Page 36 of Glitter

With my right hand busy, I snuck my left arm beneath his hips and pulled him back so that his dick was no longer pressing directly into the mattress. He whined at losing that friction and pressure on his cock, but I wanted space between him and the bed. I wanted to see the pre-cum welling and dripping from his swollen, rosy pink cockhead.

And when he came, I wanted room to be able to see the cum shooting out of him.

“Are you gonna do it?” I asked, needing to know just how close he was. “You gonna come without a hand on your dick?”

Dusti’s response was buried among a string of moans. “Yes. Oh yes. I’m gonna. I’m gonna do it. And soon. Fuck. I’m gonna come soon, Benny.”

Yanking my fingers out of his ass, I shoved my tongue into his hole as far as I could get it, wanting—needing—to feel it squeezing around my tongue. But when he cried out, yelling, “Fuck! Coming!” I replaced my tongue with my fingers again, stroking in and out of him as his channel pulsed around them.

Dropping my body flat to the bed, I watched from between his legs, as spurt after spurt erupted from Dusti’s cock, splatting obscenely onto his unicorn sheets. It was stunning to see him come, without a single touch to his cock. And I watched every single second of it.

Fine tremors wracked his body as he started to come down from his climax. And his voice was shaky as he spoke. But he still managed to sound commanding as he ordered, “Now, Benny. Now. Now you can touch your cock. Pull it out from those hideous jeans and stroke it. Then I want you to come all over me. Paint my ass with your cum.”

See, now was the time for gratitude. I mumbled nonsense sounds in thanks for Dusti finally allowing me to give my dick some relief. Possibly breaking some sort of world record, I got my jeans open and shoved down impossibly fast, along with my underwear, and I wrapped my hand around the iron-hard column of my dick.

The glide was ridiculously smooth because of all the pre-cum I’d been making, which had been soaking into my underwear and dripping down the length of my dick the whole time I’d been rimming Dusti. I gave my achingly hard dick a couple of strokes, and that was all it took.

Long streams of cum forcefully shot from my cock, landing in fat streaks all across the small of Dusti’s back and on his perfect ass. There was so much of it, it ran down his sides and dripped down to make an even bigger mess of his sheets.

When it was clear I was done, Dusti rolled and flopped onto his back, uncaring that he was smearing all of the cum I’d left on his skin onto his sheets. Although, at this point, it probably didn’t matter; they were going to have to go into the wash as soon as possible, anyway.

Chuckling, Dusti caught my eye and commented, “Well, fuck. That was fun.”

“So much fun,” I agreed, meanwhile thinking that, if anything, that was a massive fucking understatement.

“Isn’t rimming just the best?” Not giving me time to answer his obviously rhetorical question, Dusti continued, “Experience tells me that I’m not going to be ready for another round for a while. But, uh…if you don’t have anywhere you need to be…” He drew his bottom lip in between his teeth in an uncharacteristic sign of nerves, and his voice was hesitant as he asked, “You could stay? If you wanted. We’d have to switch the sheets and get cleaned up, but you could…you could stay. Hang out for a little longer?”

“Sure. Yes. Of course,” I replied, as if there were any other answer I would’ve given him, ignoring the pointless flare of jealousy I felt over Dusti having enough experience with being rimmed and/or coming hands-free to know that he had a long refractory time after those.

Dusti’s real—slightly crooked, incredibly sweet—smile made a reappearance. Then it turned a bit wicked as he said, “Besides…tomorrow’s Saturday. No work for either of us. I’m sure we can think of something to do in the morning.”

Chapter 16

Heading out to one of the farther suburbs for brunch wasn’t quite what I’d imagined when Dusti had mentioned finding something to do together Saturday morning.

Granted, we had exchanged slow and lazy handjobs when we’d woken up, curled on our sides, facing each other. I wasn’t at all discounting those. There had even been a moment, our mouths only separated by a few inches, that I’d thought I would finally get to kiss Dusti, but that moment had passed without any touching of lips.

Still, with Dusti, I thought Saturday mornings would include a lot more sex and not as much…brunch.

Ultimately, though, I was happy to go along with anything Dusti wanted; I just wanted to spend time with him. And he was the one doing the driving, arguing that it was only fair his gas was used to make the trek since it was his idea and his selection of a restaurant that was so far away.

I was amused by the odd bit of coincidence that the diner Dusti was taking us to was in Pine Ridge, since I’d just been thinking of a different business in that town last night.

As we entered the old-fashioned, quaint diner, I asked him, “So, why this place? Is it, like, internet-famous or something?”

Dusti glanced at me over his shoulder—bared by the asymmetrical neckline of his oversized, mint green t-shirt. “No, not that I know of,” he answered. “I’m not sure how or when my parents first stumbled across this place, but we’ve been coming here about once a month since I was super little. Usually for breakfast or brunch, but occasionally for lunch or dinner.”

The small lobby was empty of anyone to show us to a table, so we waited, Dusti bouncing on the balls of his feet, in the plainest shoes I’ve seen him in so far—simple, canvas shoes in a mint green to match his shirt.

As his eyes scanned the interior of the diner, Dusti commented, “When I was a teenager, we actually came more often—almost once a week. I think my parents might’ve figured out that I had a teeny tiny crush on one of the busboys. I think he was about the same age as me and he was really tall, big, and with long, wavy blond hair that was usually hanging in his face.”

Thankfully, before Dusti could rhapsodize even more about the object of his teenage crush, a short, round, older woman, wearing an apron with the name of the diner on it, rushed toward us, apologizing that a waitress hadn’t greeted us or shown us to a table yet.

“No worries, Ma,” Dusti told her, gifting her with one of his genuine smiles. “We just got here, but I know you wouldn’t have minded if we just seated ourselves.”

The woman was already smiling back at Dusti, but when she spotted me standing behind him, yet clearly with him, her smile grew almost twice as big.

“That’s right,” she said. “All my favorite customers are welcome to sit wherever they’d like. Speaking of, sweetie, do you and your friend want to sit at your usual booth, or somewhere else this morning?”

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