove my tongue deep into his mouth. He tries to rub his cock on my leg and I pull away. He groans.
"Come on, Matt." I start down the hall. "Hands off your cock. Step away from the edge. If we're going to do this, I want it to last more than five minutes."
He follows me to my bedroom.
"Sit down," I instruct. He sits. I change my mind. "Lie down, show me your cock. Don't stroke it, though."
He lies back on the bed, feet still on the floor.
I sit on the small chair beside the bedroom door. I keep my eyes on Matt, on his eyes, his expression, but mostly on his cock. He's squeezing the base. His cock is dark red. The head nearly purple and shiny.
He's cut. I guess he's probably seven inches, maybe a little longer. His balls hang heavy, resting atop the edge of the mattress. As if aware of my gaze, his sack contracts and his balls are pulled closer to his belly.
I bend, not taking my eyes off his body, and unlace my boots. I pull them off one at a time and set them under the chair, as I do every day. The socks follow, each tucked inside the top of a boot. I'll retrieve them, along with my boxers, and toss them in the clothes hamper later. I stand. His eyes are on my crotch. Good. I unbuckle my belt, thumb open the top of my work pants and then unzip them. I take them off, like I always do. I'm not trying to put on a show, unless it's a show of restraint, a demonstration that I'm still in control here.
My cock tents the front of my boxers. They're wet, not as wet as they'd be if Matt was wearing them, but wet. I waste a moment wishing my cock had slipped out the fly before I step out of them.
Matt licks his lips. His eyes leave my cock and find my own, begging. No yet, I tell him silently. In three steps, I'm beside the bed. I kneel.
I lean over his cock. His hand is still around the base. He tilts it forward. I open my mouth and swallow his cock.
I've done this before. His cock is a beaut but it's not monstrous. I don't gag. I take it whole. My nose bumps against his hand. I close my mouth around the base of the shaft. I try a trick I learned years ago, when I wasn't much older than Matt. I hum. I turn the muscles of my throat into a vibrating sleeve. I hum and his hips push off the bed, trying to force his cock deeper into my throat.
I remind myself he lacks the control that only years and experience can provide. I don't want him to cum, not that I'm not dying to taste his load, but not now.
I pull my mouth off him slowly, pressing with my tongue against the soft underside of his shaft. I purse my lips and let the crown pop out of my mouth. I tongue the slit, lapping off his body's offering. That's all I'll risk at the moment. I lean back.
"Fuck, Mr. B, let me suck you or let me jerk off or something. Dude, I'm fucking dying here."
"No, no you're not, big guy. Hang on. I think you'll like this and then, if you still want to, I'll let you suck my cock."
"How big is it?" Matt whispers. "It's bigger than anyone I've ever tried to blow before."
"It's not as big as yours. You don't have to deep throat it, Matt. You don't have to do anything at all." I look at him. "How often have you done this?"
