Chapter 9
My ass has never been something I’ve thought about. It’s there. For sitting on. For holding up my jeans. Two pale globes that never struck me as anything worth noticing. I’ve certainly never considered it a source of pleasure.
Until now.
Trey’s tongue, which was in my mouth a minute ago, is now lapping at the most private part of my body.
A place no one has ever seen like this, let alone touched.
The sensation is beyond anything I’ve ever felt.
Dirty, intimate, shockingly good. My knees buckle, and I have to grip the easel to stay upright.
Trey only pulls his tongue out long enough to growl, “Keep drawing,” before diving back in.
But how? How am I supposed to focus when he’s doing that? His tongue swirls around the rim, then presses inside, just the tip, then deeper. A wet, probing heat that makes my whole body clench. My cock is leaking nonstop, a puddle forming on the linoleum beneath me.
With a shaking hand, I reach for the pencil. I try to get a line down, the contour of a shoulder, the curve of a bicep, but the pencil skitters across the paper. Trey flattens his tongue and licks broad, sloppy stripes from my balls to the top of my crack.
“I can’t,” I gasp. “Trey, I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” he mumbles against my skin.
He’s relentless now, hands holding me open, tongue buried deep inside me.
In and out. Stabbing. Curling. I never knew.
I never knew my body could feel like this, that there were nerves that could fire like that, sending sparks through my entire system.
My hips move on their own, pushing back against his face, riding his tongue.
I give in, stop fighting for control, and let the pencil move.
The lines that come out are nothing like my usual work.
They’re wild, instinctive, furious. Thick slashes of graphite smeared with my sweating palm.
It’s still Trey, in a way, but not the Trey I was carefully rendering.
It’s the Trey I’m feeling. The one eating my ass like it’s his only purpose.
“Good boy.” He comes up for air and bites the swell of my ass cheek, hard enough to make me yelp. “See? You can multitask.”
Then he’s back at it, the sounds obscene.
Wet, hungry slurping. The kind of sound you only hear when someone’s eating messy food: a watermelon on a hot day, a bowl of ramen.
To be the source of it, to have someone feasting on me with that same greedy abandon, is a heady thing.
I’m dripping, my cock aching. I want to touch myself so bad, relieve the pressure, but both hands are occupied, one gripping the pencil, the other braced against the easel.
“You like that?” he breathes. “Like me tongue-fucking that tight little hole?”
My answer is a strangled moan.
“Yeah, you do. You’re a dirty boy, aren’t you, Nico? Listening to me through the wall. Drawing me in my underwear. You’ve been wanting this.”
I have. For days. Since the moment I saw him.
But I never imagined this. Never imagined he’d be on his knees for me, devouring me, praising me, turning me inside out.
That fantasy was so far-fetched it felt ridiculous to even entertain.
But here he is, as hungry for me as I am for him.
And I like being his dirty boy. I like the filth coming out of his mouth.
I like this shameless version of myself he’s pulling to the surface.
Trey spits on my hole, and the wetness drips down my inner thigh.
He uses a finger to spread it around, circling the rim before pressing the tip inside.
My back arches, head falling back, a cry tearing out of me.
The pressure is nothing like his tongue.
It’s more solid, more invasive. It burns, but in a way that makes my cock throb.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he says, almost to himself. He works the finger deeper, all the way to the knuckle, then holds it there. “Feel how you’re clenching around me?”
“Y-yes.”
“You like having something in there, don’t you?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Yeah, you do.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “Gripping my finger like it doesn’t want to let go.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Greedy little hole.” He starts to move, a slow in-and-out that sends sparks skittering up my spine. “Want another?”
Please. God, yes. But all I can do is nod frantically.
A second finger presses in, and my whole body tenses, the burn sharper now. He waits, patient, stroking my lower back with his other hand.
“Breathe, Nico. Relax for me.”
I try. I take a deep breath, focusing on the weight of his palm against my skin. As I exhale, I feel myself open. Just enough. The second finger slides in beside the first. It’s a stretch, right on the edge of painful.
My brain goes fuzzy. I reach for the pencil again, needing the distraction, but the lines that come out are barely coherent.
A form, a figure on a bed, but you’d have to know what you’re looking at.
The cock I’m drawing is ridiculously oversized.
A dark, heavy shape dominating the center of the paper. I scribble around it, furious, messy.
“Oh, we’re going abstract now?” Trey says from behind me.
“Yeah, you’re kinda…” I pant, “…distracting.”
He scissors his fingers. “Am I?”
“Just a little.”
“Mm. So talented,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue up my spine before adding a third finger. “In more ways than one.”
Three fingers. Half his hand disappearing in and out of my throbbing ass. Every few strokes he slicks them with more spit, and the sounds of those thick digits pushing into me are getting filthier by the second. The burn has faded into a deep, full ache centered behind my balls.
He reaches around and smears the precum leaking from my cock over the head with his thumb. My hips jerk, my body caught between the sensations of being filled and being stroked. A push-pull that threatens to tear me apart.
“That’s too much,” I whimper. “I can’t?—”
He lets go of my cock immediately.
“Sorry,” I say. “But if you touch me there, I’ll?—”
“Don’t apologize for telling me what you need.”
“Sorry.”
“Nico. What did I say?”
“Sorry. I mean—” I’m losing my mind. How many times can one person apologize in a single minute? “I’ll try to stop.”
“Good. Now tell me what you want.”
“You.”
“You already have me.” He’s crooking his fingers now, massaging a particularly sensitive spot inside me. “Be specific. And be as vulgar as you want. You can’t shock me.”
I look over my shoulder into those dark eyes. His forehead gleams with sweat, beads of it catching in his hairline. He’s watching me. Waiting for me to say it.
“I want you inside me,” I whisper.
His lip curls. “This big cock? The one you were gagging on?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I want your big cock inside me, Trey. Fuck me. Please.”