Page 53 of Mongrel
My reward is a breathtaking display as he arches his back and presses his chest out for more. And the noises he makes! Little sighs of pleasure, a deep moan, my name on his lips…I’m so worked up I will explode the moment he touches me.
But I want this to last. And I want us to fuck; I don’t care how. Him in me, me in him. It makes no difference as long as we’re joined, and soon.
I slide lower, pressing his legs aside to make room for myself between them, and suck one nipple into my mouth.
Bowie cries out. He gathers my hair in his fists and clenches, not pushing me away or holding me still, just squeezing like he can’t help it. The tug on my scalp stirs fresh desire. I dig my cock into the bedsheets, thrusting because being still is impossible.
“Please, please,” Bowie murmurs mindlessly.
“Anything,” I breathe against his tender nipple, flushed nearly purple from my attentions.
“Fuck me.” Bowie prods my belly with his dripping cockhead, slicking my skin and sending fire to my balls. “Come inside me. Please.”
Oh, his words. His desperate words. I could listen to him talk for hours, but words like these? I’m out of my mind with lust. I’ve never needed anything as much as I need to be inside Bowie.
Sliding down his tantalizing body, I rush to obey the command. My mouth finds his cock and greedily laps its slippery gift.
Bowie makes a mewling noise. My ears twitch to hear more. He clutches my shoulders, fingers digging into muscle.
It feels so good to have him under me, to relish his desire for me. Sex has never been like this before—so intimate and personal—I could live in this moment forever. Bowie’s cock in my mouth, the delight of sucking, my fingers exploring his entrance, caressing the ring of muscle, easing it loose.
The world folds and collapses to just this room, this bed, this man and his pleasure. I’m dizzy with joy, my body primed for union.
Bowie pulls his knees to his chest, totally exposing himself to my hungry gaze. I let his cock slip from my mouth so I can take in the vision he presents, all naked and open. Again the urge to claim him crashes through me, body and soul. My mouth waters. My cock twitches. My fingers prepare him to take me deep.
“Yes,” he moans, turning the word into a sentence, and the sentence into a story. “Yes, please. I’m ready, Andras, please.”
So polite, my Bowie, even squirming on my fingers and desperate he speaks so prettily.
I slick myself with more oil and climb over him. His embrace is swift and strong. I love the way his arms feel around me, his muscles flexing to hold me tighter. His thighs join the action, closing around my hips.
A desperate sound escapes my throat as I sink into his cool depths.
Bowie joins in harmony, both of us groaning our pleasure.
The tight grip as his body stretches to accommodate mine drives me wild. The need to thrust, to pound, to bite, and to claim wars with the need to take him slowly, to draw out every sweet second of this bliss.
I lose the battle. Or I win it. Both at once.
Bowie rocks into me and whines, “More.”
I won’t deny him. I give him all of me, hard and demanding. His answering cries of rapture urge me on. His eyes flutter closed. His lips, moist and reddened, are irresistible. I claim them too, dropping my mouth to his in a thrusting kiss that mimics our bodies.
He gives me more of his cries, his gasps, his desperate little noises. I want them all. I devour them with glee.
My balls draw tight, painfully so, ready to fill Bowie to the brim. I ride the edge, hovering at the peak of this cliff, but I don’t want to leap alone. I need Bowie with me always. Shifting for a deeper angle, I seek his pleasure, commanding him to come with me.
He obeys.
A full-body shiver that begins in stuttering hips and bursts outward overcomes our rhythm.
Bowie clings to me, and I to him as we quake and tremble against each other, our bodies flying high, mine within his, his around mine. I shudder, holding him close, panting in his arms as my cock pulses and my mind shatters into a million triumphant pieces.
“Bowie, Bowie, Bowie,” I chant against the soft shell of his ear. I kiss him there. And again because one kiss will never be enough. I nuzzle my nose into his silken hair, snuffle his neck, and suck on the skin of his throat.
Bowie moans, his legs keeping me hostage, but I will die a happy prisoner in this trap rather than seek my freedom.
“Andras.” My name takes on new meaning when it springs from Bowie’s lips. As if I am more me with him than without. “My dear Andras.” He turns his head to catch my lips.
