Page 8 of For Real

Everything I say, a choice he makes, a step he takes.

Which is how I know it’s real for him. And that makes it real for me.7

He lifts his head.

Wow.

It had been too dark at the club, but he’s got these…what do you call it…heterochromatic eyes. They’re winter-day grey all the way to the inside edge of his irises and then, bam, there’s this ring of gold.

And I love his mouth. It’s got secrets, just like the rest of him. Carefully severe when he’s not reacting or speaking, but right now it’s so soft I want to kiss it.

I don’t.

Instead I sort of fish out my cock, which is totally ready to go, and try not to feel too silly, standing there holding it.

Then I remember something. “Shouldn’t we have a safeword?”

Maybe this isn’t the right thing to say because, at last, he replies, “I’m kneeling at your feet while you wank. If I don’t like it, I can stand up and walk away.”

Well. I guess he’s got a point. But I kind of wish he hadn’t said that. And my cock isn’t madly keen on it either because it actually sort of shrinks a bit, like it’s trying to tuck itself back into the foreskin where nobody can make it feel awkward.

Then I wonder if he’s feeling awkward—even though he’s so amazing down there, naked and golden and supplicant and mine—and maybe he’s trying to protect himself. By making it less. A game we’re playing.

When it’s more than that.

Which is how I remember that what felt realest of all was when I was talking to him. That’s what brought him to his knees, really. Whatever I said. Or some part of it because I said loads.

So I talk. I stand over him, and I talk. It’s stupid, but I tell him everything.

“You know…I…kind of…like, I wanted you from the first moment I saw you in that boring-arse club.” Something happens to his mouth. Something…light, not quite a smile, but its own little yielding.

And, weirdly, everything gets easier. The more I say, the more I find to say, my hand stroking my cock on a kind of lust-fuelled autopilot. “It was like this short circuit in my brain, and all I could think about was you and getting you like this. All these crazy, impossible fantasies. Like maybe if I could sort of…kidnap you, or something, and you’d find yourself cuffed and naked and at my feet in some dark room.”

Oh fuck. Now he probably thinks I’m psycho. But he doesn’t flinch away or jerk to his feet, and whatever I see reflected in his eyes isn’t shock. I’d been about to blurt out that I wouldn’t really, but suddenly I know I don’t have to say that. Not to him. So, instead, I just plough right on with the dirty talk.

“So…there you are…all helpless in front of me…but I don’t think you’re scared…or maybe you are, but mainly you look angry. Like you’d fucking kill me if you could get loose, except you can’t, so you’ve got no choice but to…like, submit, I guess, to whatever it is I decide I want to do to you.”

He makes this sound, deep at the back of his throat, like it’s a different sound he’s swallowed.

I’m insanely hard again. Like, do you want any pictures hanging hard.

Exactly like him.

And he…well…wow… My cock is just, y’know, my cock. It’s fine. Does the job. Feels good when I rub it against things. But his I could be kind of obsessed with. It’s really…beautiful, all strong and straining, needy and aggressive at the same time, and sheathed in gleaming skin, with these drops of moisture crowning the tip, like tiny perfect opals. I think they’d taste of heat and salt and tears and him. If I got a hand round the base, he’d be so exposed, all the tender places, vulnerable and at my mercy. I could run my tongue up those blood-bright, writhing veins. Get under the ridge. Into the slit. Make him scream with the softest of my kisses.8

Oh God. Oh Fuck. Oh Godfuckyes.

I work myself ferociously, almost painfully, but it’s amazing, this harsh pleasure zinging all through my cock and from there to my whole body. Best wank ever. The room fills up with the sound of skin moving against skin, as I tell him, “There’s part of me still worries sometimes that it’s kind of messed up. Like a wire got crossed somewhere or a gear is bent, because I see someone like you and this is what I think about, this and other stuff like it. Bad stuff, I guess. Like hurting you. Making you cry. And beg. Except it doesn’t feel bad to me. Or it does, but in a good way. Does that make sense? Like it lights me up inside.”

Another one of those sounds. Stifled and naked at the same time, making me wonder what it’s like when he really screams.

“Fuck.” That’s what I say next. The only thought I can get out. “Oh fuck.” Because I’m wet with looking at him, pre-come sliding between my fingers as I stroke myself up and down, up and down, rough, then rougher, like I’d touch him.

Breathing sort of hurts, and the sound of me trying fills the air, ragged and raspy. And, underneath, there’s the echo of his, and that’s so hot, our bodies not touching, but our breaths all tangled up together. It’s nothing, it’s air, but it seems so visceral, and so there, like our mouths are fucking.9

The world has gone all shiny-sharp at the edges, like I’m an envelope coming open, and I feel so good, I feel so fucking good, that I kind of lose control of my mouth. And words are falling out of it that hardly sound like words at all anymore, just these jaggedy, groany things that I’m dropping everywhere.

“I’m going to remember this for, like, my whole fucking life. It’s going to be on me forever. God.” My hand tightens and so does the pleasure, twisting into corkscrews inside me…nearly nearly nearly. “Fuck.”

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