Author's Note: This scene contains extremely graphic sexual content, and not much else. So. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, God.
Reckless Chapter Sixteen: Bonus Scene
Jamie Goldwyn
Alexander is still dead asleep when I wake up—this is unsurprising. I am always the first one to wake up, especially when I’ve stayed over on the weekend. He is not a morning person, and I wager I’d get pushed off the edge of the bed if I tried to wake him now, so I slip out from under the covers and head to the kitchen in nothing but my boxers to make myself something to eat.
The midget is sitting at the table. I have already prepared myself to glare at him when I realize that, for one of the first times since Bill Anderson’s wedding last April, he’s not wearing a sweatshirt, or red sneakers, or jeans that are so skintight they might as well be painted on. He’s not even wearing the eye makeup. His two-and-a-half-feet-tall body is swathed in light gray sweatpants and a pale blue henley that makes his eyes look even brighter. I cock my head to the side; the whole appearance is slightly less childish and irritating-to-behold than usual.
Sensing my gaze on him, he finally looks up from his paperback and raises his eyebrows at me. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met. My name’s James Goldwyn, I’m here visiting my friend, Alex, who’s asleep in bed right now, and his roommate. Maybe you’ve seen him. He’s about this tall—” I lean over to hold my hand level with my knees, “—wears more eye makeup than a transsexual hooker, dresses like an Escape the Fate concert threw up on him?”
“Fuck off,” Ben says, but he offers no further protest about the description, presumably because Garen was correct when he once tossed off a vague comment about Ben loving that very band. I help myself to one of the cubes of cantaloupe on the plate in front of him, and his hand twitches like he wants to shove me away, though he manages to curb the impulse. When I continue to send pointed looks towards his outfit, he sighs and says, “For fuck’s sake, dude, it’s Sunday morning. I just woke up like, ten minutes ago, obviously I’m not going to be dressed like I usually am. Who the hell would bother putting on eyeliner just to sit in their own kitchen?”
“Beats me. I’m still trying to figure out why you wear it in the first place,” I say, sauntering out into the living room and flopping down on the couch. Because of how small the apartment is, we are still clearly in each other’s line of sight. Perhaps that’s what compels me to let my hand fall, not to the couch itself, but to my lap, where I’m still sporting the vestiges of morning wood. It’s a good move, I decide a moment later. The friction of my palm’s slow rocking against the hardness feels nice, and I can tell that Ben has noticed the motion; his eyes are locked on his book, but they’re unmoving, so I know he isn’t really reading. I kick my legs out, stretching a little, an action that draws his attention back to me, whether he wants it to or not.
Ben arches an eyebrow and inclines his head, eyes flickering downward to the progress of my hand. “Are you planning to spend the entire morning rubbing one out on my couch?”
“What can I say? Berating you for your many shortcomings really gets me going,” I say, curling my lip at him and pressing the heel of my hand more firmly to my erection. In truth, I am just always half-hard in the mornings, but a reasonably large part of me is hoping to make him uncomfortable.
He remains unfazed. “Well, go wake up Alex. That’s what he’s there for. God knows you two have made me listen to enough of that through the walls at night.”
The idea of him lying awake at night, listening to Alexander and me through the walls, of him thinking of Alexander that way at all sends a lightning strike of fury through my chest. Before I am quite aware of what I’m doing, I am arching my back and grinding lewdly against my hand, breathing out, “Christ, McCutcheon, do you even know what you’re talking about? You’ve got about as much sex appeal as roadkill. I’m genuinely shocked you’ve managed to trick Garen into bed as many times as you have, but I’m willing to forgive him and just chalk that up to one of the nastier side effects of four years of near-constant drug abuse. I bet that even when you’re in bed with someone as skilled and gorgeous as he is, you’ve still got no idea what you’re doing. I bet you just have to lie there and take it like a bitch because you don’t know what else to do.”
“You’re not really one to talk, you know.” He smacks the paperback down on the table, giving up all pretense of reading it and turning to face me more properly. I wonder if he realizes that, by turning, he has enabled me to see that he’s at least half-hard in his sweatpants. “I mean, really, you want to give me shit for ‘lying there and taking it like a bitch’? I can hear you when you’re with Alex. I can hear you begging for it. Oh, please fuck me,” he groans out in a poor impression of my accent. “Your cock’s so big, so good, I need it in my ass, please, Alexander.”
Hearing him groan out his best friend’s name, even in the context of mimicking me, is too much to forgive. Wanting nothing more than to see if I can leave him a little discomposed, I slip my hand beneath the waistband of my boxers and wrap a hand around my cock, stroking myself the rest of the way to hardness. A flush rises high on Ben’s pale cheekbones, but he is too stubborn to look away, too much of a constant pain in my ass to back down from any sort of challenge I might throw at him.
“I’m a very vocal lover,” I say, as conversationally as I can. “Keeps things interesting, and you’re a fool if you don’t think your best friend loves hearing me. My best friend, too. Hmm… you know, come to think of it, if I nailed McCall and went deep South enough to fuck my own cousin, I’d have the full set of everyone who was ever stupid enough to lay a hand on you. That’s all of ’em, right? In your whole life, there have only been four boys who were desperate enough to even want to kiss you?”
I can see the muscle working in his jaw as he tries to keep from speaking, but I’m not sure what he would say, anyway. Possibly because it’s true. Probably because he’s embarrassed that it’s true. The head of my cock is straining against the slit in my boxers, peeking out just a little, and I can see that Ben’s eyes are zeroed in on it. I let out a low laugh and murmur, “It’s taken you your entire life to get the sort of play I get in a weekend, McCutcheon. You should be embarrassed that you ever thought you had what it takes to satisfy someone like Garen, someone who’s had so much better. For Christ’s sake, I’m surprised you can even get yourself off. I bet every time you beat off, you have to devote an entire evening to it, because that’s probably how long it takes you to stumble ass-backwards into somethin’ that feels good. I can tell just by looking at you that you’ve got no idea what you’re do—”
“You’ve given an unhealthy amount of thought to what I’m like in bed,” he interrupts. “It’s pretty amusing, because you’re still so wildly off-base about it, if you really think that’s what it’s like. Because I promise you, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Prove it.”
It’s a challenge and a threat and a promise, all rolled up in one, and if there’s anyone in the world who I don’t think has the balls to go for it, it’s Ben McCutcheon. But then, all without the barest change of expression, he strides across the apartment, sinks onto the couch between my parted knees, hooks his fingers over the waistband of my boxers, and pulls them down and off in one solid motion. I am as stunned by the brashness of that move as I was last week, when I suddenly found myself standing in his bedroom with his palm against my crotch. I don’t miss the way his eyes widen slightly at my considerable length, nor do I miss the slight twitch of his own hips towards me, like he is barely capable of restraining himself from grinding against my thigh until he reaches climax. All things considered, it’s probably not too far off-base. I make a gesture towards myself and say, “I know it’s impressive, but it’s not made for staring. Are you planning to get your scrawny ass on me, or what?”
