30. Matty
Chapter thirty
Matty
My shift ended an hour ago. I didn’t feel like staying on my feet one moment longer than necessary, but Omar loved my flat stomach. So, I hopped in my car and drove to the gym. A half hour of cardio wouldn’t kill me.
I checked my phone after parking in the gym’s lot. He still hadn’t texted. I knew he was busy with all the audiences and things, and I didn’t want to be pushy, but the silence following his dad’s inauguration—or whatever it was called—was killing me.
A good sweat might be what I need , I thought, tossing my phone in my gym bag and climbing out.
Forty-five minutes later, I was drenched in sweat, my hair was woefully limp, and my phone had yet to buzz.
What the fuck, Omar?
Did you not realize how needy and clingy I could get? Did you not recognize and appreciate my special brand of co-dependence? When you texted or called three or four times each day for three consecutive months, did you not realize you were training me to expect said communication for the duration of our relationship?
My mind spun as my heart tried to calm itself from its elliptical exertion.
I draped a towel I definitely did not steal from the gym (it was called liberating, thank you) over my car seat and slumped down. Omar’s long day of celebration was turning into an eternal day of longing for me.
Grabbing my key and shoving it into the slot, I started my car. Journey blared through the speakers. My mood immediately lifted.
I was about to rock out and sing along with the great maestro, Steve Perry, when my phone vibrated so hard it slid off the seat onto the floorboard. I dove so fast I banged my head on the steering wheel and let out the loudest multi-syllabic version of “fuck” anyone had ever screamed.
Pharaoh : OMG, this has been the longest day ever. Palace was amazing. PM was boring. Best part? Teto is here! Her flight was delayed, so she missed all the festivities, but she’s here.
Me : Um, hi. I might’ve missed you. A little. I refuse to admit it.
Pharaoh : Ha! I missed you so fucking much it hurts.
My cheeks hurt as a smile threatened to break free of my face and fly out the window. I glanced at the clock on my dash and did a bit of mental math.
Me : Babe, isn’t it like midnight there? Why aren’t you in bed?
Pharaoh : I am. That’s what made me think about you, what made me want to text.
Somehow, my grin found a way to widen. Steve Perry hit the high note at that moment, and a boner began twitching in my jeans.
Me : Oh? And why would you being in bed make you think of me?
Pharaoh : Because I am naked, hard, and leaking like a bad transmission. It seems like a total waste of cum with you so far away.
Fuck me.
My hard-on went from a tingle to a full-on, pants-stretching flagpole of love.
Me : So, you’re in need. What do we do about this? There’s a lake in our way.
Pharaoh : LOL. A lake. You Yanks. If anything, it’s the Pond. It is most definitely not a lake.
Me : Whatever, Mary.
Pharaoh : I want you to finger yourself.
A muscly guy in a stringy tank top tossed his gym bag into the passenger’s side of his car, which was next to my driver’s side, the one in which I was reading about fingering an asshole. I nearly dropped my phone.
Me : Uh, babe, I’m in the gym parking lot. I don’t think they appreciate a good fingering like us.
Pharaoh : You go to a gay gym. It’s a membership requirement. Or part of their entry exam. Read the fine print.
Before I could think of a snappy retort, a photo popped up of Omar, in bed, on his back, with a massive, drippy boner smiling up at me. How he’d managed that camera angle with an iPhone was a wonder. My boy was brilliant, if a bit demented.
Me : NOT FAIR!
Pharaoh : Get home fast. We’re doing video sex. I need you now!
Me : You don’t have to tell me twice! Can we talk on the way? Tell me about your day?
My phone rang a second later.
“Hey you,” Omar’s voice flowed through the airwaves. I think my toes tingled.
“Hey, sweet pea,” I said, knowing it made him cringe a little. He would never admit to loving my little pet names, which was even more incentive to come up with new ones and use them as often as possible.
I killed the radio and pulled out of the parking lot, determined to set a land-speed record getting home.
“So, I will try to tell you about my day, but please know, I will be stroking myself while doing so.”
“God, I love you, you filthy, raunchy, Egyptian god of lust.”
“Pot. Kettle. Black.” His laughter filled my soul. “Except American. And white. And blond.”
“Right. Except those things. I’m Egyptian in all other ways.”
He snickered. “You’re a god of lust in all other ways. Screw being Egyptian.”
“Said the ambassador’s son.”
