24. Matty
Chapter twenty-four
Matty
I knew it sounded silly, but I couldn’t believe we were about to have sex. We’d had oral sex, but that wasn’t the same. Not that oral sex wasn’t sex. The whole Bill Clinton scandal put that argument to rest. If Tab A went into Slot B, it didn’t matter what body parts wore what labels; it was sex.
And we were about to have it.
Lots of it, if I got my way.
So, why was I suddenly terrified and self-conscious of standing before Omar naked? I wanted to cover my boys and my nipples and every other part of me. I could feel warmth rushing into my cheeks, as if the color rouge had a heat level.
For his part, Omar looked like he wanted to slather mayonnaise on bread, slap me between the slices, and gobble me up. He’d looked focused and intent the handful of times we’d rolled in the sack and sucked each other off. His eyes could burn like no one I’d ever known.
But now, in the shifting light of my college dorm room lava lamp that still sat on my end table, his gaze threatened to sear the flesh off my bones.
In a good way.
If there was a good way to strip someone of their flesh . . . with one’s eyes.
God, he was hot.
Stepping toward me, his hand reached out and cupped my cock. His hands were soft and smooth, his touch more caress than stroke. My whole body seized at his touch, and I found myself unable to speak or move.
He leaned forward and dragged his tongue across my bottom lip, where I’d been chewing only a moment before. I could taste Orange Crush, his drink of choice at work. My mind conjured carbonation to tickle my nose. That made me smile.
His eyes brightened. “You like my tongue?”
“Fuck, yes,” I said, quickly losing my grasp of the English language.
“It likes you, too. Now, bend over the couch.”
Panic stabbed at my chest. Bend over? My couch? Seriously?
When I didn’t move, he stepped around me and shoved me toward the sofa, gripping my wrists so I couldn’t resist. My dick rubbed against the leather, precum slicking up the surface and sending a tickle up my spine. One of his hands found the back of my head and pushed, lowering my upper body to conform to the couch. With his feet, he kicked my legs apart like a cop readying a suspect for a frisk.
“Breathe, baby. I’ve got you.”
His words were at once soothing, alluring, and frightening. Surely, he wasn’t going to just bend me over and stick it in? On our first time? Did Brits not believe in foreplay? Did Omar—
Fingers prying my cheeks apart made me gasp. They were strong and determined—and very cold!
Then his face pressed between them, and all thoughts of his frigid digits vanished as the same tongue that was teasing my lips a moment before began circling the tender skin of my hole.
“Oh, shit. Omar.”
Omar’s hand, the one no longer parting my butt, grabbed my balls and pulled them down. The motion drove my cock into overdrive, hardening it quicker than concrete and milking more precum all over the couch. If he didn’t work this right, I would end up coming because he made me fuck my lounger.
Then his tongue breached my last defense, and I forgot all about couches and leather and—
“Oh, holy mother of fucking . . . your tongue is inside me . . . Omar!”
He speared deeper, one hand stretching my cheek as far as it would go. The roughness of his stubble tickled and hurt, a mix of pleasure and pain that made me want to rut my ass so hard against his face he’d suffocate.
Undaunted, he licked and stabbed and sucked . . . he actually sucked my asshole. God, no one had ever done that to me before. It felt like all my most sensitive insides were about to fly out and flow into him. My cock throbbed and pulsed. I couldn’t stop myself from grinding forward, giving my couch what it always needed.
Just when I was getting into a solid couch-pounding rhythm, Omar spun my whole body around. With his hand, he lowered my cock so it stared straight at him. His eyes, however, locked onto mine and refused to let go. As the slick head of my penis vanished between his lips, he stared into my eyes. When the last of my length slid down his throat, he watched me watching him. As his head began bobbing, stroking my cock, willing my excitement to swell, his gaze intensified.
This wasn’t sex.
He was making love.
No one could look at another person that way, certainly not with their dick in their mouth, and not feel all the feels.
He pulled back and licked his lips. “You taste sweet tonight.”
