8. Vincent #3
He thrusts up into me, those strong, powerful thighs tensing under my hand.
I can't hold back the groans that radiate through me, at the mixture of pleasure from him taking what he wants from me, at me giving him what he needs, at the feel of him in my mouth, and at the feel of my hand on my cock.
I might only be a blow job, but I swear this is the hottest sex of my life.
If this were a regular hookup, I might have held off cuming until I got him off so that he could give me a blow job too, or even suggested a sixty-nine by this point. But this isn't a regular hookup.
This is Tate. It's a straight guy who's experimenting with the gay guy who's in love with him.
He's got their perfect situation to experiment.
He's got a guy who served up to him on a platter.
He's got a situation where he can't hook up with anyone else, otherwise it's going to ruin everyone's reputation.
In my experience, no experimenting guy wants to touch the gay guy’s dick. He just wants you to touch his.
He just wants to get his own pleasure, then move on and not think about it anymore. So, not giving myself the chance to be let down that he doesn't want to reciprocate at the end of this, I'm gonna handle myself now so that he doesn't have the chance to turn me down.
Call it… Oh, fuck.
Call it self-preservation. Call it pathetic. Probably all of those things. But really, this is the reality that is my situation with Tate.
I groan as he thrusts into my mouth again and again and again. I match his paces with the strokes of my cock, allowing my cock to feel like we're in unison, and fall into the reality that Tate is here and letting me suck him off.
I'm so close to the edge, so close to the explosion that I can feel building, building, and building in my body. I don't think Tate's far off either, based on the tension radiating through him. He's on edge.
He's legs and abs are tight as they thrust into my mouth. He's groans are becoming more regular, louder, blending from one into the next noise that comes out of his mouth. I look up at him, meeting his eyes, and I've never felt sexier, bathing in the desire that stares down at me.
His face, his hair, his everything, is all dishevelled from my touch.
His cheeks are flushed pink. His hair is standing in odd ends from where I was running my hands through it earlier. Keeping my mouth on his cock, I reach up with the hand not stroking my cock, and pinch his nipple again. Tate shudders, and a deep moan rattles out of him.
“I'm gonna, I'm gonna…” Tate pants, unable to get the whole sentence out.
Shivers rack my body as goosebumps raise on the back of my neck, knowing that I'm bringing him here, bringing him to orgasm.
It shoots straight to my cock, and I know that I'm about to cum too. He's warning me so that I can pull off in case I don't want his cum in my mouth. But why the fuck would I be doing all this not to get my reward at the end?
I want that taste. I need that taste. I need him to mark me.
To have him inside of me for at least a little while. It might sound weird, it might be gross to some people. But they're not here, and they don't need to know.
To me? This is what I need. This is the only way that I'm going to be able to get Tate anytime in my reality.
So, I need to take what I can get.
I moan around his cock as I flick my tongue over his frenulum, pulling the skin back with my tongue, swirling it around his cockhead one more time. I feel him explode in my mouth, his cock pulsing with his release as it splashes over my tongue and the back of my throat.
I'm tempted to let it pool in my mouth and show him the evidence of the satisfaction that I've given him. But there's too much.
I have to swallow it back before I choke or let any of it spill out.
I swallow around his cock and he moans again, another pulse throbbing through his dick and exploding over my tongue, giving me that last little bit of his orgasm. Lingering in my mouth.
The taste of his cum is what takes me over the edge. It's what does me in. I've never been more grateful for the fact that I have a leather couch when I cum all over it.
Kneeling between his legs, with his cock throbbing in my mouth as he starts to recover from his orgasm. I pull off his dick as I moan through my release as it shoots all over the couch in front of me.
Stroking my cock faster and faster, through it, until it's almost too sensitive to touch. I don't meet Tate's eyes as I pull up my shorts, wiping my hands on the outside of them, knowing that I'm gonna need to get a cloth to clean up the rest of it.
I don't want to see pity in his eyes.
I don't want to see regret. I don't this experience that meant so much to me tainted by his reaction.
I mumble something about getting a cloth as I stand up and walk away. Leaving him sitting there. T-shirt pulled up high.
Shorts, pulled down to mid-thigh, and his cock softening against his lower stomach. I go to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. My hair is pulled at all angles, thanks to his menstruations.
My knees are a bit sore after kneeling on the tile for so long. My lips are puffy, my cheeks are flushed pink.
There's a satisfied gleam in my eye, but they’re also tinted with a bit of longing, a bit of sorrow, and something else that I don't really want to acknowledge at the moment.
I grab a cloth, wetting it a little bit, and then head back into the lounge room to find Tate sitting exactly where he was. Cock still out, pants still down around his thighs, fast asleep on the couch.
I want to chuckle. I want to stay in this moment forever, but I know that I can't do that.
I know that the longer that I linger in this moment, the more it's going to hurt me in the long run.
I check to see if there's any cum lingering on his dick, but nope, I sucked him dry.
So, I quickly clean up my evidence from the couch before it has a chance to set in and stain.
I pull his shorts up, manoeuvring his legs gently so as not to wake him, and tucking his cock away.
Thankfully, he was sitting on the part of the couch that actually reclines. Pressing the button on the side of the couch.
I push his legs up and lay him down gently so that he can get a better night's sleep and chuck a blanket over him. He said earlier that he can't go home, so I guess he's spending the night here.
Part of me wants to sit next to him, to lay next to him, to have him come to my bed even and spend the night cuddled in his arms.
But that's not what this is.
The more that I spend time with him, the more that I get intimate with him, the more that we pretend this relationship is real for the media—the more confused my brain and my heart are getting.
They're at odds with each other already.
Trying to tell me to take a chance on this and trying to tell me to preserve myself and keep myself out of pain in the long run.
But I've never been one to listen. Which leaves me conflicted because I'm doing both.
I'm feeling all of these emotions for him, but I'm still keeping myself back. Reeling myself in, putting a barrier between myself and Tate, even when that's the last thing that I want to do. I'm warring with myself.
All over this man. And I know that I need to give myself space so that I don't latch in and I don't get more obsessed with him than I already have been. I sorrowfully trudge myself upstairs to my bedroom.
Close the door and flop onto my bed.
Part of me knows I should have a shower. I haven't showered since I got home from the plane, so I still have all of that on me, but now I have Tate on me too. I have this scent embedded in my skin and in my hair.
I have his taste lingering in my mouth, and I need to—as pathetic as it is—I need to hold on to it for as long as I can.
I fall into a fitful sleep.
My bed is the most comfortable bed that I've ever known, a super king with a double top pillow top mattress and lots of fluffy cushions.
I normally love the space that I have. I normally relish the amount of space that I get to myself.
I've never shared a bed with anyone else for more than one night.
Never had a serious relationship that warranted regular sleepovers and having to share my space.
But tonight, with Tate downstairs after what we've just done.
All I feel is emptiness in this bed. All I feel is space, all I can think of is how much better I'd be sleeping if he was right next to me.
But that's not gonna happen.
And that's why I can't sleep.