“Fear my authoritah!” he said, in the worst British accent-laced rendition of Cartman ever uttered.
“I think the phrase is ‘respect’ not fear, but you have a hard-on, so I’ll overlook your cartoon blasphemy this one time.”
“I miss your smile so much,” he said, slurring his words just a bit.
“You’re drunk and horny. You could simply be missing Prince William and are taking it out on your innocent American boyfriend.”
His laughter was rich, yet sounded a bit strained, like he was fighting with other emotions or urges or . . . oh, OH. A video of him wiping cum off the head of his dick, then lapping it up with his tongue, had me driving off the road.
“You’re not playing fair,” I said, setting my phone in the cupholder so I couldn’t be surprised by other videos. “Tell me about your day. I can’t afford to wreck my car. The cop will want to know why I crashed with a dipstick ripping through my jeans.”
He blew out a strained sigh, then worked his way through the events of his day, starting with the car ride to the palace and ending with an evening-long dinner, dessert, and drinks that sounded more like a “girls’ night” than a reunion with his grandmother. His whole mood shifted the moment he mentioned Teto. Within seconds, he spoke so rapidly and so excitedly I had to struggle to keep up. His accent, augmented and thickened by whatever liquor he’d imbibed and a healthy dose of sexual tension, was getting harder and harder to follow.
By the time he finished his tale, I’d parked at my apartment, made it inside, and stripped out of my grungy gym clothes. Omar chatted away on speakerphone, never aware of my multitasking.
“You just got naked, didn’t you?”
“How in all the fucks did you know that?” I was stunned.
The line went dead.
“What the hell? I just got naked and—”
A very different ring sounded. Omar was FaceTiming. I clicked “ANSWER,” and a closeup of his cock filled my screen.
“Well, hello there,” I said, feeling my flutter from earlier return.
“Let me see your face, then pan down, slowly, so I see all of you.”
“He’s bossy even when he’s a thousand miles away. Imagine that.”
“I will find a way to spank you. If I have to call Uber or Grubhub and bribe a driver, your disrespect will be punished accordingly.”
I imagined he was grinning in that evil, maniacal, sultry way he did when he was being sexy, but his cam was still pointed at his cock.
It was not smiling.
Unable to resist, and standing in my laundry room with my back pressed against the washing machine, I did as requested.
“Stop,” he said when I reached my chest.
“Uh, okay?”
“Play with your nipple. Pretend it’s my fingers.”
“Hold on,” I said, searching the wire baskets that held my laundry supplies. I wedged my phone between the edge of the basket and the fabric softener sheets, then adjusted it until the angle captured what Omar asked for.
“Oh, you’re good,” he said. “Now you have two hands. Use one to play with your nipple and the other to brush your hair back.”
My body stretched as I leaned back against the washer again, running one hand through my hair, while two fingers of the other hand began teasing around the base of my left nipple.
“Harder. Pinch it.”
I didn’t think, just obeyed. Pain-laced pleasure flared in my chest.
“Roll it while you pinch it. Make it red for me, baby. I want to see you wince.”
Fuck me.
I did it, pinching so hard I worried milk might spurt out. The pain warred with the pleasure as redness consumed my skin’s usual pale pink tone.
Omar’s hand wrapped around his thick shaft as he began stroking himself.
“Now, run your hand down your stomach, like you’re feeling for your abs.”
“Can I go get the lube?”
“Ooh! Yes. I want you to spread it all over your chest and stomach. Make your skin glisten for me. Fuck, that’s hot.”
I wanted to laugh. It all sounded so odd, so put on, but this was Omar, and he was enjoying himself. And honestly, I didn’t care what we did, as long as we did it together. As long as the Pond or puddle or whatever-the-fuck ocean was between us, this phone thing would have to do.
“Why don’t I just go to the bedroom—”
“No, the laundry room is new. It’s hot. You’re making me so damn hard, Matty.”
I ran to the bedroom, yanked open the nightstand drawer, and retrieved the lube, then raced back to the laundry room, where I smeared transparent slickness all over myself.
“Oh, damn,” Omar said, his voice becoming breathier with every word. “Pinch that wet nipple for me, baby. Let it slip between your fingers.”
I did, and my erection tried to fly off my body.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” His evil twin spoke in his voice. “I can’t wait to be home again, to see you, to feel your body.”
I reached down to grab my cock, but his voice cracked through the phone.
“Not yet. Don’t touch yourself or put lube on your dick.”