I tried to speak, but only a groan fell out.
He grinned and took me in his mouth again. This time, however, the sneaky man slipped a hand behind me and slid a finger inside my hole. I nearly leaped across the room.
“No moving,” he ordered. “I’m going to suck your cock while I rub your prostate.”
“You’ll make me come so fast—”
He raised a finger and a brow. “No, you won’t. You will hold back until I give you permission. Do you understand me?”
He sounded like a drill sergeant in one of those old-timey movies. I’d never been so turned on in my life. I nodded, a prisoner unsure what torture might come next, but dying to find out.
So he did what he promised.
With his lips and tongue attending my cock, his finger slipped back inside. At first, he just wiggled it around, teasing my hole and stretching me out. Then, without warning, he shoved it deeper and found his target. My cock didn’t twitch so much as tried to jump and disconnect from my body. I tried not to come, but a fair amount of precum shot in his mouth.
He pulled back and smacked his lips.
“Very sweet,” he said through a toothy, creamy grin.
I couldn’t decide whether to be turned on or grossed out.
He didn’t give me a chance.
“Turn around.”
“What if I want—”
“You want what I give you.”
Damn.
“Yes, sir,” I said, turning to face the couch, wondering if it missed me since we’d gotten so close a moment before.
Something papery rattled, then tore, then something squishy squirted.
My heart went from marathoner to sprinter in two heartbeats.
I was still standing upright, so Omar’s fur tickled my back as he pressed himself against me. His hands reached around and gripped my chest, then teased down to my stomach. His lips pressed into my neck, then his mouth opened and teeth sank into flesh.
Only then did I notice his lubed, ridiculously hard cock sliding in between my cheeks.
Holy fuck, he was bigger than I remembered. I mean, I had felt him and squeezed his cock and had it in my mouth; but having someone knock at the back door was different than trying to take them down your throat.
“You feel so damn good,” he whispered as his teeth teased my earlobe. “I love you, Matty Vance.”
Those words.
My heart.
His cock.
Oh, shit. His cock.
He pressed his head against my hole, not enough to enter but enough that I knew he was there, and my body begged for him to press forward. I arched my back, pressing my butt backward. He mirrored my motion and pulled back.
“Wait for it,” he whispered.
His cock retreated.
The sound of something snapping.
Another squirt.
The pressure on my hole returned, this time feeling a bit more . . . processed? He’d donned a condom. He was a good boy. I loved him more just then, because, if he’d pressed, I would’ve given myself to him before. Even then, on the precipice of slipping inside me, Omar took care of me.
My mind reeled with implications, with visions of this man, this beautiful boy, and what our lives could be like . . . what our life could be like. God, why did I have to think so much? Shouldn’t I just be enjoying this physical act? Wasn’t that what gay men did? Fuck without remorse or thought or emotion? Why did I have to be so—?
My hole dilated past time for delivery as Omar pressed into me.
“Oh, fuck!”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Slow, please. God. You’re fucking huge.”
He shoved in a little deeper, one quick motion, just enough to steal my breath.
“Ow!”
“Want me to stop?”
“Fuck, no!” I hadn’t meant to shout. “Fuck me, Omar. Make me yours.”
I guessed those were the magic words because he slid the rest of his ridiculous cock inside me, banging against a lung or pancreas or some other body part I couldn’t identify in the moment. He held himself there, fully inside me, his whole body slick with sweat and pressed against mine. His hands gripped me tight, and he kissed my neck.
“Don’t move,” I begged. “Don’t ever move.”
He chuckled, sending a shockwave of pain and pleasure through me as his cock twitched inside my body.
He kissed my neck again . . . and again. I craned back, and he tried to kiss my lips. The angle was off, so all he got was cheek, but I wanted everything he could give me.
Still, he didn’t move.
His cock pulsed inside me. I could feel it throbbing. That made my own dick twitch. How could anything feel like this? I’d had sex, plenty of sex, but this was emotion wrapped in pleasure, dunked in pain and fire and ice and . . . just damn!
