Page 84 of Forever Not Yours

This love letter to Bastien, the man who had held my heart for as long as I now could remember? It was an ever-changing story, a saga with a surprisingly straight line, because we’d had enough twists and turns to deal with, andnow…

We’d both skirted around the subject of moving. Flossie was too small to manage the stairs. Flat living wasn’t for little dogs, and Bastien kept saying she needed a garden, a place where she could go out and lie in the sun instead of having to sit in her dog bed on our balcony hoping the rays would reach over the railing.

They rarely did. Also? I bloody loved that dog, and that had been a somewhat surprising realisation. And anyway, our concerns for Flossie were masking the real issue.

Bastien was still the love of my life, and he wanted to be a dad, something I fully intended to give him, however that would look. A family of our own, more than just him, me and Flossie.

Which was enough, of course it was. More than enough. But hey, I was me and he was him, and the way he was breathing right now? Yeah. He was ready for more.

My thoughts drifted, while he floated in the haze of the poppers, his whole body relaxing, then tensing up as I moved my hand, thenrelaxing again.

This had been a good session. A lazy Sunday afternoon, a stroll around the heath, a bit of shopping, and then he’d been standing there, stark naked, his skin free from those little things that kept him well.

My Bastien, slowly stirring that plastic pot of lube I’d prepared.

“You made some promises earlier,” he’d said.

We didn’t always need more words. He’d taught me that. Sometimes I knew exactly what he needed. When work overwhelmed him, and things become a little tense, when he stopped telling me everything he needed to get off his chest and closed himself in. The number of times I’d spanked those little mishaps out of him, leaving him raw and destroyed over my lap. Perhaps those were the wrong words, because that destruction was something he treasured, proudly showing off his skin to me and smiling smugly as he tried to get comfortable on the sofa. He said it helped him relax. Also? Yes, of course. It was bloody hot, and gave me all those little things I needed.

He worked from home a few days a week, gave himself a break, and let Faye take the reins. They were a good team, and now they were being joined by a new intern. I laughed, recalling something he’d saidearlier about Faye demanding smoothies and that he would have to peg her down a notch or two.

“Go,” he huffed as I slowly got myself back in position, me on all fours on the floor, him on his back on the bed with his legs raised, heels digging into the bedposts. Also? New bed. I could tie him up now when I needed to, and the posts were very handy for all these new little things we were adding to our repertoire. Like these long sessions we were having, working on stretching him to the max.

My gloved fist, almost all the way in, including my thumb, right up to the last knuckles, his skin straining open around me, the lube everywhere. I adjusted my stance and twisted my hand. Only a few millimetres, but still, I had him, right here, doing so good.

“You’re almost there. You’re doing so well.”

“Green,” he said confidently. “Fucking intense, though.”

Sweat beaded on his forehead, despite the cold winter air seeping through the window. He was hot. I was too. Intense indeed. His skin stuck to the rubber sheet I’d strapped to the bed. Easy clean-up. Fisting was dirty work, and that was just the way I liked it. We’dspilled enough lube and stuff on the carpet, which was next on my list. We were getting wooden flooring in the bedroom. And a hook for a sex swing.

We needed a bigger place. That was glaringly obvious.

I was drifting again. I concentrated, letting him adjust, take my hand like he was built for this.

Fact. He was. He was made for being my man, and he was made for getting fucked. Fisted. Smacked. The dirty boy that he was.

He made a desperate sound as I twisted again, just a small movement, but it allowed me deeper, his hole suddenly swallowing up that last knuckle as I used my other hand to replenish the lube. I smoothed it around his rim as he took me in even further.

My breath hitched with every millimetre I pushed further in.

I loved this. Absolutely loved this.

He raised the bottle of poppers back up to his nose, took a short, sharp sniff, then replaced the cap and dropped it back on the sheet, his hand forming a fist as I went deeper inside him, everything stopping aroundme as I stroked my cock. One hand on me. One inside of him.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

“I’m inside, Bastien. Almost all the way inside. My wrist is slowly gliding in now. Can you feel it?”

He made sounds. I think I did too. Relief. Joy. Arousal.

I wasn’t going to make it. My jaw clenched as that sharp feeling of pain mixed with pleasure and my hand upped its speed.

He knew. Of course he did. His mouth hanging slack up there, his dick pointing firmly upwards, completely lost to that haze. Relaxed. Being…mine.

I tried gently moving my hand out, then slowly back in, gentle movements inside of him as he cried out.

“You can touch yourself now,” I instructed.

---