- Joined
- Jul 27, 2020
- Posts
- 36
- Media
- 0
- Likes
- 209
- Points
- 168
- Location
- London, United Kingdom
- Verification
- View
- Sexuality
- 80% Gay, 20% Straight
- Gender
- Male
The room was stifling, heavy with the scent of sweat, damp, and something unmistakably male. It was half past one in the morning, and sleep remained elusive. My mattress had turned into a sponge of perspiration. On the other side of the makeshift partition we’d erected from chipboard, Ben lay in the dark. Through the gap above our crude wall, I could hear him breathing—loudly, but not with the steady rhythm of someone asleep. I lay there, alone in my boxers, staring into the unseen ceiling, listening to his snuffling and the occasional muted cough. My own body was clammy. I ran a hand across my chest, watched my fingers move in the darkness, and felt the prickling stir of an erection, for no reason I could name.
“Have you got any water? Or anything to drink?” he asked suddenly. His voice was muffled through the flimsy barrier, as though he were speaking into his pillow.
“Only the sparkling water I put in the fridge—it probably hasn’t chilled yet.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I got up, made my way to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. Everything inside was tepid. I chose the least warm bottle and walked to his room, the door left open in a futile attempt at air circulation. I saw his hand stretch out. Long fingers closed around the bottle. I lingered a moment, listening to him drink—deep swallows, a throat working—and then the silence that followed.
“Thanks,” he said.
“No problem.”
Still I remained, in the dark. I couldn’t say why. Perhaps my body was waiting for something my mind hadn’t yet dared articulate.
“Fancy a joint?” I asked at last.
“Now?”
“Better than sweating and not sleeping.”
He paused. “Alright.”
We sat on the rooftop terrace. Both in shorts, nothing else. No shirts. His back shimmered under the streetlamps below. The concrete ledge beneath us still radiated the heat of the day. The city had gone still, save for the distant whine of a scooter. We smoked in silence. Every so often, I glanced at his thighs—tight with muscle, tanned, damp with sweat that wouldn’t relent. Ben had something dishevelled and yet contained about him, something elusive. He’d never declared an interest in girls, but everything about him was straight-edged, languid in its masculinity. And still—there he was. With me. Half-naked. Legs spread in that way men sit when they don’t expect anyone to do anything about it.
“Have you ever kissed a bloke?” he asked suddenly.
I nodded. “You?”
He shrugged. “Nah.”
“But you’ve thought about it?”
He gave a hoarse little laugh. “Sometimes.”
There it was. That word. Sometimes. Enough ambiguity to mean nothing, enough weight to mean everything. We sat on in silence. I felt my heartbeat slow, my body heavy with heat and something else. Anticipation. When the joint was nearly finished, I said, “I’m going to shower.”
“Can I go first?”
“Why?”
“I’m boiling.”
“So am I.”
A beat of quiet. Then: “We could go together...”
A joke. A test. And not a joke at all. He looked at me sideways, that lazy sarcasm he often used to fracture anything too sincere. But he stood up. Followed me. Neither of us spoke as we entered the bathroom.
We stood facing one another—two boys in their early twenties. Both slightly too fit, slightly too neglected. He kicked off his shorts. I pulled down my boxers. I looked at him. There was no shame. We were too far gone in heat. His cock hung long and heavy against his thigh, a thick patch of trimmed pubic hair and shaved balls beneath it. His nipples were hard and I felt a compulsion to lick them, to put my mouth on him as if it were a natural conclusion.
The water thundered hot from the showerhead. We stood side by side at first, our eyes on the tiled floor. I watched the slope of his shoulder, the curve of his neck, the line of his jaw. Then his hands. He half-turned towards me. Our eyes met. There was a challenge in his gaze.
