EPILOGUE #2
“You’re right, we should,” he says before diving down to take my mouth again. This time, there’s nothing slow about our kiss. His fingertips dig into my backside and he presses me closer to him.
“You want to do this?” I ask, breathless, after managing to detangle myself from him again.
“I’ve wanted to do this since that first time I saw you in here,” he says, eyelids heavy with lust.
“Well, fuck.” I sigh with deep-rooted contentment. “You better turn the lights off then.”
There are many things I didn’t know could be good about relationships but one of the biggest surprises is the sex.
The intimacy that can blossom between two people who know each others’ bodies for more than a few weeks is mind-blowing.
It’s what I’m reminded of now as — lights off — Benji leads me into the depths of the room.
The chances of a student, another teacher or worst of all one of the parent-volunteers finding us are slim but I appreciate Benji not taking any chances.
And yet the risk, excites me, the same way it did our first night together, even though again I was confident we would remain hidden.
Without speaking, Benji leads me to a bench at the back of the room.
I recognise it as the place where we used to leave our larger artworks to dry overnight, and there are almost certainly more splatters and drips of paint covering it, although there are no paintings.
They’re all on display now that assessments have been done.
A quick wave of nostalgic nerves washes over me as I close my eyes and feel all the tension in my body that I felt when submitting my final pieces and having them examined by a stranger.
It’s not a dissimilar feeling to how life felt when I first came out as trans; like here I am in my most vulnerable form, and I know you’re going to judge me.
Just by existing, I know I’m going to get judgement.
Is it any wonder I have continued to live at home like I have? Where I am loved and valued and cherished without question or interrogation. When the outside world can be the damn opposite, why wouldn’t I want to hold onto that place where I can rest, and breathe and just be?
But home isn’t the only place that loves and values and cherishes me. In fact, home is no longer a place. Home is Benji.
This is what I feel as he shrugs off my blazer and folds it neatly at the end of the wooden bench.
This is what I feel as he starts to unbutton my shirt and slip it off my shoulders.
This is what I feel as my nipples harden, not from the cool air in the room but from Benji’s hungry gaze.
I mourn feeling it like I used to before top surgery, but seeing it, and seeing the way he runs a finger along the right scar, tracing the tattooed vine that’s wrapped around the fading line, I feel more than enough.
As Benji caresses my body, slowly, lazily almost, like we have all the time in the world, which is a lie, I start to take off his clothes.
His suit jacket, his loosely-knotted tie, his button-up shirt.
I’m so used to seeing him in his tracksuits that I nearly jumped his bones earlier when he pulled up to my parents’ house to pick me up in a suit and tie, so I have absolutely no complaints that the night has taken a turn in this direction.
When he’s topless, like me, I stroke the top of his stoma band.
He wears one most days now. Preferring how it gives him a bit more security when he’s doing sport, which is nearly every day, and it certainly helps us when we want to be intimate in certain positions.
I’ve come to love the band as part of him.
I know he likes it when I run my finger along the top seam, grazing his stomach and ribs.
I do it now and he shudders with a long shiver and an even longer sigh.
“God, I love you,” he says, pulling my gaze up to his eyes.
This is not new information. Benji told me he loved me less than a month after that first night in the tattoo studio.
I said it back a week later. But every time he says it, it feels like the first time.
There’s an element of surprise in it. Maybe it’s because it’s him — the boy I thought I hated at school — or maybe it’s because it’s me he’s saying it to, but I hope it keeps surprising me for the rest of my life.
And then we move. It’s like a well-rehearsed dance.
Me on my tip-toes, him leaning down. Mouths slamming together.
Tongues tangling hungrily. Moans melting into each other.
Benji’s hands cup my face, holding me in place.
My fingers dip into the rolling muscles that stretch across his shoulders.
We kiss until we’re breathless and rutting into each other, so horny we’re falling out of rhythm.
I think about dropping to my knees to take Benji in my mouth, but he is quicker than me and uses his hold on me to push me back towards the bench.
I fall to sit on it and in a blink of an eye, Benji’s kneeling between my legs, his erection tenting the trousers I imagined him ironing earlier in a way that feels obscene and perfect.
His fingers are quick to undo the zip on my trousers and even quicker to pull them down my legs with my boxers until I can awkwardly pull one of my shoed feet through the hole.
He grunts with pure satisfaction when this is done, pushing my legs as wide apart as they’ll go.
“Mine,” he says with a smile that is too wide and too proud to make such a claim greedy or possessive. Although it’s still true; I am his.
Bending down, he takes his first taste, filling his mouth with my swollen dick.
I can’t tell who groans the loudest as he sucks and swirls his tongue around the tip.
Reflexively, I bring a hand to the back of his head and hold him in place.
Because I know I can. I know that Benji likes it when I thrust into his face.
Benji likes it when I don’t let him up until I come.
Benji loves it when I come in his mouth.
His suit must have done something to me, because that’s exactly what happens less than a few minutes after Benji takes me in his mouth.
I rut into his beautiful mouth, applying more pressure to the back of his head and I curse my way through a hard and fast orgasm that alters both my breathing and my heart rate.
