He knocked yesterday’s newspaper, folded to the Lifestyle section, to the floor, then eased his chest onto the counter beside the sink.
He walked his legs out. More muscles I couldn’t name, or maybe tendons—and the sweet, rounded rise of his ass, which was mostly muscle, too—all of it spread out before me. All of it mine to do whatever I pleased with it.
I ran my hands over him, down his back, over his ass, to the backs of his thighs. His skin flicked in response. Everywhere, he was rock hard.
“I need it,” he mumbled into his forearms. “Do it.” The fact that he could hardly bring himself to tell me to fuck him sent a thrill zinging down to my groin. I licked my finger and trailed it down his hot, moist crack. He exhaled carefully against the countertop.
I figured I should probably say something about that being “my” hole and how I was gonna “own” it, but it sounded too fake, even in my thoughts. I bent over him instead, and laid a slow, wet kiss along the spot where his tailbone ended, and the curve of his spine turned into ass crack. He moaned.
I tongued him, farther down, and farther down still, rich and salty and end-of-the-day musky, and my cock started to throb in anticipa-tion of going there too and knowing what that hot, wet hole would feel like clenching all around it.
“Sweet ass.” I let the words play over my spit, and Jacob shivered all over. I licked him, right on the pucker, hard, and pressed a wet fingertip in.
“Oh God.”
I closed my mouth over his hole and pressed my tongue in where my finger had been. I was high on the scent of maleness, and sex.
Jacob was really moaning now, a string of encouraging sounds, and tilting his ass as if maybe angling it just right would encourage me to cram in something bigger and stiffer than my tongue. Seeing him beg like that with his body, his mega-ripped, rock hard body, was a total rush.
The lube was cold, but warmed to my touch fast. Super slick. I gave my cock a few quick, slippery pumps then swiped my fingertips over Jacob’s ass. He moaned again.
I didn’t waste any time in pushing in. Tight, so tight. I hadn’t barebacked with anyone since I was a teenager, and it always shocked me, the molten hot wetness of Jacob’s body squeezing at my cock. I started slow, because neither of us were particularly accustomed to me serving it up to him, but his hole was so deliciously slick I ended up buried in just a few thrusts.
The musculature of his back shifted as his ribcage heaved, and he drank in great, loud breaths, still moaning, still encouraging me with his sighs and the needy arching of his spine.
“Fuck me. Jack me off.” The words were half-buried in moans and groans and breathing. Jacob usually has no problem at all doing the dirtiest dirty-talk, but not now, not with my dick up his ass.
Everything would’ve been perfect, if it weren’t for the mirror. I could try to focus on Jacob with his arousal-flushed face, and the chis-eled perfection of his bod from every angle, but there I was right in back of him. Good hair or not, I couldn’t stand to look. Most people in long-term relationships occasionally fantasize that they’re
with
someone else when they fuck. I wished I
was
someone else.
I reached around to stroke him, but even then, there I was—looking right back at us from the mirror.
I could turn off the light, but that would be too obviously weird, leaving us panting and puffing in the windowless, pitch-black room. The shower—I could turn that on and steam up the mirror so all I saw were shapes. But I couldn’t reach the tap. And we’d never gotten around to upgrading our hot water heater.
“Harder,” Jacob mumbled into his arm. “I’m ready.” Oh—he thought I’d been taking it slow for his benefit, and not figuring out a way to stop seeing myself. I shut my eyes and focused on the tightness, the feel of myself gliding in and out, in and out, the way he arched under me to meet each thrust. So hot. So slick. So tight.
Then I opened one eye, and there I was. Damn it.
I pulled out, flipped the toilet seat down, and sat. “C’mon, get on top of me. I want to look at you face-to-face while I’m in you.” I wanted to look at anything but the mirror—but I thought it was a pretty good excuse.
Jacob straddled me, and his quads bulged as he found his position with the deliberation he’d use mounting a machine at the gym. I strongly suspected he was working his abs as he did it.
He braced himself on the towel bar behind my head and lowered himself gingerly, until the fine hairs that dusted his ass and my thighs tickled together. “How’s that?” he said.
