“Not especially,” Richard says dryly, but he curves the tip of his finger so that it just barely breaches the boy’s tight hole. “I suppose we shall find out if you do?”
“Y-yes…” Topher sucks in a deep breath like he’s trying to relax, but utterly failing. And he goes completely rigid when Richard slips a slick finger deeper into him, but the sound he makes isn’t one of pain or fear; it’s of intense lust. Richard feels the vibration of it in his own groin.
He crooks his finger, stroking Topher on the inside and watching his reaction carefully. It would appear that motion sets off a ripple of pleasure, and Topher groans again.
It is a hungry sound. All indications are that, yes, Topher likes being penetrated.
“I’m adding a second finger,” Richard says, “but I won’t try it with my cock until you ask me to.”
Topher blinks and looks up at the stucco ceiling.
Ask?
He has no idea how to tell if he’s ready, so he waits until the fingers drilling into him move freely and both tubes of lube are emptied. And then he tries to think of the appropriate words to say.
I want you?
He supposes there is a certain kind of passion in supplication, he’s just not sure he can bring himself to actually beg.
And Richard didn’t say beg, he said
ask.
Topher decides to go for the practical. “In my fantasies, I’m usually on all fours. Can we do it that way?”
“If you like. Why don’t you start lying flat on the bed, though? Just shift this pillow under your hips.”
Topher moves into position, but he asks, “Why?”
“The penetration will be a little shallower this way. Once you’re used to it, if you want, I can lift you up to all fours.”
“Ah.” He wants to ask, but he has a suspicion that the question is a foolish one and merely asking it might embarrass him so badly he won’t be able to look Richard in the eye again. He wants to ask how big Richard really is, comparatively speaking, and whether that’s going to make a difference.
“I’m going to put just the tip in, Topher,” Richard says, and Topher twists his head to look back and sees that Richard’s hand is wrapped around his condom-covered cock so only an inch of it, not even the whole head, protrudes from his fist. He pushes the head of his cock between Topher’s cheeks, pressing rhythmically, until at last he pushes in, then pulls out quickly, again and again, until Topher actually tries to push back onto him. Richard lets more of it penetrate on each thrust until he finally lets go of his cock and lets it slide all the way in, his balls coming to rest against Topher’s ass.
Topher has clawed the beige bedcovers into a small mountain range, yet feels a sense of triumph. That feeling only grows as Richard begins to fuck, pulling back and thrusting forward, and making ripples of pleasure cascade all through Topher’s body.
And Richard, though he has longed for this moment of consummation for longer than he’ll admit but at least since that moment when he shook Topher’s hand across that chessboard with the cameras clicking, is thrown into a trance of lust so deep, he barely feels his own body other than his cock. Everything is Topher, as his hands skate along Topher’s damp ribs, find the curve of his hips, the taste of his sweat at the base of his neck, the scent of him. He loses his sense of himself utterly as he is swallowed by the presence of the young body under him, quite suddenly ready, beyond any rational thought, to pledge himself, to make ridiculous and sentimental pronouncements, to promise to go to whatever lengths to please him….
He has lost his mind. But it feels so damn good he doesn’t care.
Topher is overwhelmed with sensation: the damp warmth of the bedcovers under him, Richard’s firm weight atop him, the sweet heat of Richard’s breath and most of all the relentless cock drilling into his body. It is everything he hoped sex would be. He comes with a shudder, biting down on the urge to cry out, and it is not like any other orgasm he has had, humping his mattress at home or spilling into the fingers of some boy in a restroom. Richard’s cock seems to push it out of him from within, and the world goes white.
When Richard pulls at his hips, getting him to all fours, he cannot lift his head. Instead he lifts his ass in what must surely look like a wanton presentation and cries out in surprise as Richard’s next thrust is deeper than before, then deeper again, Richard barely slowing his pace, pushing again and again.
As Richard comes close to his own climax, he reaches under Topher, only to find sticky skin and a soft cock. “Ah,” he says, understanding the hair trigger of an eighteen-year-old, even if he feels a vague sense of disappointment. Perhaps there will be other chances, perhaps he will teach Topher to last longer….
He shakes his head, trying to reassert rational thinking, but that will not happen until adequate blood flow is restored to his head. All his blood is in his cock, and he fucks Topher hard in his rush to finish. At this angle Topher’s back is long and lean, and Richard wants to own every inch of its skin. He bellows as he comes, crushing Topher once more, this time with his arms around his rib cage as he bears him flat to the bed and finishes in him with a last flurry of thrusts.
They lie panting until Topher makes a sound like he is trying to speak. Thinking perhaps he might be trying to say that Richard is too heavy, Richard pulls out and rolls to the side. He’s going soft but the condom stays on the bulb of his head, still full of jism. Topher puts a hand on Richard’s shoulder. Richard turns to see one glistening eye watching him from under strands of black hair hanging like fringe on a pillow. He brushes back the boy’s hair, lock by lock, until he is looking at the absolutely most beautiful face he has ever known—or desired.
Did he always think that? Or is it the sex?
He isn’t sure.
“Topher…”
He longs to hear Topher whisper back dreamily
Richard, baby
, or some sweet nothing like that. If he does, Richard will shower him with kisses.
Topher’s eye closes and he takes a long breath, then lets it out slowly. Richard can almost feel him thinking.
His eye opens again. “Thank you. I’m glad I picked you to be the first.”