“No,” he says simply, reaching forward so suddenly that I don’t have time to react before he’s slipping three of his fingers into my mouth and rubbing them roughly across the flat of my tongue. “Not this time.”
I jerk my head away from his hand, already preparing to ask him what the hell that’s all about, but then he’s wedging his torso between my knees and reaching down to circle my hole with the tips of spit-slicked fingers. The area is still a bit oversensitive from multiple rounds of fucking from Alexander just a few hours ago; I wager I might even still be just a little bit wet inside from the lube. If Ben is aware of this, it does nothing to dissuade him from sinking his middle finger straight into me, all the way up to the last knuckle.
My body instinctively thrusts back against his hand, but I manage to control myself enough to swallow down any noises that might give me away. The last thing I need in my life is Ben McCutcheon thinking he could do anything to leave me wanting. I level my most unimpressed look at him and say, “Is that all you’ve got, then? It’s a good thing you like to take it, because Lord knows nobody could ever get off from you giving it to him like this.”
The words are an obvious lie, if the way my hard-on is straining and curved up towards my belly is any indication, but the barb makes a delicious little smirk twist across Ben’s mouth. He retracts his hand until just the barest tip of his finger is inside me, then thrusts back in, now with the addition of his ring finger. “Not surprised you can barely feel it, considering what a slut you are. Anybody who gets fucked as often as you do must have a hell of a time finding something that can stretch him to satisfaction.”
“I can barely feel it because you’ve got the smallest hands I’ve ever had on me. I’ve seen squirrels with longer fingers. Come on, more—oh, fuck,” I don’t manage to stop myself from crying out a little when he crooks his fingers at just the right angle. He appears unsurprised by my reaction, and I find myself wondering wildly why the hell I’ve spent four years letting real tops fuck me, when logic clearly dictates that another bottom would better understand what I need from him.
His upper lip is curled back in what might be an ugly smile, but is more likely a sneer. “God, just look at you. I should’ve known you’d love this—”
“Love it? Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t even the best I’ve gotten this weekend. No wonder Travis never got over Garen, if this is the sort of bullshit he had to put up with in bed with you—” His hand spasms against my thigh, as though he’d love nothing more than to draw back and hit me. I rock back onto his hand and say, “At least Garen knows how to finger a man right.”
Ben lunges forward to hiss into my ear, “At least Alex likes me enough to return my fucking phone calls.”
A nearly blinding swell of fury rises up in me at that, and there it is again—that same impulse I felt last week at the party, when all I wanted to do was find some way of touching him that would destroy him completely. It’s the same feeling I had moments before Garen had walked into the room, but now, no one is walking into the room. No one is stopping me this time.
“Alexander likes me plenty,” I bite out, though I’m unsure whether I’m reassuring myself or him, “and if you’re actually dumb enough to have to wonder why, you can get your cock out and let me show you.”
His free hand moves immediately to the drawstring of his sweatpants, though it takes him an eternity to actually get it untied; his motions are clumsy and unpracticed, as though a few weeks in a sling have been enough to make him forget how to move normally. I grow almost instantly impatient and smack his hand aside, making quick work of the string and shoving the material down to his knees so that I can wrap my fingers around his cock. Truthfully, I’m somewhat disappointed to discover that he’s reasonably sized; I’d been hoping he might be poorly-endowed enough that I could have an excuse to laugh at him. Even more surprising than the fact that he’s of average size is the fact that he’s uncut—it seems like something Garen would have mentioned to me before, but oh Lord, it’s not a bad thing at all.
I’m torn between wanting to get him off as quickly as possible, to prove his desperation and my own skill, or wanting to get myself off as quickly as possible so that I can leave him frustrated and wanting. Above me, Ben seems to be having a similar struggle; he thrusts a third finger into me and presses the tips of them right against my prostate, and I buck back against him, twisting my wrist a little on every upward stroke. He leans forward, bracing his hand next to my head on the arm of the couch. The shift in position has him settled between my legs and thrusting into my fist like he’s fucking it, all while I continue to grind back against him and jerk myself off with my other hand. His cock head brushes over the curve of my ass on every push forward; I wonder if he’s doing that on purpose. I wonder why I want it so badly.
“Tell me you’ve got a condom somewhere out here,” I order. By now, I am beyond the point of caring whether or not he thinks I’m desperate for this. I’m so close to finding out what it is the rest of them are all so obsessed with, I’m so goddamn close to understanding what makes Ben McCutcheon so irresistible, and I’ll be damned if I let that slip away from me.
He gives his head a jerky shake in the negative and says, “My room, I keep them in my room, so does Al—”
“I know where he keeps his condoms,” I snarl, and the next thrust of his hips bumps the head of his cock right up against where his fingers are still working me open. It’s too much. “When’s the last time you were tested?”
“What?” he barely manages to groan out as I swipe my thumb across the slit, smearing precum over the tip of his cock.
I scramble to grip his jaw between my fingers so that I can shove his head back far enough for our eyes to meet. If he’s already so pleasure-blinded that he can’t even carry on a simple conversation, I’m not going to be able to stop myself from beating him like he’s the least favorite stepchild. I take my hand off of him—he practically whimpers—just long enough to spit into my palm to slick him up a bit more as I grit out, “I’m negative, for everything. Just got my most recent results back last week. Have you been tested?”
When he gives another twitchy shake of the head, this one is in the affirmative. “Yeah. I’m—fuck, I’m clean.”
“Completely?”
“For fuck’s sake, Goldwyn, I said yes.”
Neither of us attempts to discuss the fact that, if one of us did have something, the other would probably have it anyway, given the convoluted permutations of this group we’re a part of. Still, it’s enough for me, and apparently enough for him, because when I shove his hand away from me and line the blunt head of his dick up with my entrance, he clamps his hands over my hips and pushes in, bottoming out in one swift thrust. It’s only at that moment, when I am all too suddenly stretched around his cock, that I realize just what I’m doing and who I am doing it with. Above me, McCutcheon seems to be having a very similar crisis, if his panicked expression is anything to go by.
“Oh, fuck,” he pants out, and I press my lips together to avoid echoing the sentiment. I can only assume it would sound just as needy and whiny on my lips as it does on his. But then he repeats, “Oh, fuck. What am I doing?”
His words are tinged with revulsion, as though the very concept of participating in this act is shredding his soul. As though I’m not the best he could ever hope to have. I say, “Not a damn thing, right now. You goin’ to move sometime today?”
When he continues to gape at me in absolute stillness, I hook my legs around his and roll us sideways off the couch. We crash to the floor; his back hits the carpet hard enough to leave him stunned, breathless, but I find myself even less concerned for his well-being than usual—a feat in itself, considering my base level of consideration for him would lead me to step over his body if he were dying on the ground in front of me—because the motion has thrust his cock into me deeply, roughly. Ben’s hands spasm on my hips, and I flatten my palms against the fabric of his shirt, the better to fuck myself down onto him as I moan out, “If you’re not planning to actually screw me, at least make yourself useful by stroking me off.”
