Chapter Twenty-Three
Iknow I’m not a very fuckin’ romantic person, so I certainly wasn’t envisioning rose petals, Barry White songs, and bubble baths—but having sex with Gannett for the first time under the bleachers of our old high school definitely wasn’t it either.
Here we are, though. And how the fuck hadn’t I noticed he’d worn that friggin’ choker underneath his sun-blocking hoodie before now?
“I have a couple packets of lube in my back pocket,” he pants, after I’ve just kissed him breathless.
I shake my head. “Do I even want to know why you showed up to a t-ball game ready to get your ass stuffed full of my dick?”
“Probably not, but I’m going to let you know anyway.
I didn’t want to be ill-prepared whenever you decided we should try this for the first time.
That and I just genuinely like wearing the choker.
” He splays his hand over my chest, slowly working his way down to the waistband of my athletic pants.
“It’s like my little secret, but that way I remember who I belong to.
” His hand slips under, and he grips my cock. “You.”
“Fuck, Gannett…” I sigh, arching into him.
“Back pocket,” he reminds me with a whisper. “If you need directions on how to get to my ass, this whole fucking it thing isn’t going to pan out too well.”
“Brat.”
He nods, gripping me a little harder and giving me a few slow, achingly languid pumps with his calloused hand. My groan is amplified by the acoustics under the bleachers, causing me to freeze and take stock of our surroundings.
“No one is going to see us here,” he reminds me. “Croot, trust me. Been under here plenty of times.”
The thought of Gannett under here, making out with god only knows who, fills me with a surge of irrational jealousy.
We’re not stupid horny teenagers anymore, we’re both in our thirties, both divorced single parents.
Of course, there’s going to be history, but try telling that to the caveman in me who just wants to thump his chest and re-name him “Mine.”
Still surging with that primal need, I quickly fish the packets of lube out and tear one open with my teeth, spitting the ripped off top away.
“Pants. Down. Now,” I bark at him while I coat my fingers with a generous dollop of slick jelly.
He makes quick work of unbuttoning his jeans and shoving those, along with his boxers, down, and I drop to my knees.
“Oh fuck, Gordy. You really expect me to last until you get inside of me with you sucking me off while stretching me out?”
“You will if you want to feel me come inside you,” I threaten, right before wrapping my lips around the plump head of his dick.
I tease the exposed underside of his glans, just as enamored with the difference with his circumcised cock as he is when he toys with my foreskin.
I slide him in and out as far back as I can a few times, coating his shaft with a healthy dose of spit.
With one hand making up for what I can’t fully swallow, I stroke him.
With the other hand, I reach up between his thighs, seeking out his tight hole with my middle finger.
He hisses a little as I breach his rim, his ass instinctually fighting against the intrusion.
I pop off his dick just long enough to remind him to breathe before sucking him right back in, lapping at him like a popsicle.
When I feel him relax a little, I introduce another finger, using my thumb to massage his perineum.
He whines, bending at the waist a little, bracing his hands on my shoulders. “Fuck,” he groans. “I underestimated how well bartenders can m-multitask.”
A little chuckle rumbles up my throat, causing his fingertips to bite into my shoulder. Scissoring my fingers inside him, I find his sweet spot and he bucks forward again. “Unngh!” he whines. “Gordy, please. Don’t get me off on your f-fingers. I want you inside me.”
I ignore his plea, introducing a third finger, stretching him more and stroking his prostate over and over as I suck and pump his dick.
It’s fucking messy and hedonistic, drool is dribbling out all down my beard, but I keep on sucking and teasing until finally I feel him fill out my mouth even more.
“I can’t—” he huffs, “I gotta come, Gordy. I can’t h-hold it.
Oh fuck, oh fuck!” He shoots off into my mouth, but I don’t swallow it.
Once he’s emptied himself, I stand and take one of his hands, cupping it in front of my chin.
His eyes go cartoonistically wide then flare with salaciousness when I spit his entire load into his palm.
“Get me wet and turn around,” I order him.
His obedient ass gets right to work, covering my dick with his warm cum.
Once I’m completely coated, he spins, popping his ass out for me and giving it an eager little shimmy.
“Hands on the risers.” I nod at the bleachers, then tap his inner ankles to spread his legs a little wider when he bends.
Once he’s in position, I ask him, “You sure you’re ready for this?”
