Page 58 of A Man To Remember
I close my eyes, trying to ground myself as I listen to the sounds behind me. The tear of foil. The soft squelch of lube being squeezed. Austin's breathing, slightly elevated.
He stands very close behind me, close enough I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His chest almost touches my back as he leans forward, and when he presses the tip of his lubed finger against my hole, I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
"You're going to relax for me now," he whispers straight into my ear.
And somehow, miraculously, I do. My muscles unclench, my breathing evens out, and I let myself sink into the sensation of his finger circling my rim. Teasing. Preparing.
He starts with one finger. Just like last time. Except it isn't like last time. Last time was exploration, discovery, figuring out what I liked.
This time has intent behind it, a goal that makes every touch so much more intense.
When he slides that first finger inside me, pressing immediately against my prostate, my knees wobble and my cock leaks against the wall, leaving a wet streak on the surface.
"Fuck," I breathe, and he chuckles behind me.
"We'll get there."
He works me slowly, methodically, getting me used to the feeling of being stretched, and just as I finally start to relax completely, to really enjoy the rhythm he's established, he adds a second finger.
The stretch is more intense this time. Purposeful. I fluctuate between discomfort and pleasure as he moves his fingers, working me open with careful precision. Sometimes itburns, sometimes it takes my breath away, and sometimes both sensations hit me at once, and I don't know whether to push back for more or pull away.
"Breathe," he reminds me when he feels me tense up.
I focus on his voice, on the steady rhythm of his fingers, on the way he seems to know exactly when to pause and let me adjust. The discomfort gradually fades, replaced by a fullness that I'm starting to crave.
Then comes the third finger, and I've never felt so full in my life. The stretch is intense, almost overwhelming, and I have to concentrate on accepting what he's giving me. He moves slowly, patiently, letting my body adjust to each new sensation.
Once he catches a steady rhythm, pressing against my prostate with each thrust, I lose the ability to form coherent thoughts. All I can do is hang on and try not to come from this alone.
I do my best to concentrate on the pleasure rather than the stretch, and after a while, the discomfort fades completely. Pure pleasure takes over, making me push back against his hand, silently begging for more.
And the second I start toreallyenjoy it, really lose myself in the sensation, his fingers withdraw, leaving me empty and aching and desperate.
"Am I…" I feel stupid asking, but I need to know. "Am I ready now?"
His mouth is right against my ear, voice low and rough. "You tell me. Are you ready?"
My heart's hammering as I ponder the double meaning of the question. Physically? Yeah. I'm sure he took good care of that. Emotionally...?
I give myself a second to think, weighing the fear against the want. The want wins by a landslide.
I turn my head to the side, cheek pressed against the wall so I can look at him over my shoulder. "I'm ready."
The words seem to flip a switch in him. He growls, like I've spoken some magical incantation that's unleashed something primal in him.
I watch through blurry vision as he tears open the condom wrapper and rolls it onto his cock. He squeezes lube onto his palm and spreads it along his length, making sure he's slick enough not to hurt me.
When he's done, he looks up and our eyes meet. I only last a few seconds before the weight of his gaze becomes too much.
I let my eyes fall closed, press my cheek against the wall and repeat, "I'm ready."
He enters me slowly.
Excruciatingly slowly.
I can feel every single millimeter of his cock as it slides into me, and count my breaths.
It takes forever and a day for him to bottom out completely.
