8. Diego #3
“Thought you had staying power, Casanova,” Diego couldn’t help but tease him.
“Damn, you really remember everything don’t you?” Wylie said, then moaned as if by accident.
“I’m definitely going to remember that,” Diego assured him. Wylie talked a big game, but could he back it up?
“Well, I do have staying power,” Wylie insisted, “but give a guy a break. I’ve been jerking off to this fantasy for weeks.”
Weeks? Diego wouldn’t mind watching Wylie come undone just from jacking him, but he really wanted that beast in his mouth, at the back of his throat, gagging on it.
He took hold of Wylie’s thighs and yanked him forward, so that his ass was halfway off the chair, his dick in prime position to be devoured.
“I’m negative for everything,” Wylie said. “In case you’re worried about catching something. Chlamydia is no joke, trust.”
“I am too,” Diego assured him. He should probably be more wary, but he craved the texture and taste of skin on his tongue. Hopefully it didn’t bite him in the ass later.
Still palming Wylie’s dick in one hand, he dropped down to lick his hairy ball sac, loving how their pebbled texture scraped across his tongue. Salt and musk. All man, all Wylie.
“Fuck, Diego, that’s really nice. Very…ahhh…generous.”
Diego sucked one nut into his mouth and then the other, rolling them across his tongue, then licking the underside with long, flat strokes.
Wylie spread his legs wider to give him full access.
Diego moved onto Wylie’s dick, popping it into his mouth to suck on just the head, swirling his tongue around the crown of it, cataloging Wylie’s reactions.
“Mmm, yeah, just like that.”
The tang of Wylie’s arousal overtook the synthetic cherry flavor quickly, and Diego set to working the beast down his throat, gagging a few times when the rounded cockhead pressed against his esophagus.
It felt so fucking right to have a dick in his mouth that his fervor almost caused him to choke.
But the seven years hadn’t erased his muscle memory, and it wasn’t long before he set a nice little rhythm, shuttling Wylie’s thick cock into the depths of his throat.
“Yesss,” Wylie hissed, knuckles paling from where he gripped the arms of his recliner. “God, yes, Diego. That’s good. So good. Fucking purrrrfeeeect.”
Diego savored the satiny texture of his skin and the heft against his palate, the way Wylie’s bulging cockhead nearly gagged him on every deep thrust. He especially loved the gut-deep groans he was able to wrench from Wylie’s diaphragm and the sound of his name when Wylie said it, punched out and pleasure-drunk.
His own dick was in need of attention, so without missing a beat, Diego unbuttoned his pants and freed his dick to stroke it.
He didn’t mind that it was a little dry, had gotten used to that in prison.
He let go of his hold on the base of Wylie’s dick to reach down and massage his balls, squeezing just to the point of pain.
Yeah.
Diego’s mouth was wide open, his throat tightening around Wylie’s cock while spit drooled messily from his lower lip.
Wylie’s hips jerked forward, and Diego moaned for more, until Wylie took the hint and grabbed the back of his head with both hands, gently guiding the motion of fucking into his open throat.
“This okay?” Wylie asked, his voice strained with desperation.
Diego nodded with tears in his eyes, hungry for it, wanting it to last longer.
Wylie sat up, one hand braced against the chair while the other hand cradled the back of Diego’s head.
All five fingers holding him in place—confident, strong.
Wylie knew how to use a mouth as a cock sleeve, and Diego relished the mounting tension as they raced toward the finish line.
No thinking, no second-guessing, just him kneeling there before Wylie with his mouth gaping, getting his throat fucked.
His dick was so sensitive that it burned a little as he roughly jacked himself off.
Sweat and sex and the tang of Wylie’s pre-cum sharpened his senses.
Diego could keep time to the Wylie’s thrusts and his warbled cries of, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…” like counting the seconds between lightning and thunder.
Suddenly the pressure was gone, and so was the weight of Wylie’s cock on his tongue as he pulled out abruptly and caught the ropes of cum in his hand with more of it splashing against his abdomen.
His beast of a cock was an angry red, flared head pulsing with every eruption.
Diego panted, breathless, unable to tear his eyes away.
Wylie’s other hand was still on the back of Diego’s head, holding him in place, forcing him to watch his spectacular finish.