I don’t know who moved first. Perhaps I did. Perhaps he did. Perhaps it was the steam, the knowledge that no one could see us, no one could stop us. Our bodies came together—chest to chest, wet skin pressing close. His breath was warm against my neck. I kissed him. Not softly. Greedily. As if I had been waiting weeks. He bit my lower lip; his hand slid along my side, to my arse, and pulled me in. It was as if we’d broken a seal. As if we were finally allowed. Our cocks, hardening, pressed together. I felt his heat, the weight of him. He pushed me back against the wall—my spine to the slick tiles, his hips pinning mine. My hands roamed his back, his ass. Firm. Solid. Everything about him felt like a body wanting to ram itself into something.
“Do you want this?” I whispered.
“I don’t know,” he panted. “But I’m not going to stop.”
I sank to my knees. His hand moved to my hair—possessive, not rough. I looked up. His face, wet with water, eyes half-lidded. His cock stood upright, gleaming, the head flushed red-pink, veins prominent. I licked it. Tentative, at first. Then not. I took him into my mouth, let him slide in deep. I tasted salt—skin, precum, warmth. He exhaled sharply. His thighs tensed.
“Fuck, Luke,” he murmured.
I moved slowly. He began to move with me—no words, just sounds. His breathing. His moans. He pushed deeper. For a moment I thought he might come, but he pulled back. Pulled me up. Pressed me once more to the wall and kissed me fiercely. His tongue insistent in my mouth. His hips grinding into me.
I moved slowly, and Ben began to follow my rhythm. No words — only sounds. His breathing, his moans. He pushed me deeper, and tears sprang to my eyes. I gasped through my nose like a drowning swimmer. For a moment, I thought he might come, but instead he pulled out, hauled me upright, shoved me back against the tiles and kissed me like a man possessed. His hips grinding against me, his tongue deep in my mouth. He needed to taste himself on me, just as I had tasted him.
Roughly, Ben spun me round. I felt his hand between my buttocks — searching. Finding. Pressing. His other hand opened me. He brought his finger to my mouth, and instinctively I took it in. Sucked. His finger slid inside me — slow, unpractised, yet determined. First one. Then two. No lubricant. Only water, spit, and an urgency that seemed to make everything smooth.
And then I felt him. He entered me, slowly but without hesitation. I bit my lip — a cry escaped. The pain flared and then melted into heat. He held my hips, his hard abdomen against my back. And he moved.
First slow. Then quicker.
His breath in my ear.
My hand against the wall.
I groaned. He whispered expletives — said how fucking hot it was. And I never wanted him to stop.
He came suddenly, with a long, deep thrust. His body locked against mine. A low, guttural growl from his chest. I felt him, warm and pulsing inside me. He stood there for a moment, arms wrapped around my torso, his face against my shoulder. Then he withdrew.
I turned to face him. His eyes were red. His face tired. But he was smiling.
“That was…”
I wanted to speak, but he pressed a finger to my lips. “Not you, yet,” he whispered.
Before I could answer, he knelt — just like that. Knees on the wet bathroom floor, hands on my hips. I stood against the wall, still panting, my cock half-hard, heavy with everything that had just passed. He looked at it as though he’d never seen it properly before. As if he wanted to know how I sounded, how I tasted, how I moved.
He licked my stomach first, slowly, just above the hairline. His tongue warm, deliberate. Then downward — over my cock, around my balls. He teased them with flicks of his tongue, punctuated by firm, open-mouthed kisses. My breath caught. I placed a hand on his head. He didn’t look up, only opened his mouth — took me in, slowly, fully. As if he’d done it before. Or dreamt of it.
“Jesus, Ben,” I murmured.
He didn’t reply. Only sucked. Deeper. Faster.
His lips tight, his tongue swirling over the head. I could feel him losing control — his hands clenched my ass, a finger slipped back inside me, pulling me in. He was truly sucking me now. Wet. Hungry. The shower still ran, but I heard only him — the suction, his breath, the slap of skin against skin. I had no choice but to fuck his mouth, in and out, in and out. His eyes caught mine — urging me, daring me. He gagged slightly, gasped for breath, but never stopped.