“Tight.”
He grunted, and began to move. It was awfully intense, watching him watching me—watching him trying to get me off—but it was a hell of a lot better than the sight in the mirror. I lubed my hand again and started to work his cock like I meant it. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and shuddered all over.
His eyes closed and he focused hard on just moving, riding my cock.
He found his rhythm and worked it, and I jacked him with one hand and held him by the hip with the other so I could feel his body rise and fall. His face—what cheekbones. What a mouth. Great eyebrows, too. Expressive. A hitch formed between them, and he said, “Is it good for you?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re so quiet.”
“I am?”
“Yeah. I mean, usually….”
“Oh, uh…it’s different. A different feeling. But just as good. Totally.” He shifted his angle, as if he didn’t believe me—like he thought he couldn’t please me, not that way, without some serious determina-tion and focus.
Crap. The last thing I needed was for both of us to have an inferiority complex. I tried to think of something to say that didn’t sound fake.
“You know how tight you are? So tight I can hardly breathe, let alone talk to you.”
His expression softened, but he kept on riding me like this thing we were doing was a puzzle, and he needed to crack the code.
He clenched himself harder—and now I was positive he was working his abs, because I could feel contractions rolling through him, coaxing me to come.
My breath caught, and my hand flew over his cock. “Come with me inside you,” I gasped. “I wanna see that. Come for me.” Jacob raked his jaw over his biceps to wipe away the sweat that was starting to bead his face from all the quad work. “Touch my balls.” I let go of his waist and slipped my other hand between us. It felt weird, no two ways about it—his taut ass slapping down on my hipbones. He’d probably have a bruise in the shape of my pelvis to show for our experiment. Stroking his nuts seemed to turn up the heat.
He threw his head back, and the way his body clenched me started to feel less deliberate. I dug it, the trembling contractions, erratic, desperate.
“I’m gonna come…” I whispered. “You’re making me come…”
“Fuck, yeah.” He grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, squeezed his ass around me too, and damn, there it was, a surge, and another surge, and fuck, it was so hot and so wet, my juice inside him—and it was worth it, totally worth it, even if I’d looked like a big dumbass in the mirror. He spattered my belly while I came, and that made my hips twitch up even after I thought I was spent, and my dick gave another grudging throb in his hole.
Jacob pressed his forehead to mine, sticky with sweat, and we both breathed hard. “That was really intense,” I said. “You feel incredible.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I tilted my face up for a kiss. His mouth tasted salty.
He eased his death grip off the towel bar and ran his fingers through my way cool hair. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” It seems like there should be a better answer than that, but sometimes it doesn’t pay to try and talk fancy.
I kissed him some more, slow, satisfied kisses, drowsy kisses. It seemed like I could have stayed there forever, kissing him. But then I felt his thigh tremble. “Are you not sitting down on me?”
“Well I….” He looked surprised.
“Do you think you can’t sit on my lap?”
“No. Of course not. It’s just…we’re at a weird angle. That’s all.” I sighed. I didn’t need to be a Human Polygraph to know that people who said “of course not” were unlikely to be giving you much of a truth.
He stood up fast and offered me a hand-up. I couldn’t not take it without shoving him into the shower and cracking his head on the not-quite-retro tiles. I was feeling mildly ticked, not sociopathic, so I accepted.
“I thought maybe the toilet seat was digging into you.”
“Forget it.”
He turned on the shower, and the sound of water ringing on tile filled the awkward silence nicely. “Don’t be mad,” Jacob said over the rhythmic stream. “We just had a really great time. There’s nothing to be mad about.”
“It’s fine.”
He stuck his hand under the shower, tweaked the temperature, then climbed in and pulled me along with him. He hustled me against the wall and started in again with the kissing, and maybe I was irked enough to tell him enough with it already, we’d shot our loads and what more did he want—other than someone
athletic
enough to bear his weight? But as I planted my foot and tried to pivot, I felt a horrible twinge race up my calf.
Jacob’s mouth closed over mine, and now he tasted like the shower.
I kissed him back, reluctantly at first, but then he slid a bar of soap between my legs and started making lather, and I decided I could stay put for the moment.