“What am I, a sex toy?” he hisses.
I shake my head, face tilted up towards the ceiling, and roll my hips down over and over. “I like and respect all of my sex toys so much more than I like and respect you.”
“Yeah? Great. Go use one of them instead, then,” he says, but neither of us attempts to do anything to stop what is happening. I keep grinding down onto him; he keeps staring, awestruck, at my ass sinking over his cock with every buck of my hips.
Truthfully, even though he’s not giving it to me as hard as I love to have men give it, even though he’s weak and submissive and has no idea what he’s doing, even though it’s taken this idiot eighteen years to man up enough to top anyone—nothing ever feels as real as the first time that I sleep with someone new. Every touch, every movement is unexpected and raw, and I’ll die before I admit it, but the shock and newness in Ben’s blue eyes is getting me off so much better than last night with Alexander’s practiced, familiar hands. This is an experience I’d love with anyone else, but with Ben, it just makes me furious and uncomfortable enough to mutter, “It figures you’d find a way to be a bottom even when you’re topping somebody. You’re an embarrassment to—”
“I hate you,” he bursts out, suddenly and loudly enough that I clamp a hand over his mouth so Alexander won’t be woken up by his yelling. He knocks my hand away so hard that the bones in my wrist make a faint popping sound. Before I can even form a rebuke, he sits up and lunges forward, knocking me flat onto my back on the carpet. His dick slips out of me, and I growl, needing to get back that sensation of being filled, and hoping to God above that this boy is finally going to start taking me. He forces my knees apart and towards my chest—I hook my hands under my thighs to keep myself in the position I’m too surprised to argue with—and ducks down to spit onto my opening so that he can thrust back into me, savage with wanting. His hipbones dig into the back of my thighs as he fucks me violently, biting out the words, “I hate you so fucking much, you narcissistic little hypocrite. You—God, you make my life hell just because you’re pissed that Al won’t date you, you act like you’re so into him, but fucking look at yourself.” He knots a hand in my hair and jerks my head forward so I have to watch him drill into me. Truth be told, I only watch for a few seconds before my eyes roll back, anyway. But he keeps thrusting, keeps saying, “Look at how desperate you are, so fucking needy that you’ll spread your legs for anyone, even someone you hate—”
“Wonder what your roommate would say if he woke up and came out here, saw you fucking his boy? But that’s just par for the course with you, you selfish whore. It’s the same thing you did last spring, but at least Garen had to be in another state before you went after Travis. Alexander just had to be in another room. I bet he wouldn’t even be surprised to see you doing this.”
“Maybe,” Ben pants. “But I bet he’d be even less surprised to find out that you’re exactly as easy as everyone thinks you are. I know he fucked you last night—could hear your fucking bitch-moans through the walls—”
“—I bet it turned you on so much, bet you jerked off wishing someone would do you like—”
“—tell me, am I the second guy to nail you in the past twenty-four hours, or did you get it from somebody at the club, too? Maybe more than one person, I don’t know. If it’s this easy to get—”
“—you’re lucky I’m this easy to get, otherwise you’d be in your room right now, fucking your own ass with your fingers and probably crying over—”
Down the hall, I hear the unmistakable blaring of Alexander’s alarm clock. Ben lets out a somewhat panicked noise that has me rolling my eyes so hard I worry I might strain a muscle. He moves to pull out, but I lock my heels around the backs of his thighs and snap, “He always hits the snooze button, no matter what. We have at least five minutes. You fucking finish what you’ve started, you little troll.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“Clearly someone needs to. Now, take your shirt off,” I order. The request shocks him into stillness for half a second, and he stares down at me with wide, blindingly blue eyes. A refusal is already forming on his lips, so I impatiently clarify, “Take your fucking shirt off, unless you want to spend your afternoon cleaning my spunk off your clothes, because in a few minutes, I’m going to be coming all over your chest.”
“Fucking fine,” he grits out, leaning back and stripping off the henley in one motion. He’s paler than a corpse and skinny to the point of unhealthiness, but I am more disturbed than ever when my gaze lands on his left arm, sliced and scarred from shoulder to wrist. Right across the middle of his forearm is the cut that has kept him in the sling for the past few weeks—at least, it must be. It’s the only one that looks like something out of the worst bit of a horror movie, it’s the only part that really makes my stomach turn.
Even through my revulsion, I can’t help but laugh. “Good Lord, you really are fuckin’ crazy, aren’t you?”
“Like you’ve got any room to talk,” he says, finally taking me in hand and beginning to stroke me just the worse side of too rough. He’s using his right hand; the left is flat against the carpet above my right shoulder, bracing himself at the same time that he puts those scars right within reach of my mouth. If he were someone else, if I were someone else, I might be kissing them now. As it is, it takes all of my self control not to sink my teeth into that abused skin, just to see if I can make him scream. He says, “You can pretend to be as disgusted as you want, but it hasn’t turned you off, has it? You’re still rock hard and taking it like a—”
If he says anything after that, his words are drowned out by the cry I’m incapable of containing. I am vaguely aware of him hissing at me to shut up, and much less vaguely aware of him releasing my cock to clamp a hand over my mouth instead, presumably to silence me. His hips are angled just so, and I’m seeing stars every time he presses forward. I fling an arm around his shoulders and drag him down so that my dick is pinned tight between our stomachs. I bite down hard on his hand—he almost can’t silence his own moan at that—until he stops trying to shut me up, then snarl, too low for Alexander to hear down the hall, “I sincerely hope that this is a joke, and not what you’re really like in bed, because this is pathetic. I’d—”
“Say my name,” he whispers into my ear. I have never gone more silent more quickly in my life. That makes him laugh, and god, I can feel the vibration of the sound everywhere he’s touching me. My eyes roll back a little, but it doesn’t count; he can’t see my face from this angle, and I’ve managed to calm my expression by the time he pulls back enough to look at me. His thrusts are shallower now, not because he’s getting close, but because he’s deliberately avoiding giving me what I need to get off. I clamp my jaw shut and dig my fingertips into the backs of his thighs, trying to yank him deeper into me, but he shakes his head and backs off again. “Come on, that’s not the game we’re playing. I know you know the rules—there’s no way Garen hasn’t done this to you before, this is one of his favorite things to do in bed.”
I scrub my palms hard across my face and bite down on my tongue, so close to letting the words spill out. I know exactly what he’s doing, and he’s right—Garen does this all the time, refusing to give it to me until I say his name and ask for it. The problem with this situation is that it’s hot when Garen does it, because I have no problem with begging him for all the things he pretends not to know I need; I’d rather die than ask McCutcheon for a damn thing.