My legs began to tremble. I didn’t want to push him off, but I was faltering. He held me steady, gripping my ass. I felt it coming — fast, raw, scorching. “I’m coming,” I panted.
He kept his eyes on mine — so resolute.
He didn’t let go.
I came deep in his mouth. A shock through my spine, my stomach clenching, hands in his hair. He swallowed, kept sucking, until I sagged, until it hurt with oversensitivity. Only then did he release me. His lips flushed, his face damp.
He stood. His breathing steady. His gaze briefly adrift — but never ashamed.
“Now we’re finished,” he said.
We sat naked on the bathroom floor, silent. I looked at his thighs, still glistening. His hands resting on his knees. Everything about him seemed both taut and emptied.
“What now?” I asked quietly.
He didn’t look at me.
“I don’t know.”
In bed I turned to face the wardrobe. On the other mattress I heard him shift. His breath slowed. He was sleeping — or pretending to.
The early morning sun lay in rectangular strips across the floor, as if the day insisted on revealing itself. I lay in bed, shirtless and still sticky from the heat. I’d just opened a book I’d been ignoring for weeks when I heard footsteps in the hallway. No hurry. No hesitation. Only the soft tapping of bare feet on linoleum.
Ben stood suddenly in the doorway.
His shoulder rested lazily against the frame, a bottle of sparkling water in his hand. His unruly curls wet — with sweat, or perhaps a splash of water to cool down. He looked at me with that half-smile of his, always too lazy to be cocky.
“You’re still awake,” he said.
I shrugged. “So are you.”
“Mm.” He placed the bottle on my desk, stepped into the room and stopped half a metre from my bed. “You know what I was thinking?”
I looked at him, waited.
“Since we’ve already done it…” He paused, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “It doesn’t really count anymore, does it? And this heat — it’s driving me mad, Luke. I’m fucking horny. So…”
His gaze drifted slowly over me — from my chest to my stomach, to where my cock pressed lazily against a thin boxer.
“So?” I asked.
“So why would we stop now?” He sat at the edge of the bed. His thigh brushed my foot. His body still sticky with heat, his scent still thick in my head. My heart kicked hard. A chill ran down my spine, though it was twenty-eight degrees.
His answer wasn’t a word, but a hand on my knee. Warm. Heavy. His thumb tracing slow circles. I was still half upright, my back against the headboard. He looked up at me, eyes darker than usual, like he was diving into something inside himself he normally kept closed.
Then he climbed on top of me. His knees straddling my thighs. His face close to mine. We looked at each other, breathing in sync. He leaned in and kissed me. Slower than before. Deeper. His tongue soft and smooth, his mouth warm and full. There was no rush, no steam. No shower. Just this bed and this heat and his body hanging over mine like it belonged there.
My hands found his back. Warm, damp, muscular. He pressed his hips against me. I felt his half-hard cock against my stomach. He sucked gently on my earlobe. Ben started tugging at my boxers—impatient. I lifted my hips and he pulled them down. My cock slapped against my belly, hard and throbbing. His gaze slid over it. No fear. No rejection. Just curiosity. Like he wanted to pick up exactly where he’d left off.
He moved lower. His lips on my nipples, licking, softly biting. His fingers on my stomach, my hip, down to my balls. He cupped them like he was testing how much I could take. Then Ben sank lower and took me into his mouth.
Slowly. Leisurely. His tongue circled my head, his lips sealing around it like he wanted to taste me. My head dropped back. A moan escaped. He squeezed my thighs. Took more of me. I felt his throat tighten, heard him breathing through his nose. Everything about him was deliberate.
I looked down. His curls stuck to his forehead. His eyes half-closed and rolled back. He sucked me like I was his. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. I groaned, louder now, like shame and awkwardness had passed. Ben didn’t stop. My hand found his head, stroked the back of his neck. Then I pulled him up. He let me guide him, came up on all fours above me.
