Page 61 of The Legend Next Door
I garble nonsensically around his cock, tongue fluttering wildly against him as I beg.
More.
Harder.
Deeper.
Please.
I’m unraveling. My balls are pulled tight and the tip of my dick is digging into the zipper of my jeans. It’s too much sensation, too little, not the sensation I want. Not the sensation I need.
Ben takes pity on me, stroking a heavy hand through my hair and down the side of my face as his other hand winds around the back of my head and holds me securely in place.
Every part of me not already molten with lust goes runny as he starts fucking my throat gently. Carefully. Tenderly. Angling himself so each thrust is a tiny bit deeper. He doesn’t break eye contact once. Not once. He watches me the entire time, checking on me to ensure I’m okay.
I don’t gag at all.
All I do is let him.
I’m in heaven. I love giving head. I always have. I love men and dicks, and I love having a dick in my mouth. I love giving someone else pleasure. I’ve always loved it. I love the idea of head, and I love the reality of it. It’s a huge mental turn-on for me.
This is different. It’s not just mental. It’s physical too. My mouth is alive with pleasure, lips hot and tingling, tongue straining, cheeks hollowed to eke out every possible hint of sensation. My throat is relaxed, open and willing, omitting soft, helpless sounds as Ben fucks it.
That’s what it feels like. Being fucked. Being fucked gently by someone who really, really knows what they’re doing.
My eyes are streaming with longing. And gratification. My dick hurts, and every time Ben’s dick slides past my soft palate, it hurts more. My other hand has found its way to his thigh as well. Both hands are curled into tight muscles. I feel his tension as if it were my own. Maybe it is. He’s close, I can tell. I am too. His head is arched back, his stance widened. His eyes are closed now. Mouth open. He still has a hand on the back of my head, and he’s not just rocking his hips now. He’s using his grip on me to make sure I meet each of his thrusts and take it a little deeper than the last one.
“Such a pretty mouth.” He groans as though he’s talking to himself. “Such a sweet boy. Such a pretty boy, withsucha sweet mouth.”
I come without meaning to. Without even knowing I can come like this. From this. Excruciating pleasure hits like the crack of a whip and drowns everything out. It rips through me. Out of me. Hot waves rise and spill over, flooding my senses and leaving me so brainless I hardly notice when Ben begins spurting down my throat.
I swallow without conscious thought. As though I’ve been lost in a desert for years. For a lifetime that’s left me ragged and broken. Thirsty and yearning.
I swallow as though my life depends on it.
33
Jeremiah Blake
It’searly,three,maybefour o’clock in the morning, when the insanity of what I’ve done hits me. I got home hours ago, carried here by lust so leaden it kept me upright until I flopped into bed. The taste of Ben Stirling burned a path down the back of my throat and every time I swallowed, I could feel where he’d been.
I can still feel where he was, though given how long it’s been, it’s probably psychosomatic. I wouldn’t put it past me to be coming down with an ailment caused by questionable mental health and poor decision-making. I really wouldn’t. I rode the wave of blowjob euphoria all the way to the beach. All I did for hours,hours, after getting in bed was jack my dick with maniacal zeal.
It took three orgasms for clarity to hit, and holy shit, the staggering weight of the regret when it did. I’ve been in a cold sweat that won’t relent ever since. A hot shower hasn’t helped in the slightest. The lusty fog has lifted, and all I’m left with is the cold, harsh glare of reality—I blew a drunk straight guy who has been very open and honest with me about the fact that he’s grieving. Not only that, he’s my neighbor. He lives directly next door to me. I literally can’t get on or off my property without walking past his house.
I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, I have, but this will take some beating. I’ve put myself directly in the epicenter of a situation so awkward I honestly don’t know how best to handle it. Without being histrionic, moving might be my best option. No. Not my best option, my only option.
I’ve been with guys who’ve regretted me afterward, and it’s horrendous. It doesn’t get easier with time. If anything, it gets worse.
What makes this time worse than all the other times rolled into one is that I care what Ben thinks of me. I truly care. I care so much that my eyes sting and my throat closes when I think of him looking at me with disgust. I care so much that when the tears start to roll, there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
The problem is that I like Ben.
I like him from the bottom of my heart.
I like him so much I’m almost delirious with like.
I can’t stand the thought of my life without him. I know I survived for twenty-seven years without him, and I know I’ve only known him for eight weeks and three days, but that doesn’t seem to matter. I can’t stand the thought of a day when I don’t talk to him or see his beautiful face. I physically can’t stand it.
