someday i'll teach you to beg
...100% made up, folks !. so, don't panic, or do ... as you wish ;)
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"you’re fucked up" ... it’s the way he says it, rather than the words themselves, that betray his youth. from a man my own age, that would sound like a judgement call. but coming from him it gets tainted with his dirty curiosity, which robs it of any sting it may have otherwise had
he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers nervously worrying his shoelace. he looks up to see what response his utterance has elicited and catches me smiling
"i’m preaching to the converted, right ?" ... (he's trying to sound hard but he almost never does. at least, not in the way he'd like to)
he still fights with it sometimes. still wants to be in two places at once. still gets jarred by reality at the worst moments. like now. wanting to be real when it’s the last thing anybody really needs. huh. everybody knows that
i remind him that he has once again chosen the least appropriate mood for the moment and his sneer looks real enough when he tells me that we’d get along better if i forgot as much stuff as he did. (he can forget everything except himself but my not saying so just makes it plainer)
"and i suppose you were expecting june cleaver ?"
"june who " ? ... his question is genuine although sometimes he fakes it to widen the gap that yawns between us. this may well be malicious in intent, in fact it probably is, but this shred of evil takes him as close as he dares go towards a loss of control, and i burn for that even as he disdains me
i sit by him on the floor and lean in close. too close ... "june cleaver was a 50’s sitcom housewife" ... i whisper ... "she wore an apron and stilettos"
he smiles. "did she fuck little boys ?"
"i don’t think so. although she did take a lot of naps mid-afternoon, so i’m guessing she had a rich masturbatory life. and all those tall, hulking youths in her kitchen all the time ... mmm mmm"
he’s laughing now. "and do you ?"
i look into his eyes and his laughter stops dead. just like that. as if i slapped him. i let his question hang in the air and reach for his hand, enjoying his confusion
"these lines are meant to mean things" ... i tell him, turning his hand over in my own to examine his palm
"what do they mean ?"
i trace my fingertip on his palm as i speak ... "hmmm, well, this one is the lifeline, it tells me how long you will live ... and this one across here is the heart line, it tells me how many times you will marry ... and this here is known as the mound of venus ..."
i raise his hand and press my lips softly to the fleshy mound beneath his thumb
he sighs softly ... "oh, it is ? ... so what does that one tell you ?". i bite down gently and listen for his sharp intake of breath before i reply ... "how hard i can get you"
as i curl his fingers around my cheek and bite softly at the edge of his hand where the gentle flesh gives way easily, he watches my lips. i have a cocksuckers' mouth. every man i meet can’t help wondering what my pouty lips would look like wrapped around their cock
"it, uh" ... he clears his throat and tries again ... "it, um, it works. that mound thing, i mean"
"it swells when you masturbate"
"it does ?"
"uh huh. that’s why it’s called the mound of venus"
he smiles. "that sounds like some kind of pagan bullshit"
i smile back. "it does ? ... you mean like the myth of the vein in the wedding finger leading straight to the heart ?"
"oh, no ..." i recognise his tone as disgust. "no, see that one is true"
"like some kind of emotional chastity-belt, you mean ?" ... (his contempt for my flippancy now extends to the occasions when its’ deliberate as well)
"no. like some kind of emotional fucking excuse"
tired of words, i yawn without covering my mouth. having expected debate, his armoury is now empty. he is uncomfortable and i like him that way. every other time, something worked for him. pert pink lips of all kinds moistened themselves at his very approach, ready to gush forth in abundance whatever it was he happened to be thirsting for
i tell him "i might fuck little boys if they do what they’re told and stop talking". this makes him seethe and turns on me, wounded rage cutting a gaping hole in his act. he’s in trouble because he wants to hate me. he really does. but his cock is straining so hard against his pants that i think he decides to hate himself for a while instead
he’s passive. as i wanted him to be. i kiss his throat and he tells me that i scare him. i bite, slowly, and he whispers it again. harder, and his hands fall to his sides helpless. he lifts his head to lay bare his pale throat, which slowly opens to gasp some words that mean "love me" or "fuck me" or "kill me" or something. something. please do something. do something to me before i die
"you going to stop talking ?, little boy ?"
he can only nod
you going to do what you’re told, little boy ?
he’s scared, but he’s deadly serious when he finally answers "if i can"
"sit, boy"
"i am !"
"would you have done it ?"
"you’re just fucking with me"
"would you have done it ?"
"i don’t fucking know ... what is this bullshit ?"
i pause in feigned contemplation of this question, although i have already decided not to answer him
"lie down, boy"
he stares at me for the longest time. right into my eyes. i meet his gaze. he sees me. hears my laboured breathing. wonders at the flush of my face and marvels at the crazed reflection his festering lust makes looking right back at him through my eyes. he understands now
"lie down, boy"
"the word nirvana does not mean paradise, you know" ... this is his attempt at composure. conversation. control ... "it means absence of suffering" ... i am brushing the head of his cock with my lips .... just the head. just my lips. just brushing. trying to discover the lightest detectable touch
he feels everything. he can’t close his eyes. can’t even blink. won’t even breathe. "this is worship" i tell him and he moves to sit up. "lie down, boy". i correct him ... "lie down and do what you're told"
my lips are parted an inch above his swollen cock. my tongue darts between them, keeping them moist. he watches this. motionless. i lower my mouth. he feels the warmth before the wetness. it’s always that way. heat is more dangerous than dampness. it takes priority, senses wise
it is i who loses patience and slides my mouth over him. all of him. instinct takes him over and he moans as realises i’m looking up at him, my mouth crammed with his cock, my face naked with lust and my lips curled in a tiny smile although they’re touching his stomach. he can’t take this
i place his hands behind my head as i kneel to him and i make him push me, make him thrust harder, make him rough. he’s ramming his cock into my face, his hands are tangled in my hair and his broken words of warning about stopping and controlling and oh god and i can’t hold out are all useless
"come in my mouth" ... i pause briefly to rest my chin on his stomach ... "come hard, right down my fucking throat"
"oh, jesus"
"he can’t help you"
i want to taste him so much. drain him dry. and this time, i don’t need to ask
"beg, boy"
his hips meet my face and his hands hold it there as my throat opens for him. he’s loud now. and pleading. groaning. eyes damp with tears and close to something angry. “please” he moans it over and over. he’s so close. he’s so desperate. he’s so beautiful
“please, god, oh please” ... he can’t stand it. i have him now. i have him as he pours down my greedy throat and it’s so good, so good for him that he forgets himself. forgets what he wanted. punctuates each surge with desperate pleas for what he already has
"please oh please oh fuck oh please" ... he yelled it in his sleep for months afterwards
Stardock Forums
... tell sam i said to kiss & make up