I stripped off his shirt. His skin warm and glistening. I ran my hands over his back, his ass, pulled down his shorts. I felt his cock—thick and wet at the tip. He leaned into me, our bodies rubbing, sliding together.
“What are we doing? And why don’t I want to stop?” I whispered.
He swallowed and rolled onto his back beside me. Lazily put his arms behind his head, fingers hooked around the headboard. I smelled his armpits, sweat, cedar, something deeply male. Ben bent his legs slightly, like he was ready for me. Open and welcoming.
“Then do it,” he said, his voice deep and commanding.
No hesitation. No more games. I kissed his hip, his inner thigh. Licked along his balls. He gasped. My fingers found their way to his opening. Warm, damp. I licked toward it, circled with my tongue, pushed in. His body tensed, then relaxed. He moaned. His hand in my hair.
I kept going—licking, fingering—until he trembled and pulled back. “Now,” he said, hoarse. I grabbed lube from under the bed. He sighed, lifted his ass. I took two clammy pillows and tucked them under him. Ben pumped the cold gel onto his fingers, smeared it on my cock, then pushed two fingers into himself. I brought myself to his opening. Searched. Found it and pushed gently. He tensed, breathed deep, and I slid in.
Hot. Tight muscles closing around me. His body below mine, straining, surrendering. I bent down and kissed his lips. Ben groaned into my mouth. “Keep going,” he said.
I moved. At first slow, pulsing. His legs wrapped around my waist, hands on my shoulders. I looked at him. That expression—half turned away but without shame. Just surrender. He was open, raw, available. Like he’d finally let something go.
I pushed deeper, felt his body adjust to mine. He moved with me, lifting his hips to meet mine. Our bellies pressed together. His cock between us, slick with precum. I spat in my hand and wrapped it around him. Rubbed his tip, stroked him in rhythm with my thrusts. His eyes locked on mine—wide with confusion and pleasure. It felt filthy and sexy. Ben took over, grabbed his own cock, stroking faster, in his own rhythm. I roamed his body with both hands, rough, insistent. Played with his nipples, pushed fingers into his mouth, laid a heavy hand on his throat. I didn’t know what was happening, how I could feel this free, this wildly turned on. Ben’s mouth hung open. I don’t know why I did it, but I spat straight into his mouth. He seemed startled, but his body gave him away. He clenched tighter around my cock, jacked himself off harder.
“Fuck,” he growled. His head fell back, eyes rolling. His neck taut.
I moved faster. Fists pressed into the damp mattress. Hard thrusts now. Deep and fast, like I wanted to punish him. Everything in me wanted to feel him. Fill him. He moaned, almost screamed.
“Luke… Jesus… I’m gonna—”
His whole body seized and I felt it—warm spurts between us, his cock pulsing against my stomach. He jolted, almost sobbed with the force of it. I wiped a streak of cum from his belly with two fingers, kept my eyes on him, brought it to my mouth. I growled as I leaned in to kiss him, while both of us tasted him. And me—I couldn’t hold back any longer. My rhythm turned frantic, rougher. Pulling nearly all the way out just to slam back in. His hands dug into my shoulders. I heard moaning. Me. Him.
Then I came. Deep inside him. My face beside his, pressed into the sweaty mattress. My stomach trembling. My heartbeat in my cock. He held me. Didn’t let go. Not for a second.
We stayed like that. Him under me, me inside him, our bodies sweating, shaking, tangled like animals who had just discovered each other.
After a few seconds, or minutes, or hours, I rolled off him. He stared at the ceiling.
I looked at him.
“Ben?” I asked quietly.
He turned his head. His eyes weren’t afraid. Just blurry. Like he hadn’t landed yet.
“I thought I was straight,” he said.
I laughed. “Maybe you are.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know how straight it is to get fucked by a guy and enjoy it. Maybe it doesn’t matter.”