My determination to remain silent must show on my face, because there’s an annoyed set to his jaw now, and he drills in at just the right angle until my mouth pops open and I let out a gasp. He grabs my face in a movement that stings almost like a slap, though all he’s really attempting to do is stop me from closing my mouth again. “Say it,” he hisses, “I’ll make you come, but not unless I get to hear—”
“Ben,” I choke out, unable to hold out any longer, too far gone to care if I’m losing anymore, too gone to care about anything but getting him to just fuck me like he means it. “Fucking Christ, Ben, Ben, I’m saying your fucking name, Ben, are you happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he deadpans, and rams into me, hard like I need it, relentless and brutal and so much better than I ever thought a failure of a man like him would be capable of. I know I’m letting lose with an embarrassing stream of whispered pleas for him to give it to me, harder, oh fuck, right there, so good, right like that, Ben, Ben, his stupid fucking one-syllable name, over and over.
His name is the sound I’m trying to hold in when I finally go over, painting both our bare chests with ropes of cum and biting down on my hand so hard I break the skin. He ducks down and mouths over the column of my throat until he reaches my ear, into which he murmurs, “I’m sorry, you said something about me being pathetic?”
I swipe a hand—the one that isn’t bleeding now—through the streaks of stickiness on my chest and force my fingers into his mouth, curving them over the back of his bottom row of teeth so he can’t say another word. “You’ve got one minute to get yourself off, and if you can’t manage to do that, it’s not my problem. I can’t even pretend to care whether you get off with me or with your own hand.”
He jerks his head away from my hand, though I don’t miss the fact that his tongue darts out to taste the smear of my cum across his bottom lip. “Fuck, is this what you’re always like during sex? I can’t believe Garen has managed to put up with this shit for years—”
There is another round of alarm clock wailing from Alexander’s room, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t getting nervous—he always hits the snooze button once, but very rarely does he bother to hit it again. If the midget can’t manage to finish soon, there’s no chance of us both being dressed and decent again before Alexander comes out of his bedroom. Swallowing the panic I don’t dare let show, I hiss, “Christ, McCutcheon, are you even close?”
“So close,” he chokes out. Not so goddamn composed now that he’s not taunting me into the most humiliating orgasm of my life, is he? “Fuck, your ass—”
“Yeah?” I can’t resist growling back at him. “Funny, you didn’t seem so fond of it earlier, when you were shooting your mouth off about me being a stretched-out slut. Should’ve known you were bullshitting me. You can’t—”
“If you expect me to get off before Al comes out here, you’ll shut up and hurt me.”
I have been waiting seven months for him to ask me for that.
I grab a fistful of his hair and yank him closer. For an instant, he must think I’m going to kiss him, and he must be as disgusted by the idea of it as I know I am, because he makes an attempt to reel back. Instead, I use my grip on his hair to twist his head back—he groans too loudly at that—so that I can sink my teeth into the place where his neck meets his shoulder. He hammers into me at the best, worst angle, slamming against my prostate with every thrust; it’s too much, too soon, and I’m certain that I’m close to passing out from the white-hot sparks of pleasure my body is in no way prepared to feel again yet, especially because of him. To spur him on and finish him off, I dig the nails of my other hand into the soft skin of his back, dragging them down the length of his spine and making him gasp out, “Oh, fuck, that’s—harder, harder, harder,” though I’ve got no idea if he is making a request or simply narrating the viciousness with which his hips are pistoning downward into me. Either way, I repeat the motion, digging deeper into his flesh and trying to see if maybe I can make him bleed a little. He buries his face against my neck and comes in hot spurts deep inside me, his entire body shuddering into me and then going completely still, save the pulsing of his cock in my ass.
Down the hall, I hear the creak of bed springs as Alexander stands. Ben and I scramble away from each other, both of us wincing as his cock leaves me too suddenly. I use my boxers to wipe as much of the stickiness from my chest as I can, because cum-stained underwear’s a hell of a lot easier to overlook or explain away than smears of it across my torso. Once I’ve pulled them back on, I glance over to be certain that Ben has gotten his head out of his ass long enough to find his shirt and pull his pants back up. He’s just finishing tying the string when the door down the hall opens, and we both jump to our feet, staggering apart; I step further into the living room, and he tries to stand near the kitchen counter, but it’s been less then thirty seconds since he stopped coming, so I’m marginally willing to forgive him for the fact that he has to sink into his previously vacated chair at the kitchen table because his legs are shaking too much for him to stand.
Alexander appears in the mouth of the hallway, yawning and pulling on a t-shirt as he walks. He nods to his roommate in greeting, then joins me in the living room and brushes a sleepy kiss to my lips with a murmur of, “Morning.”
“Morning,” I echo, surprised by the sound of my own voice now that it’s not the sex-heavy growl of five minutes ago.
“We have to—” He breaks off to yawn again, then repeats, “We have to go, if you wanna catch the eleven o’clock train back. You should get dressed.”
Nothing has ever been as difficult as maintaining a neutral expression as I stand here, staring into Alexander’s still sleep-heavy eyes and trying to pretend that I’m not slick inside from his best friend’s cum. I smile tightly and say, “Think I’ve got a few minutes to take a quick shower?”
He shakes his head and says, “Not if you don’t want to miss the train.”
“Don’t use double-negatives in my presence,” Ben croaks from the kitchen. Alexander rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother turning to look at him—a wonderful thing, really, since the midget’s face is buried in his trembling hands.
If he’s not going to keep it together long enough for me to get out of this apartment without my boy figuring out what has just transpired, then I have to maintain control. I flash Alexander my most charming smile and say, “Alright, but when nobody wants to sit next to me on the train because I smell like sex, I’m going to tell them to blame you.”
Ben’s hands slide from his face to his hair, gripping it tight as he stares down at the table, eyes wide and posture rigid. Back still turned, Alexander smirks at me and kisses the side of my neck, right over the spot where his best friend pressed his own mouth less than two minutes ago in an attempt to silence himself as he came inside me.
My stupid smile is starting to crack. I’m grateful when, a few moments later, he heads back down the hall to his own bedroom, assuming I will follow. I take five seconds to compose myself, then stride into the kitchen. Ben finally looks up, instinctively alarmed; he rises from his seat, though he’s such a Pygmy it barely makes a difference in his height anyway. I curl my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms, and step too close to him to whisper, “That was the worst sex I’ve ever had in my life.”
“And you’re the worst liar I’ve ever had the misfortune to engage in conversation with,” he says through gritted teeth.
“I’m not lying. I’ve never been more serious about anything in my whole life, and if you ever touch me again, I’ll—”
He touches me again. He grabs my elbow and shoves me around to face the cupboards, pressing me against the kitchen counter, and thrusting a hand into my boxers. “If I ever touch you again, you’ll what?” he asks, though the roughness I assume he must be aiming for is ruined by the way he voice breaks on the last word. “You’ll go right back to saying my name, over and over, like it’s the only word you know?”
I cannot contain a broken moan at the feel of his fingers sliding over the abused, oversensitive edges of my hole, slick and sticky where his cum is still leaking out of me. The noise is enough to shock us both into stillness for just a moment, and then I shove him away from me again. We stare at each other, wild-eyed, for nearly a minute.
