Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“Please, Marcello, stretch me. I need you,” I am begging him now but it feels like to do anything else would be a lie.
“Is it always like this?” he asks and I feel him pull his fingers apart slightly. “Do you always want it this bad?”
His question stops my pending orgasm in its tracks.
How do I answer that? Do I answer honestly and he finds out that no, it’s not always like this?
In fact, it’s rarely been like this – this dizzying and yet easy and natural connection.
Or do I lie and have him thinking that this is what typical queer sex is like?
Have him not realise what he’s doing to me?
It feels like the universe saves me when Marcello doesn’t wait for an answer and instead slides another finger inside me.
“Is that still okay?”
“Yes, fuck, yes.” I push back against his hand, taking him deeper. Like sunshine shining through thick clouds, I have a moment of enough clarity to check in with him. “And you?” I turn my head. “Are you okay?”
I see a very attractive side-smile pull up one side of his face. “Oh, yeah. I’m having the time of my fucking life.”
Looking down, I can see enough to notice that he’s turned on. It’s seeing his erect penis that I recall just how big and thick he is. My mouth goes suddenly very dry.
“Get yourself ready,” I tell him. “Put a condom on and then lube up your dick. Use a lot of it.”
“That I know how to do.”
His fingers leave my hole and I muffle my moan of disappointment into the pillow again. I should have told him not to move his hand.
But I don’t have to wait long to feel his touch again. One of his hands lands on the top of my ass, his fingertips resting on my lower back. And then I feel something fat and blunt and slick press against my hole.
“Lube, more lube,” I say. It’s cold when it drips down on me but I’m grateful for it.
It’s a shock of a sensation that takes me away from fixating on how Marcello is touching me all curious and hesitant and yet determined and focused.
His silence seems to speak volumes and I don’t need to look at him to imagine his frown of concentration.
Even without seeing it, I want to soothe it away.
“That feels good,” I coo as he pushes more lube inside me.
“Can I fuck you now?” Marcello says. “Or at least, try?”
“Yes,” I manage to hiss out. When what I really want to say is, “Yes, please, fuck, my God, yes, fuck me so good.”
And that’s when it starts. No, not Marcello sliding his dick inside me but when I start to make deals with myself.
I tell myself if I can just keep a lid on my feelings now, then Marcello won’t know just how I feel about him.
And if he doesn’t know how I feel about him, then he will keep wanting these sex lessons.
And if we can keep doing these sex lessons, maybe we’ll just get closer and closer and something will materialise between us.
If I can just make this as good as it can be for him. Maybe he’ll start to feel it too.
If I work extra hard on keeping my urges in check. If I get up earlier to do my cleaning. If I keep helping him in the gym. If I… If I… If I…
I’m grateful when the stretch of Marcello’s cock blasts away any resolution to keep bargaining with…
who? I’m never really sure who it is I’m making these deals with.
God? No, I wasn’t raised with religion and I rarely give it much thought.
With the universe? Possibly. With karma? Yes, that’s more likely.
He pushes inside me, slowly, and it burns. It burns in a way I don’t expect, and don’t exactly welcome, but then I realise how the hot, white sensation is obliterating any other busy thoughts in my mind. All I can think about is breathing through the pressure and the sting and the stretch.
“You okay?” Marcello asks from behind me. His hand strokes the curve of my butt cheek again.
“Yeah,” I pant. “But fuck, you’re big.”
“Am I?”
“You know you are,” I rush out on a breathy laugh.
“I mean, I’ll take your word for it.”
“You can definitely take my word for it. Especially in this position.”
Marcello’s cock moves as he laughs, pushing further in. The sharpness of the sensation has dulled slightly but as he slides in deeper, I still can’t quite catch my breath.
“Keep still,” I say.
“Shit, am I hurting you?” His other hand is on my other hip, holding himself still.
“No, no, it’s okay. I just need a moment.”
“Okay, I can do that. Or if you need me to pull out.” He retreats the smallest amount.
“No!” I push back to stop him withdrawing. “Stay where you are.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll stay still,” his hand comes up to stroke my back, “just take your time. Take as long as you need, baby.”
Baby.
His hand stroking my back.
Jesus, it’s all too much…
I breathe in counts of three. Inhale for three. Exhale for six. I repeat this until I’m unsure if I’m doing it because of the pain and pressure which are both easing considerably, or if I’m doing it because of how tenderly his fingertips stroke my back.
