Page 40 of For Real

“Will…you hold yourself open for me? So I can… So I can—”

He actually yelped. “Fuck. No. I can’t do that.”

I pushed my tongue into the crease of his arse, and the sound he made this time was definitely not a yelp. He wriggled helplessly against me, his body practically begging for more, and for one terrible moment, I thought I was going to disgrace myself and come.

I pulled away, trembling, and so did he.

“God,” he muttered. “I can’t. I’ve never… I just can’t.”

I adjusted my position, still a little shaken, and far too conscious of the moisture that gathered at the tip of my cock and then slid tauntingly down its length. I’d been with some people who liked to give me orders I couldn’t obey, simply for the excuse to shame and punish me, and I hadn’t particularly objected to such games. But it had been a long time since I’d come so close to losing control.

“You don’t have to do anything with me you don’t want,” I told him.

“Oh, I want to. It just…feels weird. Embarrassing.”

“I’ll never embarrass you, Toby. It’s always up to you.”

“But what if I’m hairy? Or I taste icky?”

“You’re not hairy. I’ve seen you, remember. And…the thought of tasting you just nearly made me come, so I don’t think you have to worry.”

“Seriously?”

I kissed him rather playfully on one delicious little cheek. “Seriously.”

“So like, while that’s flattering, if you come, I’ll be super cross.”

“I know. I won’t. I won’t let you down.” I leaned into him, ragged and needy and blissfully unashamed to be that way. “But please let me…please you. However you want.”

He moaned in answer and trembled under my mouth. I kissed him again and teased him with my tongue, seducing, inch by slow inch, the reluctant line of flesh at the centre of his arse, until he was leaning forward and arching his hips to allow me deeper.

“Fuck it,” he wailed. “I’m doing it.”

I felt his hesitation as his hands came round, but suddenly he was open to me, and I pushed forward into all that soft, hidden heat.

Toby’s whole body was rigid with anxiety. “This better feel fucking amazing.”

Before he had a chance to protest or change his mind, I pressed my tongue inside him, breaching that tight ring of muscle in a single damp and ruthless thrust.

He howled and spasmed wildly, some frantic movement rippling all the way down his spine. “Omigod-it-does-feel-amazing.”

From that moment, everything became blissfully impossible. Toby couldn’t keep still and couldn’t stay silent, and—bound as I was—I couldn’t do anything to settle him. Not that I wanted to. It was pleasure enough to kneel there and let Toby writhe and grind and fuck himself against me, moaning and babbling like he was losing his mind.

I wished I could have seen him, tousled and sweaty, twisting wildly upon my tongue.

But I could feel him, hear him, taste him.

And he tasted deeply and simply of himself, sour-sweet, and intimate.9

He was panting barely coherent obscenities, but they fell upon me like kisses. I hurt—my wrists, my jaw, my knees, my balls, my cock—I hurt for him, I hurt with desire for him. But it was how he touched me, this pain he gave. How he touched me without touching, turning absence into caresses.

“I seriously wish I had another hand… My cock is going to… Oh fuck…Laurie…”

Suddenly there was nothing but his silence and his stillness. Then he shuddered uncontrollably, uttered the softest, most broken cry I’d ever heard, and…and…I wasn’t entirely sure what happened next, but he was limp, sweaty, and mostly naked in my lap, his arms around me and his face pressed into my shoulder.

Oh God. Too much. Too much skin. Too much Toby.

I bucked frantically against him. Terrified I was going to fail him at the last possible second. Not sure if I was coming or coming apart. “I can’t. Don’t.” I hardly knew what I was saying, only that I was clawing at a cliff of need, and I was going to fall. He pushed the tie away from my eyes, and I flinched, light-blinded. “Please. I can’t.”

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