Omar pulled back, ever so slowly, then slid inside me again.
The room spun.
Then he bent me over and shoved inside me, pounding me so our skin slapped with each thrust. I cried out, shouting each time he pressed forward. His hands found my shoulders, and he braced himself so he could push harder, drive deeper. This time, when my back arched and my ass flew backward, he didn’t resist, just used the new position to angle upward and find that spot within me that sent my whole apartment hurtling through space.
Then he hit it again.
And again.
“Omar! Fucking holy hell. Damn it. You’re going to make me come! I can’t—”
He pulled out and spun my body around. I was sweaty and exhausted and limp—and unable to resist.
“You do not have permission to come.” His glare said this wasn’t a discussion, so I tucked my pussy back into my pants and tried to think of grandmothers and puppies instead of his dick hitting my throat from the back side. I glanced back to find my couch a coated, sticky mess.
“Lie on your back on the couch,” Omar instructed.
“We could—”
“Couch. Back. Now.” He smacked my ass for good measure.
This Omar was fucking hot. Like seriously, off the wall, porn-star-driving-me-crazy hot.
So I did as he ordered.
The moment my back hit the couch, he was lifting my legs and tossing them over his shoulders. Before I could speak, his cock was sliding inside me again, stealing my will to live.
“Oh, yes!”
“You like?” He leaned over my body and kissed my lips.
“Welcome home,” I said before realizing the possible meanings of those words.
“Home.” He groaned as he kissed me again. “I could get used to that.”
Who was this man, and how had I been so lucky to find him?
That was all my mind could think as he renewed his thrusting, this time shoving so hard my whole body banged into the pillows each time he pushed. I reached up and tangled my fingers in his fur. I loved his pelt, all thick and black. Combined with his dark skin, Omar was the perfect dream of chocolate and caramel . . . and a giant cock.
Oh, damn, that was big.
He sat upright, pausing long enough to run a hand over his hair and wipe sweat from his forehead.
“I wish I had a video of that,” I said.
He looked down, his cock raging inside me. “Of what?”
“You, upright, sweaty and inside me, brushing your hair back. You’re so fucking hot, Omar.”
His smile nearly brought a tear to my eye.
Then he thrust again, and that tear formed for a very different reason.
“I’m going to fuck you hard now,” he said. “And I’m going to stroke you until you shoot all over this couch.”
“Uh, okay,” I stammered.
He kissed my ankle, still resting on his shoulder, then shoved his whole body inside my asshole. Again and again, he pushed. He’d get under and thrust up, then lift up on his knees and shove down. No part of my ass was safe, and my poor prostate took the beating of its life.
His hand gripped my cock and stroked, gently at first, then more insistent, picking up speed and strength to match his thrusts.
“Omar, shit! I’m so close.”
“Me, too, baby. So close.”
He pushed again and again, stroked harder and tighter.
Emotions swelled. Pleasure swirled like a gathering storm. My stomach clenched.
“I’m coming,” Omar growled, his fingers digging into my legs as he slammed himself into me over and over.
The last of my control snapped.
The first shot landed near my chin.
The second between my pecs.
After that, I was a dribbling, spewing, blubbering mess.
Omar pumped and thrusted, his abs tightening to washboard proportions, as the condom inside me filled. His pace slowed, then stalled, then he slumped over to smother my body with his, uncaring that my cum was now buried deep within the fur of his torso.
He lay there on top of me for a few minutes—or hours. I lost track. I ran my fingers absently through his hair, massaging his scalp. His breathing slowed from a race to a jog, then finally a steady, easy breeze against my skin.
“I meant what I said,” were the first words he whispered after who knew how long.
“What was that? My brain’s a little foggy right now.”
He propped up and stared into my eyes, his own as unwavering as their color was deep. His mouth remained a thin line, the best hint that what he was about to say was serious, not another offhand jest. I drew a breath and held it as he whispered,
“I love you, Matthew Vance.”