Page 81 of The Legend Next Door
I hold my cock at the base until I see stars as I give him his moment. I wait till I’m weak. Till he’s begging and I’m at death’s door, then I kneel behind him and line my cock up.
I ease myself into him slowly, though every cell in my body screams at me to thrust. He’s snug, very fucking snug, but not too tight. Not so tight it will hurt. I opened him well because I know what I have will feel intense no matter how much I’ve stretched him, but I don’t want to tip the scale to pain. I want him to think of his first time with me for the rest of his life, and every time he does, I want him to remember nothing but pleasure.
He tenses and relaxes, tenses and relaxes, as I work my way in. The pressure on the head of my dick is almost enough to make me lose my mind. Almost enough to make me come apart. His muscle circles me, a sweet, warm vice that accepts me over spluttered swear words and guttural moans.
In a matter of seconds, I’ve gone from being outside on my own to inside somewhere warm. Inside someone warm. The glide is smooth. Magic. Butter melting. The resistance is perfect.
“Oh, baby,” I croon. “You’re doing so well.” I have his hips in my hands and I’m pulling him onto me, deeper each time. “You’re taking me likesucha good boy. Can you take a little more?”
He throws his head back as I give it to him, pushing himself onto his hands when I’m fully seated in him. His cry is ancient. Ageless. A battle cry. A victory cry.
I slow my pace out of necessity. I’m dizzy. Drunk. Pulse racing unbridled. All I can feel, all I can think, all that exists, is the velvety tissue clamped around my cock and the soft, racing thrum of Jeremiah’s heart beating inside him.
I’m going to come.
I know this. I dread and welcome it in equal measure. I need it. My sanity and possibly my survival depend on it, but I don’t want this to end. I want stay here forever inside him.
His body is as tense and primed as mine. Maybe more.
“Don’t come,” I rasp. “Please, baby, please don’t come.”
It’s the last thing I say or think as my own choice is taken from me. The pressure, the urge, the need are too great to ignore. My orgasm reaches into me and clenches. My balls, my muscles, my insides, my spine. Everything tightens.
There’s a quiet, heady moment. A kind of peace.
Then, a violent eruption.
Thick, hot lava spews out of me in endless ropey spurts. I’m hot inside and out. On fire. Irrepressibly strong and completely weak. My life force drains out of me and into Jeremiah, who willingly receives it. All of it. Every drop.
He doesn’t move or try to touch his dick despite the fact that his entire body is shaking.
“Flip over,” I tell him when the last of my pleasure has been wrung out of me.
He obeys quickly but with difficulty, his limbs stiff and seemingly not under his full control. His movements are jerky and lacking his usual grace.
As soon as the back of his head hits the pillow, his hands fall open on either side of his face. Despite the futility of it, my dick throbs helplessly at the sight.
Jeremiah is primed, every muscle in his torso clenched hard enough to snap something. Legs wide open, toes curled.
I don’t waste a second. I stuff three fingers into his sloppy, gaping hole and swallow as much of his dick as I possibly can.
I bob my head and suck gently, tiny spurts of precum urging me on as I feel around inside him until my fingertips graze against something firm. A small rubbery swelling that makes Jeremiah’s hair stand on end. His entire body arches, head and feet the only part of him making contact with the bed.
He swells in my mouth, impossibly, and then he swells again.
His wail when he comes is torn from his throat. From his chest. From something deeper and lower. It’s ripped directly from whatever it is that makes him Jeremiah.
I’m on my back, under a pile of floppy arms and legs, by the time I come back to a version of myself that I recognize. I’m leaden. I can’t move, not that I want to. I’m unbearably light at the same time. Things that belong on the inside of me are on the outside. Things that are mine don’t feel like they belong to me anymore and things that should feel small feel overwhelmingly big.
“Are you okay?” asks a sleepy voice that travels through dense fog to get to me.
Jeremiah lifts his head from my chest and blitzes me with a pale blue flare. Ordinarily, I like being the one who’s okay. It’s important to me. It matters, but the truth matters more. I’m boneless. I’m aching, and I’m empty, and I don’t know where I am or how I got here. My eyes sting and something wet trickles down one cheek. I don’t want to upset him, but I want him to know what I’m going through, though I’m not sure how to describe the emotion.
Eventually, I say, “Everything. I feel everything.”
40
Jeremiah Blake
