Page 12 of Your Only Fan
Isaac
Iwatch the clock hands on my wall tick around, the minutes passing, bringing me closer to Ezra.
Focusing in class today was nearly impossible at the thought that I’d be seeing him later and he wouldn’t even know it.
The rush in my body is palpable all day. It was present in the morning when I woke up and remembered what Linc did last night, and it was present in class.
And even more so, it was there when I visited the sex shop in Florence Grove to pick out an appropriate hood for the rendezvous.
It’s quarter to seven and I’m ready for him. I’ve douched, showered, and put my contacts on. I’ve changed my bedsheets and set the mood with dimmed lights. I’ve also hidden any clues that this is Isaac Rivera’s house.
The door is unlocked—as discussed earlier today—and the lights in the living room/kitchen are low. All curtains are drawn. There’s a certain ritualistic element to preparing for our first encounter that I never expected. It’s almost like I’m putting on a performance with him as my only audience. It’s like our very private kabuki or ancient Greek theatre, only instead of a mask, I’m wearing a hood.
My leg won’t stop shaking, and there are ants in my hands like any time before a show. And in a way, it’s just like a show. Especially so if he films me.
I unlock and lock my phone for the hundredth time when I hear the front door crack open.
I look at the mirror in my bedroom and zip up the hood around the eyes so he doesn’t recognize me, and I go down on my mattress on all fours, butt hole up and puckered, waiting to be claimed like the rest of my body.
There’s a shiver and a tingling sensation to my right, and I feel his presence in the bedroom. Orapresence.
That’s the thrill of blind sex. You never know if the guy coming in is the guy you’re waiting for or a robber that stumbled on a scene straight out of porn.
He doesn’t say anything. The bed sinks at the end by my feet. A delicate hand on my neck makes me jump, and I feel its intoxicating trace all the way down to my ass.
I’m being touched by Ezra. Holy fuck!
The pressure eases off the bed, and I feel him to my left. Pants come off. Clothes get disposed of and then he’s back behind me.
Rumbly, slow breaths fill the room with his ambiance, and a hand parts an ass cheek. My dick pulses and threatens to betray me. My own breathing becomes labored until it comes to a complete halt.
A cold wetness shoots shivers down my spine, and my ring of muscle throbs at the stroke of his tongue teasing my entrance.
My head hangs between my hands, and I squeeze my eyes shut, bringing forth all the images of Ezra I’ve stored in my subconscious for the past two years and see him licking me, caressing me, groaning with need.
I hear the pop, probably the lube I’ve laid next to me, and as if to confirm the guesswork of my heightened senses, a cold blast hits the sensitive skin around my hole and I get goosebumps.
Ezra slicks a finger in me, and I can barely believe he’s here, in my house, about to fuck me raw and good.
The number of times I’ve played this out in my head is ridiculous. Although in my fantasies, he sees my face. He knows who I am. He knows who’s submitting to him.
Or, for all I know, this isn’t Ezra at all. Maybe it’s Linc who swung by to check how my date is going and decided to have a go on me, as well. Or maybe it’s a delivery guy who’s after his tip.
No. Definitely Ezra.
There’s no confusing that dick pressing against my slick hole or the grunt that comes out of his mouth as he enters me.
I feel the burn of his force all the way to the small of my back and my balls tighten as I try to get accustomed to the foreign object entering me.
And what surprises me is that Ezra waits. He pauses, lets me hiss the burn away before he pushes further in. I expected a wham, bam, thank you sir kind of session with him. The rough Ezra Dixon I’ve seen in countless videos fucking thirsty little things.
But he cares. He doesn’t want to hurt me. He slides out of me and back in and repeats until the blood returns to my head and I stop wheezing.
Then he slams into me, one hand on my hip, pulling me closer, deeper, harder. My grunts fill the air, accompanying his hard breathing and the clapping sound of our bodies colliding.
His fingers trail over my waist, crawling up to my shoulder blades until his whole body arches over me and his head rests on the side of mine while he keeps thrusting into me.
At that moment, I forget my name, my age, my number, my whole life. At that moment, I’m Ezra’s toy. His to use and discard. Simply a means to an end. His satisfaction.