“So,” he says finally. “This never fucking happened, right?”
I give a sharp, singular nod and stride down the hall towards Alexander, already doing everything I can to pretend away the memory of those hands on me.
The midget is sitting at the table. I have already prepared myself to glare at him when I realize that, for one of the first times since Bill Anderson’s wedding last April, he’s not wearing a sweatshirt, or red sneakers, or jeans that are so skintight they might as well be painted on. He’s not even wearing the eye makeup. His two-and-a-half-feet-tall body is swathed in light gray sweatpants and a pale blue henley that makes his eyes look even brighter. I cock my head to the side; the whole appearance is slightly less childish and irritating-to-behold than usual.
Sensing my gaze on him, he finally looks up from his paperback and raises his eyebrows at me. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met. My name’s James Goldwyn, I’m here visiting my friend, Alex, who’s asleep in bed right now, and his roommate. Maybe you’ve seen him. He’s about this tall—” I lean over to hold my hand level with my knees, “—wears more eye makeup than a transsexual hooker, dresses like an Escape the Fate concert threw up on him?”
“Fuck off,” Ben says, but he offers no further protest about the description, presumably because Garen was correct when he once tossed off a vague comment about Ben loving that very band. I help myself to one of the cubes of cantaloupe on the plate in front of him, and his hand twitches like he wants to shove me away, though he manages to curb the impulse. When I continue to send pointed looks towards his outfit, he sighs and says, “For fuck’s sake, dude, it’s Sunday morning. I just woke up like, ten minutes ago, obviously I’m not going to be dressed like I usually am. Who the hell would bother putting on eyeliner just to sit in their own kitchen?”
“Beats me. I’m still trying to figure out why you wear it in the first place,” I say, sauntering out into the living room and flopping down on the couch. Because of how small the apartment is, we are still clearly in each other’s line of sight. Perhaps that’s what compels me to let my hand fall, not to the couch itself, but to my lap, where I’m still sporting the vestiges of morning wood. It’s a good move, I decide a moment later. The friction of my palm’s slow rocking against the hardness feels nice, and I can tell that Ben has noticed the motion; his eyes are locked on his book, but they’re unmoving, so I know he isn’t really reading. I kick my legs out, stretching a little, an action that draws his attention back to me, whether he wants it to or not.
Ben arches an eyebrow and inclines his head, eyes flickering downward to the progress of my hand. “Are you planning to spend the entire morning rubbing one out on my couch?”
“What can I say? Berating you for your many shortcomings really gets me going,” I say, curling my lip at him and pressing the heel of my hand more firmly to my erection. In truth, I am just always half-hard in the mornings, but a reasonably large part of me is hoping to make him uncomfortable.
He remains unfazed. “Well, go wake up Alex. That’s what he’s there for. God knows you two have made me listen to enough of that through the walls at night.”
The idea of him lying awake at night, listening to Alexander and me through the walls, of him thinking of Alexander that way at all sends a lightning strike of fury through my chest. Before I am quite aware of what I’m doing, I am arching my back and grinding lewdly against my hand, breathing out, “Christ, McCutcheon, do you even know what you’re talking about? You’ve got about as much sex appeal as roadkill. I’m genuinely shocked you’ve managed to trick Garen into bed as many times as you have, but I’m willing to forgive him and just chalk that up to one of the nastier side effects of four years of near-constant drug abuse. I bet that even when you’re in bed with someone as skilled and gorgeous as he is, you’ve still got no idea what you’re doing. I bet you just have to lie there and take it like a bitch because you don’t know what else to do.”
“You’re not really one to talk, you know.” He smacks the paperback down on the table, giving up all pretense of reading it and turning to face me more properly. I wonder if he realizes that, by turning, he has enabled me to see that he’s at least half-hard in his sweatpants. “I mean, really, you want to give me shit for ‘lying there and taking it like a bitch’? I can hear you when you’re with Alex. I can hear you begging for it. Oh, please fuck me,” he groans out in a poor impression of my accent. “Your cock’s so big, so good, I need it in my ass, please, Alexander.”
Hearing him groan out his best friend’s name, even in the context of mimicking me, is too much to forgive. Wanting nothing more than to see if I can leave him a little discomposed, I slip my hand beneath the waistband of my boxers and wrap a hand around my cock, stroking myself the rest of the way to hardness. A flush rises high on Ben’s pale cheekbones, but he is too stubborn to look away, too much of a constant pain in my ass to back down from any sort of challenge I might throw at him.
“I’m a very vocal lover,” I say, as conversationally as I can. “Keeps things interesting, and you’re a fool if you don’t think your best friend loves hearing me. My best friend, too. Hmm… you know, come to think of it, if I nailed McCall and went deep South enough to fuck my own cousin, I’d have the full set of everyone who was ever stupid enough to lay a hand on you. That’s all of ’em, right? In your whole life, there have only been four boys who were desperate enough to even want to kiss you?”
I can see the muscle working in his jaw as he tries to keep from speaking, but I’m not sure what he would say, anyway. Possibly because it’s true. Probably because he’s embarrassed that it’s true. The head of my cock is straining against the slit in my boxers, peeking out just a little, and I can see that Ben’s eyes are zeroed in on it. I let out a low laugh and murmur, “It’s taken you your entire life to get the sort of play I get in a weekend, McCutcheon. You should be embarrassed that you ever thought you had what it takes to satisfy someone like Garen, someone who’s had so much better. For Christ’s sake, I’m surprised you can even get yourself off. I bet every time you beat off, you have to devote an entire evening to it, because that’s probably how long it takes you to stumble ass-backwards into somethin’ that feels good. I can tell just by looking at you that you’ve got no idea what you’re do—”
“You’ve given an unhealthy amount of thought to what I’m like in bed,” he interrupts. “It’s pretty amusing, because you’re still so wildly off-base about it, if you really think that’s what it’s like. Because I promise you, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Prove it.”
It’s a challenge and a threat and a promise, all rolled up in one, and if there’s anyone in the world who I don’t think has the balls to go for it, it’s Ben McCutcheon. But then, all without the barest change of expression, he strides across the apartment, sinks onto the couch between my parted knees, hooks his fingers over the waistband of my boxers, and pulls them down and off in one solid motion. I am as stunned by the brashness of that move as I was last week, when I suddenly found myself standing in his bedroom with his palm against my crotch. I don’t miss the way his eyes widen slightly at my considerable length, nor do I miss the slight twitch of his own hips towards me, like he is barely capable of restraining himself from grinding against my thigh until he reaches climax. All things considered, it’s probably not too far off-base. I make a gesture towards myself and say, “I know it’s impressive, but it’s not made for staring. Are you planning to get your scrawny ass on me, or what?”
“No,” he says simply, reaching forward so suddenly that I don’t have time to react before he’s slipping three of his fingers into my mouth and rubbing them roughly across the flat of my tongue. “Not this time.”