Seeing the other man’s gizz spray everywhere and feeling the rumble of Wylie’s satisfied groan sent Diego into a pleasure spiral all his own.
His orgasm barreled through him abruptly and punched the air out of his lungs as he jerked his hips forward and finished messily in his own hand.
“Damn,” Wylie said, chest heaving from exertion as his pearly ejaculate slowly oozed across his skin. “That was…incredible.”
“You’re a mess,” Diego said, eyes trailing the streaks of cum, wanting to lick the droplets from his skin.
Wylie grabbed his discarded shirt from the floor and used it to hastily wipe himself down, then offered it to Diego.
Diego did as best he could. Wylie sat back in his chair with a satisfied smirk on his face, body loose, hands clasped across his navel, just staring at Diego.
Meanwhile, Diego knelt there with his dick out and his hand sticky with cum, a little stunned by the intensity of what had just happened.
“Next time, come down my throat,” Diego said, a little disappointed that he’d been denied that pleasure.
Wylie’s eyes widened, then narrowed, a slightly predatory look in them. “You like that?”
Diego pretended to clear his throat, still tender from choking on Wylie’s monster of a cock.
“Yeah,” he muttered, electing not to say any more on that topic.
Rousing from his post-coital daze, Diego stood and awkwardly buttoned his pants, then went over to the kitchen sink to wash up properly with soap and water.
Twenty seconds was the food-safety standard, and Diego made sure to use up every one.
Meanwhile, Wylie tracked his movements, studying him in that intense way of his while rocking back and forth in his grandma chair.
He still had his socks on and his dick hanging out, plump and still wet at the tip.
Diego noticed the beast was slowly coming back to life.
Maybe there was some truth to the man’s claims.
“Why’s there lube under the cushion?” Diego asked, though he probably didn’t need to.
“This is my special chair,” Wylie said with a shark-like grin. He motioned to his dick. “I could go again. I’d like to return the favor.”
“Bet you would, but I gotta be at the pit at 5 a.m. tomorrow.” Also, he needed a little time and space to process. He didn’t want to make this awkward, so if he could just make a graceful exit… “Can you, uh, give me a ride home?”
“Yeah, sure,” Wylie said, unable to hide the flash of disappointment that crossed his face.
He emerged from his post-nut stupor long enough to collect his clothing and disappear into his bedroom.
He came back out shirtless, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide his big, swinging dick or the chiseled lines that angled directly toward it.
Now that Diego knew what the other man was packing, it was going to be impossible not to crave it.
“Go put a shirt on,” Diego said.
“Why?” Wylie asked, slowly stroking himself from chest to navel. There was a constellation of freckles on one side of his abs that Diego hadn’t noticed before.
“Because I said so,” Diego insisted, borrowing one of his mother’s favorite expressions.
Smiling, Wylie went back to the bedroom and came out again wearing an old Largo High t-shirt.
The school’s mascot was the Packers, short for orange packers, citrus having dominated Largo’s economy in the olden days before the groves were ripped out and the land was leveled for housing and roads.
The mascot was represented by some kind of wild hog, but most of the time, rival schools called them the fudge packers. Diego wondered if the younger generation had graduated from such casual homophobia. “They still call us the fudge packers?” he asked.
“Yup,” Wylie confirmed. “Might as well own it, right?”
“You walk around the trailer park like that?” Diego asked, nodding at those damn sweatpants.
“All the time. How do you think I get fed around here?”
Diego threw the dish towel at him, which Wylie plucked up and used to snap at his hip.
Diego lunged and wrestled him into a bear hug; Wylie was one he’d need to keep a tight hold on.
They were both laughing and gripping each other tightly, and then Wylie was right there in front of him.
Gorgeous, smiling, radiating confidence and power.
Fuck, this was a lot already. Diego released him and backed away. “We should go.”
“Yeah, all right.” Wylie went to the key hook by the door and grabbed his keys, then pocketed his wallet and vape and donned his sunglasses.
Diego would rather see his pretty, blue eyes but whatever.
They headed outside into the muggy evening with the mosquitoes buzzing all around.
Diego tried to play it cool while having a complete crisis of confidence.
What am I even doing, he asked himself with a sudden pang of self-awareness. What if he was bad at dating? What if he ended up hurting Wylie with his stunted emotions and crabby personality? Why did any sort of intimacy scare the shit out of him?