He looks over his shoulder at me and blinks. “I’m ass naked from the waist down, bent over with my legs spread, and a gaping hole, and you’re asking for my consent? Is that even a question? Fuck yes, dude, come on!”
“Such an eager, bratty little slut,” I growl, as I notch myself at his entrance. Slowly, I ease my way in, reveling in the tight heat enveloping my dick as his ass practically suctions me in.
“Mmmph! Wait, don’t m-move yet,” he pleads when my thighs meet contact with the globes of his ass. “I can’t—I need… fuck, you’re really inside me.”
I take in the point at which our bodies are joined—physical fusion akin to the way our souls already have.
He’s so, so fucking tight. So goddamn warm. Christ, I’m not sure I can move without busting off already. My dick twitches, and I feel his hole clench around me, then flutter with need.
He lets out a breathy little chuckle. “I’m getting fucked. Me. Holy shit, Gordy fuckin’ Masterson loves me and has me bent over behind the bleachers with his gorgeous dick buried in my ass. I never thought I’d say this, but if I die today, I die a happy man.”
A laugh rumbles out of me as I hook my finger through one of the chains in the choker, arching his neck back as I lean in close to his ear.
“I’ll bring you right to the pearly gates right now, Wee-Waters, but there’s no fuckin’ way I’m letting you walk through them. Not when I’m about to make you mine.”
“Fuckin’ brand me, Gordy,” he begs, pistoning his hips, urging me to move now. “Leave marks all over me. Pump my guts full of that heady, masculine cum of yours. Make me too sore to walk straight for days. I want there to be no shred of doubt as to whom I belong to when we’re done.”
A surge of wanton need to fulfil that request renders a low groan from me as I fist the choker tight in one hand and bury my fingertips in his hip with the other.
I check to make sure he can still breath first while I slowly make a few testing pumps, just to make sure he’s not just demanding that in the heat of the moment.
His whines and whimpers, the sounds that suggest he really truly wants more, are all the go-ahead I need and prove that I’m not actually choking him too much.
I draw back, almost pulling out of him completely, before slamming my hips back into him.
His responding cries are laced with both pain and pleasure, spurring me on for more.
The hedonistic slap, slap, slapping of skin on skin reverberates around in the cavernous space, mixed with his hoarse grunting as he takes me—no, meets me—thrust for punishing thrust.
I’m battering him, fighting to take back control of my body, my desires, as I ram into him with quick yet powerful thrusts.
Like the pillar of strength that he is, he not only takes it, but given the way he’s bucking back, begging me to spear into him harder…
he is pleading for more. I reward him with shoving up his shirt, biting and sucking marks into his back as hard as I’m working my hips.
Through the cacophony of noises, I hear him rasp, “Spank me!” and immediately I still.
He scowls at me over his shoulder. “Why the fuck’d you stop?”
“That’s our safe phrase during sparring…”
He huffs out a little laugh. “Oh, right. Yeah, um, so I was actually asking you to spank me. Like—for real, for real. Maybe we should think of a new safe phrase, not that I’m going to actually need it.”
I roll my eyes.
“Lighthouse,” he whispers, rolling his hips, urging me to continue. “Lighthouse means safety. If either of us needs to stop to get to safety, we just say ‘lighthouse.’”
I nod. “I love you,” I remind him. Because I do.
I let him in, allowed him to hold the broken pieces of myself together while I put the glue in place to make me whole again.
While I’ll never be completely without scars, he will know how to handle every chip and crack with care, all while still having faith that the structure will hold true.
His lips tip up into a soft smile. “I love you too.”
I fold myself over his back, release the choker in favor of gripping his chin, and bring my lips to his. He melts into my kiss, my tongue stroking against his, as I slowly start to pump my dick in his ass again. From my periphery, I see him start to reach for his own cock, but I swat his hand away.
He yanks his lips from mine, scowling again. “I was trying to stop myself from coming, asshole.”
“I don’t give a shit. Hands off what’s mine. Do you want to come or not?”
“Yes, but not twice before you even do!” he whines. “You keep hitting my f-fuckin’ prostate, though!”
“Didn’t realize we were competing,” I huff, slamming into him. When he tries to reach for his cock again, I pin his arm behind his back and with a crack I give him that spanking he asked for. One hard enough to leave a bright pink handprint in the middle of his right asscheek.
“Fuuuck, yessss,” he groans, low and needy. “Again.”
Smack!