I jerk my head away from his hand, already preparing to ask him what the hell that’s all about, but then he’s wedging his torso between my knees and reaching down to circle my hole with the tips of spit-slicked fingers. The area is still a bit oversensitive from multiple rounds of fucking from Alexander just a few hours ago; I wager I might even still be just a little bit wet inside from the lube. If Ben is aware of this, it does nothing to dissuade him from sinking his middle finger straight into me, all the way up to the last knuckle.
My body instinctively thrusts back against his hand, but I manage to control myself enough to swallow down any noises that might give me away. The last thing I need in my life is Ben McCutcheon thinking he could do anything to leave me wanting. I level my most unimpressed look at him and say, “Is that all you’ve got, then? It’s a good thing you like to take it, because Lord knows nobody could ever get off from you giving it to him like this.”
The words are an obvious lie, if the way my hard-on is straining and curved up towards my belly is any indication, but the barb makes a delicious little smirk twist across Ben’s mouth. He retracts his hand until just the barest tip of his finger is inside me, then thrusts back in, now with the addition of his ring finger. “Not surprised you can barely feel it, considering what a slut you are. Anybody who gets fucked as often as you do must have a hell of a time finding something that can stretch him to satisfaction.”
“I can barely feel it because you’ve got the smallest hands I’ve ever had on me. I’ve seen squirrels with longer fingers. Come on, more—oh, fuck,” I don’t manage to stop myself from crying out a little when he crooks his fingers at just the right angle. He appears unsurprised by my reaction, and I find myself wondering wildly why the hell I’ve spent four years letting real tops fuck me, when logic clearly dictates that another bottom would better understand what I need from him.
His upper lip is curled back in what might be an ugly smile, but is more likely a sneer. “God, just look at you. I should’ve known you’d love this—”
“Love it? Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t even the best I’ve gotten this weekend. No wonder Travis never got over Garen, if this is the sort of bullshit he had to put up with in bed with you—” His hand spasms against my thigh, as though he’d love nothing more than to draw back and hit me. I rock back onto his hand and say, “At least Garen knows how to finger a man right.”
Ben lunges forward to hiss into my ear, “At least Alex likes me enough to return my fucking phone calls.”
A nearly blinding swell of fury rises up in me at that, and there it is again—that same impulse I felt last week at the party, when all I wanted to do was find some way of touching him that would destroy him completely. It’s the same feeling I had moments before Garen had walked into the room, but now, no one is walking into the room. No one is stopping me this time.
“Alexander likes me plenty,” I bite out, though I’m unsure whether I’m reassuring myself or him, “and if you’re actually dumb enough to have to wonder why, you can get your cock out and let me show you.”
His free hand moves immediately to the drawstring of his sweatpants, though it takes him an eternity to actually get it untied; his motions are clumsy and unpracticed, as though a few weeks in a sling have been enough to make him forget how to move normally. I grow almost instantly impatient and smack his hand aside, making quick work of the string and shoving the material down to his knees so that I can wrap my fingers around his cock. Truthfully, I’m somewhat disappointed to discover that he’s reasonably sized; I’d been hoping he might be poorly-endowed enough that I could have an excuse to laugh at him. Even more surprising than the fact that he’s of average size is the fact that he’s uncut—it seems like something Garen would have mentioned to me before, but oh Lord, it’s not a bad thing at all.
I’m torn between wanting to get him off as quickly as possible, to prove his desperation and my own skill, or wanting to get myself off as quickly as possible so that I can leave him frustrated and wanting. Above me, Ben seems to be having a similar struggle; he thrusts a third finger into me and presses the tips of them right against my prostate, and I buck back against him, twisting my wrist a little on every upward stroke. He leans forward, bracing his hand next to my head on the arm of the couch. The shift in position has him settled between my legs and thrusting into my fist like he’s fucking it, all while I continue to grind back against him and jerk myself off with my other hand. His cock head brushes over the curve of my ass on every push forward; I wonder if he’s doing that on purpose. I wonder why I want it so badly.
“Tell me you’ve got a condom somewhere out here,” I order. By now, I am beyond the point of caring whether or not he thinks I’m desperate for this. I’m so close to finding out what it is the rest of them are all so obsessed with, I’m so goddamn close to understanding what makes Ben McCutcheon so irresistible, and I’ll be damned if I let that slip away from me.
He gives his head a jerky shake in the negative and says, “My room, I keep them in my room, so does Al—”
“I know where he keeps his condoms,” I snarl, and the next thrust of his hips bumps the head of his cock right up against where his fingers are still working me open. It’s too much. “When’s the last time you were tested?”
“What?” he barely manages to groan out as I swipe my thumb across the slit, smearing precum over the tip of his cock.
I scramble to grip his jaw between my fingers so that I can shove his head back far enough for our eyes to meet. If he’s already so pleasure-blinded that he can’t even carry on a simple conversation, I’m not going to be able to stop myself from beating him like he’s the least favorite stepchild. I take my hand off of him—he practically whimpers—just long enough to spit into my palm to slick him up a bit more as I grit out, “I’m negative, for everything. Just got my most recent results back last week. Have you been tested?”
When he gives another twitchy shake of the head, this one is in the affirmative. “Yeah. I’m—fuck, I’m clean.”
“Completely?”
“For fuck’s sake, Goldwyn, I said yes.”
Neither of us attempts to discuss the fact that, if one of us did have something, the other would probably have it anyway, given the convoluted permutations of this group we’re a part of. Still, it’s enough for me, and apparently enough for him, because when I shove his hand away from me and line the blunt head of his dick up with my entrance, he clamps his hands over my hips and pushes in, bottoming out in one swift thrust. It’s only at that moment, when I am all too suddenly stretched around his cock, that I realize just what I’m doing and who I am doing it with. Above me, McCutcheon seems to be having a very similar crisis, if his panicked expression is anything to go by.
“Oh, fuck,” he pants out, and I press my lips together to avoid echoing the sentiment. I can only assume it would sound just as needy and whiny on my lips as it does on his. But then he repeats, “Oh, fuck. What am I doing?”
His words are tinged with revulsion, as though the very concept of participating in this act is shredding his soul. As though I’m not the best he could ever hope to have. I say, “Not a damn thing, right now. You goin’ to move sometime today?”
When he continues to gape at me in absolute stillness, I hook my legs around his and roll us sideways off the couch. We crash to the floor; his back hits the carpet hard enough to leave him stunned, breathless, but I find myself even less concerned for his well-being than usual—a feat in itself, considering my base level of consideration for him would lead me to step over his body if he were dying on the ground in front of me—because the motion has thrust his cock into me deeply, roughly. Ben’s hands spasm on my hips, and I flatten my palms against the fabric of his shirt, the better to fuck myself down onto him as I moan out, “If you’re not planning to actually screw me, at least make yourself useful by stroking me off.”
“What am I, a sex toy?” he hisses.
I shake my head, face tilted up towards the ceiling, and roll my hips down over and over. “I like and respect all of my sex toys so much more than I like and respect you.”
