Chapter 21 Carry You #4
“I want you,” he said, voice trembling but clear. “Let me—let me have you.”
I couldn’t have said no if I tried. I braced myself above him, cock brushing his collarbone, and he wasted no time—lurching up, mouth open, swallowing me down with the same desperation I’d just poured into him.
The sight nearly undid me: Art, still sprawled on his back, lips stretched wide around my cock, hands locked around my thighs, pinning me in place.
He sucked hard, messy, spit leaking from the corners of his mouth, sliding down his chin, wetting my skin.
He couldn’t take me deep, not at this angle, but he didn’t seem to care—fisting me at the base, twisting his wrist, mouthing the head, tongue swirling and teasing until I was shaking above him, fighting not to lose control.
Every sound he made—wet, greedy, shameless—went straight to my gut, twisting me up, making me ache for him in ways I hadn’t known I could. I threaded my fingers into his hair, not guiding, just holding on, needing the anchor as much as he did.
Then, without warning, he let my cock slip free and reached lower, fingers wrapping around the curve of my arse, squeezing hard. He looked up at me, eyes wide and hungry, lips slick with spit and come.
“Turn around,” he ordered, voice rough, breath hot against my skin. “I want to taste you. All of you.”
I hesitated, only for a heartbeat, but he didn’t wait—just manhandled me, rolling me over with a strength that surprised us both, dragging me down so I was straddling his face, knees braced on either side of his head, cock bobbing in front of his mouth.
He didn’t waste time. His hands spread me open, thumbs digging into my arse, pulling me down until I was almost sitting on his face. I gasped, the suddenness of it making me dizzy, the danger of the position—the door, the guard, the world outside—sharpening everything until my skin felt too tight.
Art buried his face between my cheeks, licking a stripe over my hole, tongue hot and insistent. The first touch made me jolt, hips bucking, a raw moan torn from my throat.
“Fuck—Art—” I choked out, but he just growled low, hands holding me steady, tongue working me open, relentless, hungry.
He licked me like he was starving, dragging slow, wet circles around my rim, teasing, coaxing, then plunging his tongue inside, fucking me with his mouth.
The sensation was overwhelming—intimate, filthy, perfect.
I ground down, unable to help myself, chasing the friction, lost in the wet heat of him.
One of his hands slid down, fingers tracing the sensitive skin behind my balls, then lower, pressing, circling, until I was gasping, shuddering, falling apart. He pressed a finger against my hole, spit-slick and insistent, easing inside with agonizing slowness.
I whimpered, thighs shaking, hands braced against the wall, barely able to hold myself up. He fucked me with his finger, tongue lapping alongside, opening me up, making me feel owned and adored and utterly ruined.
My cock was leaking, aching, untouched, bobbing over his mouth. He lifted his head, sucking the head between his lips, tongue swirling, then let go to focus on my hole again, adding a second finger, scissoring me open, stretching me, making me gasp.
“You’re—God, Tom, you’re perfect,” he mumbled, voice muffled against my skin. “Let me make you feel good.”
He ate me out with a fervor I’d never experienced, fingers working me open, tongue everywhere, spit slicking everything. I was a mess above him, sweat running down my back, face flushed, the muscles in my thighs trembling with the effort to stay upright.
“Don’t stop,” I begged, and he didn’t—he just pressed deeper, fingers curling, hitting that spot inside me that made me see stars. I nearly sobbed, grinding down, desperate for more, for everything.
He switched from licking to sucking, tongue pressing flat, then flicking, relentless. Every nerve ending in my body was on fire. I’d never felt so exposed, so desperate, so fucking alive.
He pulled his fingers out, spreading my cheeks wide, and spit onto my hole again, slicking me up, then dove back in, tongue fucking me, groaning like he was the one getting off.
I felt like I was going to shatter. My cock throbbed, aching for touch, but I didn’t dare move, didn’t want to break the spell. I let him have me, let him worship me, let him take me apart piece by piece.
When I finally couldn’t take any more, I shifted, desperate for relief, but he grabbed my hips, holding me down, refusing to let me escape. His grip was iron, no hesitation, just raw, possessive need.
“Don’t run from me,” Art growled—yes, growled—voice wrecked and wild as he manhandled me back down, holding my thighs open around his head.
“You want it so bad, don’t you? Then take it—take all of me.
” He slapped my arse, just hard enough to sting, and I gasped, the shock of it sending a jolt straight through my spine.