Topher’s words sting. But he can’t pull away. He strokes glossy black hair and says nothing, though inside he is thinking,
And who will be second? Have you calculated that far ahead in the game, Topher Lin?
The next one will probably be some college student. Now that Topher is over the pesky virginity thing, he’ll probably get some boyfriend on campus. Besides, it isn’t as if an affair or a relationship between Richard and Topher can exist. Richard tries to imagine the reaction of Master Lin to the news and decides ritual suicide wouldn’t be enough to redeem them. A single tryst is easy enough to hide; an ongoing relationship, shared love even…not so easy. And the scandal…it would ruin them both, surely.
But he has to know. In chess terms, he’s already made himself vulnerable by moving so aggressively, so now is the time to commit to his strategy. He is proud of how calm his own voice sounds as he asks, “Are you thinking just the once, then?”
Topher’s eye closes again. “I…I know this will shock you, but, I had not thought beyond about five minutes ago. Now, I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” Richard presses.
Topher rolls onto his back and looks up at him. “Kiss me,” he says, holding out his arms. “I’ll figure the rest out later.”
Richard almost leaps onto him, with a mind to devour him again, but he pauses instead and brushes his lips gently over Topher’s, his tongue darting to taste him and his breath teasing him until Topher is the one who surges up, hungry again.
When he falls back, hair spread around his head like a fan, he seems to have come to some conclusion. Richard awaits the pronouncement of his fate.
“There’s more there,” Topher says, a small frown on his face as if Richard is a particularly interesting yet difficult puzzle. “I’m not done. There’s
more
.”
The repetition shouldn’t make what he means any clearer, yet it does. Richard’s heart thumps painfully against his chest. Topher Lin is not done with him as a lover. There’s more to explore together. Never mind that Richard wants to stay in the closet, avoid scandal and win the chess world championship. Right now the fact that he can smell Topher’s skin is far more important. “There are more firsts, too,” he says, voice low.
“Good.” Topher lets out a long sigh. “I’m sleepy. Can we sleep here?”
Richard nods. They have the whole night if they want it. He urges Topher under the covers, ignores the fact that they are both less than clean and tosses the condom onto the floor—half the advantage of a hotel room is that someone else cleans up. Topher curls next to him, skin to skin.
Maybe,
Richard thinks as he buries his nose in Topher’s hair,
maybe by the time Topher is done with me, I’ll be ready to be done with him.
It doesn’t seem likely, but right at this moment he is far too happy for pessimism. He has lost his mind to beauty and the boy, and it is wonderful.
THE CREAM IN HIS COFFEE
Eric Del Carlo
I wasn’t watching what I was doing and so ended up pouring scalding water on the toe of my left sneaker. I yelped and hopped around like an idiot until the first searing wave passed.
What was distracting me from my important duties at the coffee shop? Juan had walked in: Juan, Juan, beautiful mahogany-skinned Juan.
I had the worst of crushes on him. My infatuation with the muscle-bound Latino was entering its third week, but I had yet to speak to him other than to ask, “You want me to leave room for cream?” when he came to the counter to order his fortifying morning cup of java. I’d only learned his name when I overheard somebody hail him on the street.
Juan worked construction, I assumed—the heavy tool belt and hard hat tucked under his arm gave credence to my theory. I couldn’t bring myself to actually ask, afraid my voice would tremble, or he’d see the hard-on that sprang to life the minute he came in the door. I only saw him in the early mornings. He’d set his gear and his newspaper on a small table in the shop’s front corner, get his coffee from me and spend about twenty minutes reading the headlines and the sports page before slipping wordlessly out. I spent those twenty minutes furtively ogling him with feverish eyes.
He was just under six feet tall. His physique was ideal, something out of mythology—cannonball shoulders, thick chest, corded biceps, firm thighs and the tightest, most mouth-watering ass I’d ever seen on any male. He had a dense head of the blackest hair, smoldering dark eyes and features that had been molded by God himself to reflect everything in the world that was beautiful. He was in his midtwenties, at least three or four years older than me.
And his skin…it was the shade of varnished wood, of rich chocolate, with a luscious sheen like glowing bronze. I longed to lave it with my lips and tongue, to caress it with my fingers, to marvel at its texture, which I imagined was silky and smooth and hot with his living heat.
I upset a tray of walnut muffins but managed to catch it before any hit the floor. With unsteady hands I set it back on the counter. My fearsome hard-on made my movements awkward.
From the front corner Juan glanced up, dark eyes pinning me briefly. I smiled at him in embarrassment. The corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. My insides turned to jelly.
It wasn’t that I was cock starved. I’d always considered myself too scrawny to be especially attractive, but I never had trouble finding myself a trick on the weekends. But Juan, with his delectable body and exotic skin, made me—a pale, underfed white kid—weak with lust. I was resigned to worshipping Juan from afar, to turning into a bumbling wreck whenever he was around and to jerking off to thoughts of him in my bed. His beauty was out of my league….
I spent the rest of my shift thinking about the tiny smile he’d thrown me, analyzing it for the smallest hint of mutual attraction. By the time I got home late that afternoon I realized I was being completely stupid—not that that kept me from indulging in torrid mental fantasies of writhing against his succulent brown body.
The next morning I opened the shop alone. I like this part of my day. It’s quiet, meditative, just me wiping the tables with the burbling coffee machines for company. I usually get there a half hour before opening time.