“Okay, what then?”
“Lube up your hole.”
That was awkward standing up, leaning against a washing machine.
“Um, babe, I kind of need to sit for all this.”
“Sit on the washing machine. Put a towel over it so you’re not cold.”
This was the strangest sex I’d ever had, but I was dying to know where it might lead, so I did what he asked. Once seated atop my washer, my head now leaning back against the wall, he groaned like he was about to come.
“Babe?”
“Slick your hole, but adjust the camera so I can watch.”
Fuck. The phone was in the rack across the room.
With an acrobatic move to make a Cirque performer jealous, I stretched from the washer to the far wall, retrieved my phone, and managed to not fall on my face, while lubed up, in my laundry room. I swore never to utter those words—even if only in my mind—again.
iPhone adjusted and framing my most intimate part, I squirted lube in my hand and set to work.
“Oh, yeah. Pucker that thing for me. Make it wink.”
I snorted a laugh. It wasn’t intentional; it just flew out.
“No laughing. I need a pucker. Now.”
His voice took on the edge of command that told me I would be in trouble if I didn’t follow orders, so I clenched my stomach and willed the muscles of my anus to contract.
“Matty, fuck, yes. Do that again.”
When I did, he said, “Now, slick up your finger and run it around the edge. Don’t slip inside, just tease yourself.”
My whole body tingled as his voice took on a note of longing, of hunger, of wanting to fuck my brains out. Nothing excited me more than Omar wanting me.
The rimming—or whatever you call it with a finger—had my hard-on raging. I wanted to stroke myself so badly, but Omar wouldn’t allow it. He was so fucking cruel.
“Slip it inside. Go slowly. Make sure I can see it go in.”
My back arched as my finger slipped in. Another shock wave rocked my spine as the knuckle vanished and the rest of my finger followed.
“Take it all, baby. Feel me inside you.”
“You’re a lot bigger—”
“Add a finger, two if you’re ready.”
Damn.
I did and slowly—so slowly—took them all. My ass opened up, stretching, begging, aching for Omar to be there, to fill me, to be one.
“Take out the two and curl the one so you can hit your prostate. Reach up in there. You can do it.”
“Oh, mother fucking shit!” I hit it on the first try. My toes threatened to curl off my feet.
“Fuck yourself, Matty. Fuck that finger hard.”
Omar’s stroking sped up as I tried to finger fuck myself into another dimension. The angle was awkward, and the washer was uncomfortable, but Omar’s growly cheerleading kept me craving more.
“I’m getting closer,” he moaned. “Grab your cock, Matty. That’s my hand around you. Stroke yourself. Know how much I love you. Feel it in your hand. Feel my hand. Feel my finger up your ass. Feel my cock inside you.”
“Omar!”
“One day, I’m going to fill you up, Matty. You’re going to carry everything I am inside you. Feel that right now. Feel me, my raw cock, sliding in and out. Feel me pulsing, pounding, kissing your lips while thrusting inside you. Feel my abs clenching while your hand kneads my chest.”
A raging storm welled up inside me. I couldn’t hold it back. With every stroke, with every thrust, with every word Omar spoke, it grew stronger, closer, more urgent.
“I’m getting close, babe. Fill me up. Give me everything. I want you to live inside me.”
“I’m going to, Matty. You’re fucking mine. I need you so much.”
“I’m coming!” I shouted.
“Shoot it!” he called. “Show me how much you love me. Shoot with your finger up your ass.”
I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t think. I could barely breathe.
The first wave shot free, slapping me in the chin. Then another hit my chest, and the last dribbled onto my stomach. I glanced at the phone to find Omar’s eyes as he stared and stroked, pure pleasure held at bay by sheer will.
“I want to see you come,” I said. “Catch it all in that beautiful fur. Make yourself messy for me.”
He shoved his phone away, propping it up on something on the nightstand. I could see all of him now, his beautiful body, his thick fur, his raging cock. He stroked himself harder. With his off hand, he rubbed his chest, then his abs, feeling himself, letting me feel him through his own touch.
Then he moaned, and I saw his whole body tense.
“Fuck, Matty!”
He shot so hard I lost track of where it went. Then more came, white blending with a forest of black.
When he finally stilled, his body was covered in sweat and cum, and my back ached from sitting atop an appliance during sex.
And I would do it all over again in a heartbeat . . . if I could recover that quickly.