“Fuuuuuck,” I grunt when the last crash of pleasure has passed.
Finally, I release my hold on Benji’s head.
He comes up for air, a proud smile on his pretty-boy face.
“Your. Trousers. Off. Now,” I order, moving so we can swap positions.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” he scrambles to obey and although I know he’s going as quick as he possibly can, it’s nowhere near quick enough.
But then he’s sitting where I want him. His erection jutting out between us, like a weapon, and there’s a creamy pearl of pre-cum at the tip. I lick it off.
“Oh, shit, oh, shit,” he says desperately, like that single touch of my tongue has brought him close to the edge. Maybe it did. Benji has moments where he can be very trigger happy, another thing I secretly love about my sensitive man.
But I don’t want him to come yet, so I reach for his testicles, which, yes, are tight and round, and I pull on them gently.
“Oh, fuck, Dee,” he says. “Please can I fuck you?”
That was my plan. To mount him and ride him until he’s filling this room of memories with my name — my true name. But that little taste of him has given me a very different appetite. I grab hold of his dick and take another slow lick.
“Merde. Putain de merde,” he curses, and I always know he’s really turned on when he starts mumbling and whimpering in French.
“I’m going to fuck you with my mouth,” I tell him with his dick still in my grip and his red, swollen glans just a teasing inch from my lips. “And I’m going to play with your hole while I do.”
“Putain, fuck, yes,” he mumbles, shoulders slumping with defeat. No, not defeat, surrender.
One other advantage of Benji’s colostomy is that he’s always clean and ready for me, and we take full advantage of that.
With a hand on his hip, I jerk Benji forward so his arse is hanging further off the bench, and I gently probe past his balls, along his perineum and find his tight little hole.
“There you are,” I say as I start to circle it. Benji throws his head back and mumbles incoherent nothings in French and English.
And then I take his cock in my mouth again. Deep but slow, I suck, lick and release. And then repeat. And repeat and repeat until he’s thrusting up into my mouth and swearing every time my mouth leaves his long, hard shaft.
I pull my hand back and spit as much saliva as I can on it. I’m careful to apply it liberally to both my fingers and his hole. And then, with his dick back in my mouth, the head lying heavily on my tongue, I penetrate Benji with one finger.
“Oh, fuck, yes, like that.” He rocks his hips, moving my digit where he wants it.
“Stay still, naughty boy,” I berate him and then immediately go back to bobbing my head up and down his length, this time much quicker.
“Ugh, Dion, fuck,” he mutters. “More, I need more.”
I push another finger in.
“Jesus, putain, merde, yes, like that,” he says when I curl both my fingers upwards, finding his prostate.
I keep his dick as deep in my mouth as I can stand as I stroke him inside and alternate sucking him hard and then releasing to languidly twirl my tongue around him.
“Oh, fuck, I’m close, I’m close, please don’t stop, I’m close,” he rushes out.
I grunt, and it’s the months of shared intimacy that means he can translate what that noise means. It means he can touch me. He can hold me in place and use me for his pleasure.
And he does. Fuck, he does. His fingers spread to grip my head like a basketball and he pumps up into my mouth as I hold my fingers in place, pulsing against that textured spot he loves so much.
When he comes it’s with a cacophony of moans and groans and hisses and sighs, and countless French words I did not learn in school.
I taste him — bitter and thick — as his cum slides down my throat and I keep my mouth on him long after his hands have withdrawn to grip the bench, like he thinks he’d fly up off it if he didn’t.
And I love it. I love everything about this man who I can tear apart to pieces and then put back together with just my body.
Sliding my fingers out of him, I move to hold him, to bring him down onto the floor in my arms while he recovers, but again, he’s quicker.
He practically rugby tackles me to the ground and a second later his hand is between my legs.
I’m ridiculously wet from my climax earlier and from going down on Benji, and he takes full advantage stroking my dick the exact way I like — firm and strong — and it’s all I can do to hold onto him as he takes me closer and closer and closer, until I’m standing on the edge of an orgasm so big and encompassing, I don’t know what the other side will look like.
But I dive in. Willingly, I give myself over to Benji, to the orgasm, to our possible future.
Instantly, my bravery is rewarded with delicious waves of pleasure that go on and on and on until I’m squeezing my eyes shut and hiding my face against Benji’s neck. And he holds me. He holds me so tightly my ribs struggle to expand and get the air I so desperately need.
“Let’s move in together,” I gasp before the orgasm has even relinquished its grip on me.
“What?” Benji moves back to stare at me, stunned.
“Can I move in with you?” I ask after a deep breath.
“Yes, fuck, yes!” He holds me so tightly again I wonder if he thinks I’ll wriggle away. I hope he doesn’t think that. I hope he never thinks that.
“I love you, Benji,” I tell him with all the sincerity my body holds, which surprisingly, is a lot. “I always want to be close to you.”
I should say it in French. That’s how it was written in my Valentine’s card. But my French accent is a little rusty and I want him to hear me loud and clear. I think he does when he moves to bury his mouth against my neck, leaving one hundred little kisses over my jawline and earlobe.
“Je veux toujours être près de toi,” he says in French. And what do you know, I understand him, mon amour, perfectly.