The days after, we didn’t talk about it. We ate, slept, went to lectures. He joked around like always. I laughed along. But every time he walked past me, too close, I felt his skin again. The pressure of his hips. The taste of him in my mouth. His cum inside me. No lingering glances. No touches.
I don’t regret it. Not then. Not now.
And still, everything afterwards felt like an echo of that night. Residual heat. In my body. In the room. In him.
And in me, he never fully left.
Maybe that’s okay.
Maybe.
“Have you got any water? Or anything to drink?” he asked suddenly. His voice was muffled through the flimsy barrier, as though he were speaking into his pillow.
“Only the sparkling water I put in the fridge—it probably hasn’t chilled yet.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I got up, made my way to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. Everything inside was tepid. I chose the least warm bottle and walked to his room, the door left open in a futile attempt at air circulation. I saw his hand stretch out. Long fingers closed around the bottle. I lingered a moment, listening to him drink—deep swallows, a throat working—and then the silence that followed.
“Thanks,” he said.
“No problem.”
Still I remained, in the dark. I couldn’t say why. Perhaps my body was waiting for something my mind hadn’t yet dared articulate.
“Fancy a joint?” I asked at last.
“Now?”
“Better than sweating and not sleeping.”
He paused. “Alright.”
We sat on the rooftop terrace. Both in shorts, nothing else. No shirts. His back shimmered under the streetlamps below. The concrete ledge beneath us still radiated the heat of the day. The city had gone still, save for the distant whine of a scooter. We smoked in silence. Every so often, I glanced at his thighs—tight with muscle, tanned, damp with sweat that wouldn’t relent. Ben had something dishevelled and yet contained about him, something elusive. He’d never declared an interest in girls, but everything about him was straight-edged, languid in its masculinity. And still—there he was. With me. Half-naked. Legs spread in that way men sit when they don’t expect anyone to do anything about it.
“Have you ever kissed a bloke?” he asked suddenly.
I nodded. “You?”
He shrugged. “Nah.”
“But you’ve thought about it?”
He gave a hoarse little laugh. “Sometimes.”
There it was. That word. Sometimes. Enough ambiguity to mean nothing, enough weight to mean everything. We sat on in silence. I felt my heartbeat slow, my body heavy with heat and something else. Anticipation. When the joint was nearly finished, I said, “I’m going to shower.”
“Can I go first?”
“Why?”
“I’m boiling.”
“So am I.”
A beat of quiet. Then: “We could go together...”
A joke. A test. And not a joke at all. He looked at me sideways, that lazy sarcasm he often used to fracture anything too sincere. But he stood up. Followed me. Neither of us spoke as we entered the bathroom.
We stood facing one another—two boys in their early twenties. Both slightly too fit, slightly too neglected. He kicked off his shorts. I pulled down my boxers. I looked at him. There was no shame. We were too far gone in heat. His cock hung long and heavy against his thigh, a thick patch of trimmed pubic hair and shaved balls beneath it. His nipples were hard and I felt a compulsion to lick them, to put my mouth on him as if it were a natural conclusion.
The water thundered hot from the showerhead. We stood side by side at first, our eyes on the tiled floor. I watched the slope of his shoulder, the curve of his neck, the line of his jaw. Then his hands. He half-turned towards me. Our eyes met. There was a challenge in his gaze.
I don’t know who moved first. Perhaps I did. Perhaps he did. Perhaps it was the steam, the knowledge that no one could see us, no one could stop us. Our bodies came together—chest to chest, wet skin pressing close. His breath was warm against my neck. I kissed him. Not softly. Greedily. As if I had been waiting weeks. He bit my lower lip; his hand slid along my side, to my arse, and pulled me in. It was as if we’d broken a seal. As if we were finally allowed. Our cocks, hardening, pressed together. I felt his heat, the weight of him. He pushed me back against the wall—my spine to the slick tiles, his hips pinning mine. My hands roamed his back, his ass. Firm. Solid. Everything about him felt like a body wanting to ram itself into something.