“Yeah? Great. Go use one of them instead, then,” he says, but neither of us attempts to do anything to stop what is happening. I keep grinding down onto him; he keeps staring, awestruck, at my ass sinking over his cock with every buck of my hips.
Truthfully, even though he’s not giving it to me as hard as I love to have men give it, even though he’s weak and submissive and has no idea what he’s doing, even though it’s taken this idiot eighteen years to man up enough to top anyone—nothing ever feels as real as the first time that I sleep with someone new. Every touch, every movement is unexpected and raw, and I’ll die before I admit it, but the shock and newness in Ben’s blue eyes is getting me off so much better than last night with Alexander’s practiced, familiar hands. This is an experience I’d love with anyone else, but with Ben, it just makes me furious and uncomfortable enough to mutter, “It figures you’d find a way to be a bottom even when you’re topping somebody. You’re an embarrassment to—”
“I hate you,” he bursts out, suddenly and loudly enough that I clamp a hand over his mouth so Alexander won’t be woken up by his yelling. He knocks my hand away so hard that the bones in my wrist make a faint popping sound. Before I can even form a rebuke, he sits up and lunges forward, knocking me flat onto my back on the carpet. His dick slips out of me, and I growl, needing to get back that sensation of being filled, and hoping to God above that this boy is finally going to start taking me. He forces my knees apart and towards my chest—I hook my hands under my thighs to keep myself in the position I’m too surprised to argue with—and ducks down to spit onto my opening so that he can thrust back into me, savage with wanting. His hipbones dig into the back of my thighs as he fucks me violently, biting out the words, “I hate you so fucking much, you narcissistic little hypocrite. You—God, you make my life hell just because you’re pissed that Al won’t date you, you act like you’re so into him, but fucking look at yourself.” He knots a hand in my hair and jerks my head forward so I have to watch him drill into me. Truth be told, I only watch for a few seconds before my eyes roll back, anyway. But he keeps thrusting, keeps saying, “Look at how desperate you are, so fucking needy that you’ll spread your legs for anyone, even someone you hate—”
“Wonder what your roommate would say if he woke up and came out here, saw you fucking his boy? But that’s just par for the course with you, you selfish whore. It’s the same thing you did last spring, but at least Garen had to be in another state before you went after Travis. Alexander just had to be in another room. I bet he wouldn’t even be surprised to see you doing this.”
“Maybe,” Ben pants. “But I bet he’d be even less surprised to find out that you’re exactly as easy as everyone thinks you are. I know he fucked you last night—could hear your fucking bitch-moans through the walls—”
“—I bet it turned you on so much, bet you jerked off wishing someone would do you like—”
“—tell me, am I the second guy to nail you in the past twenty-four hours, or did you get it from somebody at the club, too? Maybe more than one person, I don’t know. If it’s this easy to get—”
“—you’re lucky I’m this easy to get, otherwise you’d be in your room right now, fucking your own ass with your fingers and probably crying over—”
Down the hall, I hear the unmistakable blaring of Alexander’s alarm clock. Ben lets out a somewhat panicked noise that has me rolling my eyes so hard I worry I might strain a muscle. He moves to pull out, but I lock my heels around the backs of his thighs and snap, “He always hits the snooze button, no matter what. We have at least five minutes. You fucking finish what you’ve started, you little troll.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“Clearly someone needs to. Now, take your shirt off,” I order. The request shocks him into stillness for half a second, and he stares down at me with wide, blindingly blue eyes. A refusal is already forming on his lips, so I impatiently clarify, “Take your fucking shirt off, unless you want to spend your afternoon cleaning my spunk off your clothes, because in a few minutes, I’m going to be coming all over your chest.”
“Fucking fine,” he grits out, leaning back and stripping off the henley in one motion. He’s paler than a corpse and skinny to the point of unhealthiness, but I am more disturbed than ever when my gaze lands on his left arm, sliced and scarred from shoulder to wrist. Right across the middle of his forearm is the cut that has kept him in the sling for the past few weeks—at least, it must be. It’s the only one that looks like something out of the worst bit of a horror movie, it’s the only part that really makes my stomach turn.
Even through my revulsion, I can’t help but laugh. “Good Lord, you really are fuckin’ crazy, aren’t you?”
“Like you’ve got any room to talk,” he says, finally taking me in hand and beginning to stroke me just the worse side of too rough. He’s using his right hand; the left is flat against the carpet above my right shoulder, bracing himself at the same time that he puts those scars right within reach of my mouth. If he were someone else, if I were someone else, I might be kissing them now. As it is, it takes all of my self control not to sink my teeth into that abused skin, just to see if I can make him scream. He says, “You can pretend to be as disgusted as you want, but it hasn’t turned you off, has it? You’re still rock hard and taking it like a—”
If he says anything after that, his words are drowned out by the cry I’m incapable of containing. I am vaguely aware of him hissing at me to shut up, and much less vaguely aware of him releasing my cock to clamp a hand over my mouth instead, presumably to silence me. His hips are angled just so, and I’m seeing stars every time he presses forward. I fling an arm around his shoulders and drag him down so that my dick is pinned tight between our stomachs. I bite down hard on his hand—he almost can’t silence his own moan at that—until he stops trying to shut me up, then snarl, too low for Alexander to hear down the hall, “I sincerely hope that this is a joke, and not what you’re really like in bed, because this is pathetic. I’d—”
“Say my name,” he whispers into my ear. I have never gone more silent more quickly in my life. That makes him laugh, and god, I can feel the vibration of the sound everywhere he’s touching me. My eyes roll back a little, but it doesn’t count; he can’t see my face from this angle, and I’ve managed to calm my expression by the time he pulls back enough to look at me. His thrusts are shallower now, not because he’s getting close, but because he’s deliberately avoiding giving me what I need to get off. I clamp my jaw shut and dig my fingertips into the backs of his thighs, trying to yank him deeper into me, but he shakes his head and backs off again. “Come on, that’s not the game we’re playing. I know you know the rules—there’s no way Garen hasn’t done this to you before, this is one of his favorite things to do in bed.”
I scrub my palms hard across my face and bite down on my tongue, so close to letting the words spill out. I know exactly what he’s doing, and he’s right—Garen does this all the time, refusing to give it to me until I say his name and ask for it. The problem with this situation is that it’s hot when Garen does it, because I have no problem with begging him for all the things he pretends not to know I need; I’d rather die than ask McCutcheon for a damn thing.
My determination to remain silent must show on my face, because there’s an annoyed set to his jaw now, and he drills in at just the right angle until my mouth pops open and I let out a gasp. He grabs my face in a movement that stings almost like a slap, though all he’s really attempting to do is stop me from closing my mouth again. “Say it,” he hisses, “I’ll make you come, but not unless I get to hear—”
“Ben,” I choke out, unable to hold out any longer, too far gone to care if I’m losing anymore, too gone to care about anything but getting him to just fuck me like he means it. “Fucking Christ, Ben, Ben, I’m saying your fucking name, Ben, are you happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he deadpans, and rams into me, hard like I need it, relentless and brutal and so much better than I ever thought a failure of a man like him would be capable of. I know I’m letting lose with an embarrassing stream of whispered pleas for him to give it to me, harder, oh fuck, right there, so good, right like that, Ben, Ben, his stupid fucking one-syllable name, over and over.