He shoved his cock up against my lips, thick and flushed, slick with spit and come. “Open,” he demanded. I obeyed instantly, tongue out, mouth wide, hungry for the taste of him again.
I sucked him in as far as I could, the position awkward but so filthy, so desperate, my lips straining around the swollen head, my tongue working the sensitive underside.
His hips flexed, driving deeper, and I choked a little, tears burning my eyes.
But I wanted it—wanted to drown in him, to give him everything.
Above me, I felt his mouth return to my arse, tongue relentless, fingers spreading me open with no shame or caution.
He spat, slicking me again, then shoved his tongue in deep, wringing a broken moan from my throat that vibrated around his cock.
The sensation made him groan, hips jerking, cock throbbing against my tongue.
Sweat dripped from my hairline, sliding down my nose, mingling with the spit and salt and pre-come smeared over both of us. The room was hot, close, every surface sticky with need, the scent of sex thick in the air.
Art’s hands slid up my sides, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, hauling me down to grind against his mouth.
I lost myself in the rhythm, sucking him deep, tasting every pulse, every shudder, desperate to draw more sounds out of him.
He moaned against my hole, the vibration making me shudder, and then I felt one slick finger press inside, slow at first, then deeper, stretching me open as his tongue teased the sensitive skin.
“Fuck—Art, yes—” I gasped, the words slurred around his cock, spit leaking down my chin.
He hummed, low and pleased, then added a second finger, scissoring them, working me open with ruthless patience. “God, you’re tight,” he muttered, pulling off my hole just long enough to pant, “Been dreaming about this—about fucking you—watching you fall apart for me.”
I moaned, pushing back onto his hand, greedy for more, my whole body shaking with the need to be filled, to be his.
He took the invitation, sliding a third finger in, stretching me wide, relentless and thorough. He licked, sucked, spat, fingers working, tongue pressing, and I saw stars, my body coming undone at the edges.
His cock throbbed in my mouth, and I swallowed him deep, sucking hard, desperate to make him feel everything I was feeling. Sweat dripped from my brow onto his belly, the taste of him sharp and musky on my tongue.
“Tom.” He yanked his mouth away, voice ragged. “You want it? Want me to fuck you?”
I pulled off his cock, gasping, spit shining on my lips and chin, staring down at him wild-eyed. “Yes,” I managed, voice shaking. “God, yes. Want you inside me. Need it, Art. Please.”
He grinned—feral, unguarded, his hair a mess, face wet with sweat and spit and the mess I’d made of him. “You sure? Because once I start, I’m not stopping. Not until I’m so deep you feel me for days.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, pure filthy promise, and I nodded, dizzy, frantic. “I’m sure. Need you to fuck me. Right now.”
He shoved me off, just enough to scramble up on the bed, grabbing my hips, pulling me down beneath him. He knelt between my legs, cock bobbing, flushed dark and glistening, eyes devouring me. He looked hungry, insatiable, something in him unchained.
For a split second, Art looked around, frantic for something—then lunged for the tiny washstand beside the bed, grabbing the chipped jar of Vaseline.
“This’ll do,” he muttered, prying it open with shaking hands, scooping out a thick, greasy dollop.
He warmed it in his palm, working it over his cock, making sure he was slick and shining, then reached down, spreading more between my cheeks, fingers careful but urgent.
“God, Art, hurry,” I begged, hips grinding up, desperate for the stretch, the burn, the fullness of him.
“Can’t go slow anymore,” he whispered, voice guttural, fingers trembling as he pressed another glob inside me, working it in, making sure I was ready. “Want you—need you—”
He smeared the rest over himself, then tossed the empty jar aside. I watched, wide-eyed, chest heaving, as he lined himself up, cock gleaming with Vaseline, face wild and flushed.
Then he spat—deliberate, filthy, a thick string landing right on my hole, mixing with the grease, making me shiver. “More,” he growled, and spat again, rubbing it in with his thumb, the slick sounds obscene in the silence.
When he pushed in, it was all at once—one hard, slow drive, opening me up, filling me to the hilt. I gasped, arching my back, legs thrown wide, every muscle straining with the intensity of it. Sweat beaded on my brow, rolling down my temples, dripping into my hair.
Art started to move, hips grinding, cock driving deep, the slide made easier by the makeshift lube and spit. The sensation was overwhelming—stretch and friction and fullness, every thrust sending sparks through my body.