“Do you want this?” I whispered.
“I don’t know,” he panted. “But I’m not going to stop.”
I sank to my knees. His hand moved to my hair—possessive, not rough. I looked up. His face, wet with water, eyes half-lidded. His cock stood upright, gleaming, the head flushed red-pink, veins prominent. I licked it. Tentative, at first. Then not. I took him into my mouth, let him slide in deep. I tasted salt—skin, precum, warmth. He exhaled sharply. His thighs tensed.
“Fuck, Luke,” he murmured.
I moved slowly. He began to move with me—no words, just sounds. His breathing. His moans. He pushed deeper. For a moment I thought he might come, but he pulled back. Pulled me up. Pressed me once more to the wall and kissed me fiercely. His tongue insistent in my mouth. His hips grinding into me.
I moved slowly, and Ben began to follow my rhythm. No words — only sounds. His breathing, his moans. He pushed me deeper, and tears sprang to my eyes. I gasped through my nose like a drowning swimmer. For a moment, I thought he might come, but instead he pulled out, hauled me upright, shoved me back against the tiles and kissed me like a man possessed. His hips grinding against me, his tongue deep in my mouth. He needed to taste himself on me, just as I had tasted him.
Roughly, Ben spun me round. I felt his hand between my buttocks — searching. Finding. Pressing. His other hand opened me. He brought his finger to my mouth, and instinctively I took it in. Sucked. His finger slid inside me — slow, unpractised, yet determined. First one. Then two. No lubricant. Only water, spit, and an urgency that seemed to make everything smooth.
And then I felt him. He entered me, slowly but without hesitation. I bit my lip — a cry escaped. The pain flared and then melted into heat. He held my hips, his hard abdomen against my back. And he moved.
First slow. Then quicker.
His breath in my ear.
My hand against the wall.
I groaned. He whispered expletives — said how fucking hot it was. And I never wanted him to stop.
He came suddenly, with a long, deep thrust. His body locked against mine. A low, guttural growl from his chest. I felt him, warm and pulsing inside me. He stood there for a moment, arms wrapped around my torso, his face against my shoulder. Then he withdrew.
I turned to face him. His eyes were red. His face tired. But he was smiling.
“That was…”
I wanted to speak, but he pressed a finger to my lips. “Not you, yet,” he whispered.
Before I could answer, he knelt — just like that. Knees on the wet bathroom floor, hands on my hips. I stood against the wall, still panting, my cock half-hard, heavy with everything that had just passed. He looked at it as though he’d never seen it properly before. As if he wanted to know how I sounded, how I tasted, how I moved.
He licked my stomach first, slowly, just above the hairline. His tongue warm, deliberate. Then downward — over my cock, around my balls. He teased them with flicks of his tongue, punctuated by firm, open-mouthed kisses. My breath caught. I placed a hand on his head. He didn’t look up, only opened his mouth — took me in, slowly, fully. As if he’d done it before. Or dreamt of it.
“Jesus, Ben,” I murmured.
He didn’t reply. Only sucked. Deeper. Faster.
His lips tight, his tongue swirling over the head. I could feel him losing control — his hands clenched my ass, a finger slipped back inside me, pulling me in. He was truly sucking me now. Wet. Hungry. The shower still ran, but I heard only him — the suction, his breath, the slap of skin against skin. I had no choice but to fuck his mouth, in and out, in and out. His eyes caught mine — urging me, daring me. He gagged slightly, gasped for breath, but never stopped.
My legs began to tremble. I didn’t want to push him off, but I was faltering. He held me steady, gripping my ass. I felt it coming — fast, raw, scorching. “I’m coming,” I panted.
He kept his eyes on mine — so resolute.
He didn’t let go.
I came deep in his mouth. A shock through my spine, my stomach clenching, hands in his hair. He swallowed, kept sucking, until I sagged, until it hurt with oversensitivity. Only then did he release me. His lips flushed, his face damp.