At least until the charley horse subsided.
Since Jacob now had over an inch of hair, he also owned styling products. Things had changed a lot since the eighties, when I’d primped my hair with office supplies. The cramp in my leg was nagging at me, so I decided to burn a sick day rather than letting the jackasses like Raleigh down the hall see me limping. Jacob was at work, I’d actually slept in for a change, and now I was home alone with my new haircut.
I rifled through the medicine cabinet. There was hairspray, but supposedly for “shine” rather than “hold,” in a tiny little spritzer bottle.
I also found a small round jar of something with the consistency of pudding. That was it—two things. Undoubtedly, if Jacob had more hair, we’d have more hair stuff. I figured the hair pudding would have to do.
I took a very small dab and worked it through my hair like Crash had, fully expecting to look ridiculous when I was done.
I didn’t. It looked great.
I wondered if working out, especially if I followed that workout with some kind of stretching, might help the calf situation. But you didn’t do your hair and then jump around and get it all sweated up—everyone knows that. Besides, I didn’t actually have any idea what “working out” would entail. So I went and turned on my computer instead.
If I put together a plan of action for bulking up, it would be a step in the right direction. And it wouldn’t wreck my hair.
Sifting through websites took time. A lot of them pimped home gyms, or weird pieces of plastic that were supposed to help you push, pull or gyrate your way to a spectacular six-pack. Even though I knew they were probably crap, the before and after pictures did give me pause.
But I figured that if any of these things did work, we’d already have one downstairs. In the basement.
Hitting the gym is as much a social thing for Jacob as it is about keeping up his hugeness, but since he was now a homeowner and he had his very own basement, he’d collected a few basic pieces of equipment for those days when his job kept him from his normal routine.
Since I didn’t trust the overhead light not to sputter into oblivion the second I was smack-dab in the middle of the basement, I grabbed my pocket flashlight, just in case, and headed downstairs.
Jacob had worked hard to make the space respectable—half of it, anyway. The now-finished portion of the basement had a fresh, white acoustic drop-ceiling and a smooth concrete floor he’d fussed over for hours, only to cover it with interlocking rubber gym tiles once it was absolutely perfect.
I walked around the weight bench to size it up, and from the far end, caught a glimpse of the other half of the basement. A couple of folding screens separated it from Jacob’s home gym; he hadn’t quite figured out if he should build some walls and divide the space into rooms, or have the big ancient canning equipment hauled to a junkyard and expand the finished area into a giant rec room. So for now, his solution was to not look at the part he didn’t know what to do with.
Who was I to criticize?
It was pretty creepy, though. Darkness lurked behind the screens, and hulks of big metal machinery. The unfinished ceiling absorbed all the light, until all that was left were dozens of shifting shadows.
I looked down at the barbell and counted up the metal discs. Over a hundred and fifty pounds on one end alone. I stared at it stupidly as I realized he bench-pressed two of me. On a regular basis.
The dumbbells, then. There they were, colorful and rubberized, stacked on their unassuming metal pyramid. The weights were printed ever so helpfully on the ends. I took the second-smallest weight, a green 12-pounder, and wondered what to do with it. I tried a curl and thought, seriously, is this how guys get buff?
I put it back before I hurt myself.
The clear course of action was to ask Jacob for advice. So naturally I wanted to do that least of all. Did I think he would look down at me, think I was a wimp because I couldn’t press and squat and lift what he could? He already knew that. Heck, he thought I couldn’t even handle him sitting on my lap.
Maybe I thought he’d push me harder than I was ready to go. That’s what trainers did, wasn’t it? Though Jacob was so notorious for cutting me slack, I couldn’t really fathom him telling me to drop and give him fifty. Not unless we were naked, and role-playing, and he’d only make me do about ten before he spread me open and showed me who was boss.
I visited that pleasant daydream for a few seconds, then turned and headed upstairs. I suspected what I was really scared of was that as disgusted as I was with my scrawniness, I didn’t have the motivation to do anything about it. It was bad enough Jacob had to live with the protruding hipbones. He didn’t need my personality flaws highlighted, too.