3 #3
Tommy's mouth was soft in a way that defied physics, his lips pillowing around my girth with a plush, wet heat that made my knees threaten to buckle.
His tongue knew things. It found the sensitive ridge beneath the head on the first pass and worked it with a swirling, focused pressure that sent bolts of pleasure straight through my pelvis and into the base of my spine.
"Oh, fuck," I groaned. The words came out loud and broken and I didn't care.
Tommy moaned around my cock. The vibration traveled through the shaft and into my body like a bass note I could feel in my teeth, and I looked down—I had to look down, I couldn't not look down—and the sight that met me obliterated whatever was left of my defenses.
Tommy's blue eyes were closed. His cheeks were hollowed. His pouty lips were stretched into a glistening pink ring around my shaft, sliding down, taking more, and the expression on his face wasn't effort or obligation. It was bliss.
He was rubbing himself through his shorts with his free hand, his hips rocking slightly, and I understood with a sudden, devastating clarity that Tommy didn't just tolerate sucking cock.
He loved it. The act itself was giving him pleasure—not as a favor, not as a transaction, but as something he craved the way I craved a clean route and an open end-zone.
The realization did something to me I wasn't prepared for. My hand moved on its own, finding his blonde hair, threading through the soft strands, and I held him—not pushing, just holding—feeling the rhythm of his head bobbing beneath my palm.
"Bro, where did you learn to suck dick like this?" I heard myself say. "Holy shit."
Tommy didn't answer. He took another inch—then another—and I felt the head of my cock nudge the back of his throat.
He gagged, pulled back, swallowed, went in again.
He could take about half of me, which was more than most girls had managed, and the wet, rhythmic sounds his mouth was producing—the slick pull of suction, the soft click of spit against skin,
the muffled moans that vibrated through my shaft—were filling our small dorm room with a soundtrack I'd be hearing in my head for the rest of my life.
He pulled off the head and went lower.
His tongue traced down the underside of my shaft, following the thick vein, and then his lips found my balls.
“Shit… Tommy…” I gasped.
He sucked one into his mouth—the left one, heavy and full—and the gentleness of it, the careful, almost reverent way he rolled it on his tongue, made my eyes sting with a sensation I refused to identify.
His hand kept stroking my cock, slick with his spit, twisting at the top, and the dual sensation was so overwhelmingly good that my hips were moving on their own, fucking into his grip while his mouth worshipped my balls.
He moved back up. Sealed his lips around the head.
And this time, he sucked like he was trying to end me—fast, tight, wet, his tongue working the underside in relentless figure-eights while his hand pumped the base with a rhythm that was pulling the orgasm out of me like a rope being reeled in from a very short distance.
"Fuck—I'm close—" I warned, my fingers tightening in his hair. "Tommy, I'm gonna…"
He pulled off. Fast. My cock bounced free, glistening and throbbing and so close to the edge I could feel the orgasm retreating in hot, agonizing pulses.
"What the fuck," I panted. "Why'd you stop?"
Tommy looked up at me. Lips swollen. Chin wet. Those blue eyes bright and calculating and carrying the specific confidence of a person who was several moves ahead.
"Wanna fuck my butt?" he said. "You can if you want."
My cock jumped so hard it tapped my stomach.
"But," Tommy continued, and the grin that accompanied the conjunction told me the price had just gone up, "only if you eat it first."
Before I could respond—before my brain could even assemble the words I don't eat ass, especially not a guy's ass—Tommy stood, hooked his thumbs into his swim trunks, and peeled them down.
He turned around. Bent slightly at the waist. And presented me with the most confusing sight of my life.
Tommy's ass was—I mean, it was right there, and it was—fuck. It was perfect. Small, round, smooth, completely hairless, the skin a pale, creamy pink that flushed slightly darker in the crease.
And between those compact cheeks, his hole was a tight, clean, rosy pucker that looked nothing like what I'd imagined a guy's asshole would look like.
It looked like a pussy in how it was pink, delicate, pristine. The kind of thing that short-circuited the part of my brain responsible for maintaining sexual categories.
"I don't know, bro," I said, hearing my own voice waver in a way that Colton Asher's voice was not supposed to waver. "I've never thought about eating another dude's ass before."
Tommy looked over his shoulder, and his expression was the patient, knowing smile of someone who'd already calculated the outcome of this conversation.
"You know you want to," he said softly. "Pretend it’s a pussy and eat it."
Way ahead of you there, I thought.
He was reading my mind, and it seemed as though he’d been reading my mind since the day we met.
"Get over here," I said.