He stood. His breathing steady. His gaze briefly adrift — but never ashamed.
“Now we’re finished,” he said.
We sat naked on the bathroom floor, silent. I looked at his thighs, still glistening. His hands resting on his knees. Everything about him seemed both taut and emptied.
“What now?” I asked quietly.
He didn’t look at me.
“I don’t know.”
In bed I turned to face the wardrobe. On the other mattress I heard him shift. His breath slowed. He was sleeping — or pretending to.
The early morning sun lay in rectangular strips across the floor, as if the day insisted on revealing itself. I lay in bed, shirtless and still sticky from the heat. I’d just opened a book I’d been ignoring for weeks when I heard footsteps in the hallway. No hurry. No hesitation. Only the soft tapping of bare feet on linoleum.
Ben stood suddenly in the doorway.
His shoulder rested lazily against the frame, a bottle of sparkling water in his hand. His unruly curls wet — with sweat, or perhaps a splash of water to cool down. He looked at me with that half-smile of his, always too lazy to be cocky.
“You’re still awake,” he said.
I shrugged. “So are you.”
“Mm.” He placed the bottle on my desk, stepped into the room and stopped half a metre from my bed. “You know what I was thinking?”
I looked at him, waited.
“Since we’ve already done it…” He paused, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “It doesn’t really count anymore, does it? And this heat — it’s driving me mad, Luke. I’m fucking horny. So…”
His gaze drifted slowly over me — from my chest to my stomach, to where my cock pressed lazily against a thin boxer.
“So?” I asked.
“So why would we stop now?” He sat at the edge of the bed. His thigh brushed my foot. His body still sticky with heat, his scent still thick in my head. My heart kicked hard. A chill ran down my spine, though it was twenty-eight degrees.
His answer wasn’t a word, but a hand on my knee. Warm. Heavy. His thumb tracing slow circles. I was still half upright, my back against the headboard. He looked up at me, eyes darker than usual, like he was diving into something inside himself he normally kept closed.
Then he climbed on top of me. His knees straddling my thighs. His face close to mine. We looked at each other, breathing in sync. He leaned in and kissed me. Slower than before. Deeper. His tongue soft and smooth, his mouth warm and full. There was no rush, no steam. No shower. Just this bed and this heat and his body hanging over mine like it belonged there.
My hands found his back. Warm, damp, muscular. He pressed his hips against me. I felt his half-hard cock against my stomach. He sucked gently on my earlobe. Ben started tugging at my boxers—impatient. I lifted my hips and he pulled them down. My cock slapped against my belly, hard and throbbing. His gaze slid over it. No fear. No rejection. Just curiosity. Like he wanted to pick up exactly where he’d left off.
He moved lower. His lips on my nipples, licking, softly biting. His fingers on my stomach, my hip, down to my balls. He cupped them like he was testing how much I could take. Then Ben sank lower and took me into his mouth.
Slowly. Leisurely. His tongue circled my head, his lips sealing around it like he wanted to taste me. My head dropped back. A moan escaped. He squeezed my thighs. Took more of me. I felt his throat tighten, heard him breathing through his nose. Everything about him was deliberate.
I looked down. His curls stuck to his forehead. His eyes half-closed and rolled back. He sucked me like I was his. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. I groaned, louder now, like shame and awkwardness had passed. Ben didn’t stop. My hand found his head, stroked the back of his neck. Then I pulled him up. He let me guide him, came up on all fours above me.
I stripped off his shirt. His skin warm and glistening. I ran my hands over his back, his ass, pulled down his shorts. I felt his cock—thick and wet at the tip. He leaned into me, our bodies rubbing, sliding together.
“What are we doing? And why don’t I want to stop?” I whispered.
He swallowed and rolled onto his back beside me. Lazily put his arms behind his head, fingers hooked around the headboard. I smelled his armpits, sweat, cedar, something deeply male. Ben bent his legs slightly, like he was ready for me. Open and welcoming.