His name is the sound I’m trying to hold in when I finally go over, painting both our bare chests with ropes of cum and biting down on my hand so hard I break the skin. He ducks down and mouths over the column of my throat until he reaches my ear, into which he murmurs, “I’m sorry, you said something about me being pathetic?”
I swipe a hand—the one that isn’t bleeding now—through the streaks of stickiness on my chest and force my fingers into his mouth, curving them over the back of his bottom row of teeth so he can’t say another word. “You’ve got one minute to get yourself off, and if you can’t manage to do that, it’s not my problem. I can’t even pretend to care whether you get off with me or with your own hand.”
He jerks his head away from my hand, though I don’t miss the fact that his tongue darts out to taste the smear of my cum across his bottom lip. “Fuck, is this what you’re always like during sex? I can’t believe Garen has managed to put up with this shit for years—”
There is another round of alarm clock wailing from Alexander’s room, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t getting nervous—he always hits the snooze button once, but very rarely does he bother to hit it again. If the midget can’t manage to finish soon, there’s no chance of us both being dressed and decent again before Alexander comes out of his bedroom. Swallowing the panic I don’t dare let show, I hiss, “Christ, McCutcheon, are you even close?”
“So close,” he chokes out. Not so goddamn composed now that he’s not taunting me into the most humiliating orgasm of my life, is he? “Fuck, your ass—”
“Yeah?” I can’t resist growling back at him. “Funny, you didn’t seem so fond of it earlier, when you were shooting your mouth off about me being a stretched-out slut. Should’ve known you were bullshitting me. You can’t—”
“If you expect me to get off before Al comes out here, you’ll shut up and hurt me.”
I have been waiting seven months for him to ask me for that.
I grab a fistful of his hair and yank him closer. For an instant, he must think I’m going to kiss him, and he must be as disgusted by the idea of it as I know I am, because he makes an attempt to reel back. Instead, I use my grip on his hair to twist his head back—he groans too loudly at that—so that I can sink my teeth into the place where his neck meets his shoulder. He hammers into me at the best, worst angle, slamming against my prostate with every thrust; it’s too much, too soon, and I’m certain that I’m close to passing out from the white-hot sparks of pleasure my body is in no way prepared to feel again yet, especially because of him. To spur him on and finish him off, I dig the nails of my other hand into the soft skin of his back, dragging them down the length of his spine and making him gasp out, “Oh, fuck, that’s—harder, harder, harder,” though I’ve got no idea if he is making a request or simply narrating the viciousness with which his hips are pistoning downward into me. Either way, I repeat the motion, digging deeper into his flesh and trying to see if maybe I can make him bleed a little. He buries his face against my neck and comes in hot spurts deep inside me, his entire body shuddering into me and then going completely still, save the pulsing of his cock in my ass.
Down the hall, I hear the creak of bed springs as Alexander stands. Ben and I scramble away from each other, both of us wincing as his cock leaves me too suddenly. I use my boxers to wipe as much of the stickiness from my chest as I can, because cum-stained underwear’s a hell of a lot easier to overlook or explain away than smears of it across my torso. Once I’ve pulled them back on, I glance over to be certain that Ben has gotten his head out of his ass long enough to find his shirt and pull his pants back up. He’s just finishing tying the string when the door down the hall opens, and we both jump to our feet, staggering apart; I step further into the living room, and he tries to stand near the kitchen counter, but it’s been less then thirty seconds since he stopped coming, so I’m marginally willing to forgive him for the fact that he has to sink into his previously vacated chair at the kitchen table because his legs are shaking too much for him to stand.
Alexander appears in the mouth of the hallway, yawning and pulling on a t-shirt as he walks. He nods to his roommate in greeting, then joins me in the living room and brushes a sleepy kiss to my lips with a murmur of, “Morning.”
“Morning,” I echo, surprised by the sound of my own voice now that it’s not the sex-heavy growl of five minutes ago.
“We have to—” He breaks off to yawn again, then repeats, “We have to go, if you wanna catch the eleven o’clock train back. You should get dressed.”
Nothing has ever been as difficult as maintaining a neutral expression as I stand here, staring into Alexander’s still sleep-heavy eyes and trying to pretend that I’m not slick inside from his best friend’s cum. I smile tightly and say, “Think I’ve got a few minutes to take a quick shower?”
He shakes his head and says, “Not if you don’t want to miss the train.”
“Don’t use double-negatives in my presence,” Ben croaks from the kitchen. Alexander rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother turning to look at him—a wonderful thing, really, since the midget’s face is buried in his trembling hands.
If he’s not going to keep it together long enough for me to get out of this apartment without my boy figuring out what has just transpired, then I have to maintain control. I flash Alexander my most charming smile and say, “Alright, but when nobody wants to sit next to me on the train because I smell like sex, I’m going to tell them to blame you.”
Ben’s hands slide from his face to his hair, gripping it tight as he stares down at the table, eyes wide and posture rigid. Back still turned, Alexander smirks at me and kisses the side of my neck, right over the spot where his best friend pressed his own mouth less than two minutes ago in an attempt to silence himself as he came inside me.
My stupid smile is starting to crack. I’m grateful when, a few moments later, he heads back down the hall to his own bedroom, assuming I will follow. I take five seconds to compose myself, then stride into the kitchen. Ben finally looks up, instinctively alarmed; he rises from his seat, though he’s such a Pygmy it barely makes a difference in his height anyway. I curl my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms, and step too close to him to whisper, “That was the worst sex I’ve ever had in my life.”
“And you’re the worst liar I’ve ever had the misfortune to engage in conversation with,” he says through gritted teeth.
“I’m not lying. I’ve never been more serious about anything in my whole life, and if you ever touch me again, I’ll—”
He touches me again. He grabs my elbow and shoves me around to face the cupboards, pressing me against the kitchen counter, and thrusting a hand into my boxers. “If I ever touch you again, you’ll what?” he asks, though the roughness I assume he must be aiming for is ruined by the way he voice breaks on the last word. “You’ll go right back to saying my name, over and over, like it’s the only word you know?”
I cannot contain a broken moan at the feel of his fingers sliding over the abused, oversensitive edges of my hole, slick and sticky where his cum is still leaking out of me. The noise is enough to shock us both into stillness for just a moment, and then I shove him away from me again. We stare at each other, wild-eyed, for nearly a minute.
“So,” he says finally. “This never fucking happened, right?”
I give a sharp, singular nod and stride down the hall towards Alexander, already doing everything I can to pretend away the memory of those hands on me.