Finally, I feel ready. Or rather, I want him to stop those gentle caressing. I want him to fuck away every single one of these stupid fantasies I have for him, me, us in the future. I want him to fuck me like that’s all he came here to do.
Because that is all he came here to do.
“I’m ready,” I say and prove it by pushing back against him. “You can fuck me now.”
“Woah, Giles.” His hand suddenly grips my shoulder and I feel his weight shift, his body leaning forward. “You can’t just move like that. I don’t think you know how good you feel.”
I hum appreciation for the praise. I don’t even think he intended it as such, but it feels like it to me.
“You like that, huh? When I say nice things to you?”
I nod.
“Well, I can say more. I can tell you how hot and tight you are on my dick right now. I can tell you how good you look bent over in front of me. I can tell you how much I want to slam into you hard and rough.”
“Do it,” I grit out. “Please. Do it.”
His voice changes, lowers. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t. I want it.”
“Cazzu.” He sucks in a ragged breath, and that’s all the warning I have before he thrusts into me, deep and hard.
My whole body jolts forward, the top of my head touching the headboard, but I steady myself quickly, coming back up on my hands. I push back immediately and arch my back.
“More,” I egg him on.
It still hurts, but it’s the good kind of pain.
A discomfort that is big enough to eclipse any other kind of niggling displeasure or annoyance – like my many, many intrusive thoughts or my worries about what exactly is happening with Marcello.
I’m not thinking about cleaning or counting.
I’m only feeling. The sting, yes, but also the pressure and the slide of Marcello’s thrusts teasing over my prostate and that undeniably grounding feeling of being completely full.
And he really does fill me up. Every time his groin presses up against me, his hips banging into my backside and his balls hitting my perineum, I feel so very, very full and I can’t help but close my eyes and cherish it, try to commit it to memory.
“Jesus, so tight.” He grunts from behind me. “I’d forgotten how good this feels.”
That comment brings back my worries like a rolling wave crashing on the beach.
Because of course he’s not experiencing what I am.
Yes, this is a first for Marcello – penetrating a man – but he’s done anal before.
He’s fucked before. Other people have been just as hot and tight as he told me I was.
I am not special. I am not the guy in his swimming club.
“Tell me it feels good to you too.” Marcello leans lower, close enough that his stomach presses against my lower back, warm and soft and hairy. I close my eyes against how intimate it feels.
“It feels good,” I tell him because to say anything else would be an outrageous lie.
In this position, his thrusts become shorter and shallower, but he’s inside me so deep and this angle has him pushing up a little more, meaning he’s rubbing against my prostate with every slide in and out.
Turning my head over my shoulder, I look up at Marcello. More of his hair has fallen out of place and it stripes his face which is pulled tight in a half-frown, half-look of transfixation, like he’s been taken over by someone or something. He looks up, his chin on my back and our eyes meet.
And it’s devastating.
He smiles proudly at me, like he can’t believe he’s doing what he’s doing, and I wish I hadn’t turned around.
I wish I’d buried my face in the pillow and just enjoyed the physical sensations on their own.
I wish I’d just buried whatever other connection I was desperate to feel.
But now his eyes are holding mine and I’m smiling back at him and…
Oh, fuck. His hand reaches around to touch my dick.
He grips it, hard. He doesn’t stroke it but with his measured shallow thrusts, there’s still movement, the top of my foreskin skirting over my sensitive head that I just know is red and dripping on my sheets.
Sheets I’ll wash three fucking times after this, because if I don’t, it will never happen again.
And I want this to happen again. God, I want this to happen again and again and again.
“Fuck, baby, I don’t know if I can hold back,” Marcello says and he’s so much closer, his body pressed against mine, that his deep voice rumbles through my ribs.
“Don’t hold back,” I tell him.
“But I want you to come,” he says but then straightens up. “Wait. Is that even possible? Can you come like this?”
“Sometimes,” I reply, although a more accurate answer would be, “Not often.”
“Well, then I want to see.”
“What?”
“I want to watch you come. I liked that, last week. Watching you come all over yourself and my hand. I thought about that a lot this week.”
“So you want me on my back?”
“Yeah, I guess. Like missionary. Is that doable?”
“It’s doable,” I say as neutrally as I can without adding, “and likely going to destroy me.”