“Then do it,” he said, his voice deep and commanding.
No hesitation. No more games. I kissed his hip, his inner thigh. Licked along his balls. He gasped. My fingers found their way to his opening. Warm, damp. I licked toward it, circled with my tongue, pushed in. His body tensed, then relaxed. He moaned. His hand in my hair.
I kept going—licking, fingering—until he trembled and pulled back. “Now,” he said, hoarse. I grabbed lube from under the bed. He sighed, lifted his ass. I took two clammy pillows and tucked them under him. Ben pumped the cold gel onto his fingers, smeared it on my cock, then pushed two fingers into himself. I brought myself to his opening. Searched. Found it and pushed gently. He tensed, breathed deep, and I slid in.
Hot. Tight muscles closing around me. His body below mine, straining, surrendering. I bent down and kissed his lips. Ben groaned into my mouth. “Keep going,” he said.
I moved. At first slow, pulsing. His legs wrapped around my waist, hands on my shoulders. I looked at him. That expression—half turned away but without shame. Just surrender. He was open, raw, available. Like he’d finally let something go.
I pushed deeper, felt his body adjust to mine. He moved with me, lifting his hips to meet mine. Our bellies pressed together. His cock between us, slick with precum. I spat in my hand and wrapped it around him. Rubbed his tip, stroked him in rhythm with my thrusts. His eyes locked on mine—wide with confusion and pleasure. It felt filthy and sexy. Ben took over, grabbed his own cock, stroking faster, in his own rhythm. I roamed his body with both hands, rough, insistent. Played with his nipples, pushed fingers into his mouth, laid a heavy hand on his throat. I didn’t know what was happening, how I could feel this free, this wildly turned on. Ben’s mouth hung open. I don’t know why I did it, but I spat straight into his mouth. He seemed startled, but his body gave him away. He clenched tighter around my cock, jacked himself off harder.
“Fuck,” he growled. His head fell back, eyes rolling. His neck taut.
I moved faster. Fists pressed into the damp mattress. Hard thrusts now. Deep and fast, like I wanted to punish him. Everything in me wanted to feel him. Fill him. He moaned, almost screamed.
“Luke… Jesus… I’m gonna—”
His whole body seized and I felt it—warm spurts between us, his cock pulsing against my stomach. He jolted, almost sobbed with the force of it. I wiped a streak of cum from his belly with two fingers, kept my eyes on him, brought it to my mouth. I growled as I leaned in to kiss him, while both of us tasted him. And me—I couldn’t hold back any longer. My rhythm turned frantic, rougher. Pulling nearly all the way out just to slam back in. His hands dug into my shoulders. I heard moaning. Me. Him.
Then I came. Deep inside him. My face beside his, pressed into the sweaty mattress. My stomach trembling. My heartbeat in my cock. He held me. Didn’t let go. Not for a second.
We stayed like that. Him under me, me inside him, our bodies sweating, shaking, tangled like animals who had just discovered each other.
After a few seconds, or minutes, or hours, I rolled off him. He stared at the ceiling.
I looked at him.
“Ben?” I asked quietly.
He turned his head. His eyes weren’t afraid. Just blurry. Like he hadn’t landed yet.
“I thought I was straight,” he said.
I laughed. “Maybe you are.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know how straight it is to get fucked by a guy and enjoy it. Maybe it doesn’t matter.”
The days after, we didn’t talk about it. We ate, slept, went to lectures. He joked around like always. I laughed along. But every time he walked past me, too close, I felt his skin again. The pressure of his hips. The taste of him in my mouth. His cum inside me. No lingering glances. No touches.
I don’t regret it. Not then. Not now.
And still, everything afterwards felt like an echo of that night. Residual heat. In my body. In the room. In him.
And in me, he never fully left.
Maybe that’s okay.
Maybe.
