Xander Shows Me My Prostate

It was a doomed promise, but I would've said anything. Told him anything, reassured Xander in any way I could, if I thought it would stop what was happening between us from coming to an end. It felt like I'd found a shortcut to feelings, to pleasure, that I'd never even imagined was possible before. There was no way I was going to give that up. 

And if that meant treating it as physical, and only physical, then I'd do my fucking best to make that happen. 

We'd finished our drinks, staring at each other across the table. Xander would smile, and that would make me smile, and then his smile would broaden further still at the sight of it. A self-fulfilling prophecy, as inevitable as how we both knew what would come next. 

It was like I could only let out the breath I'd been holding when he stood up, heading back to the counter to order another coffee. 

There was part of me which felt deceitful. Like, I knew I'd told Xander what he needed to hear, what maybe we both needed to be the agreed-upon truth. That the shit we'd been doing together was playful, and tactile, and entirely centered around feeling good sexually. Well within the bounds of what he and his girlfriend had agreed upon and, for that matter, within the scope of what I felt I could comprehend for myself right now, too. 

The couch shifts as he sits down next to me, leaning forward to set his mug down on the coffee table. A sly look, sidelong, to see my reaction to his proximity. 

"This side looked comfier," Xander suggests. I chuckle, knowingly. 

I'd been teasing him, doubling-down on my insistence that we could keep things simple, straightforward with what I knew - or hoped, at least - would further sway him. Flaunting myself, taking advantage of the fact that my running shorts hid little, particularly when my cock was swollen and I was purposefully shoving my crotch forward. The way Xander's eyes had tracked along the muscles in my arms, well, that was a pleasing bonus. 

He had, after all, picked out the tank top I'm wearing. Told me he thought it made my arms look hot.

I half-turn to him, on the sofa. Hearing the whisper of the nylon shorts as they rub against the cushions. 

Xander reaches for his drink, sips at it and sets it down again, a hand landing casually on my thigh as he stretches forward. It's a simple gesture, offhand, but I can't stop myself from jerking at the contact. His palm warm on my bare skin. 

When he sits back, swallowing, he leaves the hand there. I force myself not to look down at it. 

"I bet you'd taste of coffee now," he says, mildly. "If I kissed you." 

I swallow, throat suddenly dry. There's nobody near enough to overhear us, at least I don't think they are, but all the same it seems risky for him to talk about this stuff. I know, though, that if I voiced that fear, Xander would only take it as a challenge. 

The way his hand is inching up my thigh, though, suggests he doesn't need me to talk about what makes me hyper-sensitive to know how to best push my buttons. 

"Wait..." I'm doing my best to keep my voice down, and for that matter to stop from giggling at the way his fingers are softly tickling my skin. Even so, the knowing look on Xander's face is telling me it probably wouldn't matter how much I protested, nor the volume. 

"Pass me my drink?" 

It's a casual request, but I'm wary all the same. Know from how he jerked me and sucked me in the kitchen that there's a part of Xander which absolutely gets off on seeing me lose control in public places. All of a sudden, flaunting my bulge at him just now seems like it was absolutely destined to backfire on me. 

He's waiting, patiently. Fingertips brushing the hem of my shorts, grazing ever so slightly against the slick red fabric where it just about reaches to my upper thigh. They're lined - enough, at least, that I can go running without worrying about underwear too - but Xander has already seen how well, or otherwise, they mask what's going on inside. 

Knowing it's a bad idea, I lean forward. Reaching for his mug, lifting off the couch as I do it. Just manage to wrap my fingers around the handle when I feel him take advantage of my position and slide his hand into the leg of my shorts. 

I sit down with a yelp, then flinch again as the coffee sloshes precariously. Almost spilling out across us both, and there's little way Xander could've avoided getting splashed because his hand is now sandwiched between my ass and the cushions. The feeble elastic of the liner no match for him, and so now I can feel his long, warm fingers right against my cheeks.

"Wait..." I say again, a little more desperately this time. Trying to hold the cup still, but also wanting to wriggle away from him, from the potential for huge embarrassment that this current situation unlocks. Not least because I can already feel his hand shifting underneath me, fingertips squirming against my sensitive flesh. 

"Don't spill it," he warns me, grinning, and I glare at him. Try to stretch forward again to set the drink down, but his hand in my shorts pins me down. Leaves me having to carefully orient the mug as the hot coffee slops dangerously close to the rim.

I narrow my eyes at him, expression outraged, and then have to bite down on a gasp as his fingertip rubs around my entrance. 

He's fucked me twice today. Fingered me god knows how many times, three of those long digits pressed knuckle-deep into my ass as he zeroed in on my prostate. Even used his tongue on me, and if there's no trace of his loads and my own cum he pushed into me left inside me now, that's only because of his diligence in feasting on my inexperienced hole. 

Maybe it's no surprise, then, that I'm super-sensitive. Having to instantly fight the urge to buck and twist on his finger, as the rough pad works its mischief. Not pressing into me, no, but stroking and rubbing enough to bring back all the most potent memories of how Xander had prepared me for his cock. 

"You need to stop," I hiss at him, through clenched teeth. His amused smirk in response suggests he's in no mood to comply. 

"You need to sit still," Xander counters, "before someone sees you."

It'd be the both of us implicated, of course - little way Xander could explain why his hand was so firmly and completely shoved right underneath my cheeks - but there's no doubting who would probably feel most mortified. Given, after all, that even just these first casual rubs have been enough to send my dick rocketing to its full hardness. 

I'm straining against the thin fabric of my shorts now, and really wishing that I'd not only borrowed a shirt from Xander but some underwear too. Preferably something tight and suitably restrictive, because right now my erection is looking absolutely unmistakable, outlined in the shimmering red. 

"Are you gonna start leaking?" he teases, sounding curious. I groan in response, not a reply as much as the horrified awareness that it's almost certain to happen, and be no less obvious. Able to picture, in fact, how the dark patches of precum will show up against the lighter red, making it abundantly clear where the tip of my cock is rubbing frustratingly against the roughness of the mesh liner. 

I should be too tight, too unpracticed for him to push his fingertip into me. Any other time I'd need the lube he brought me, or a whole lot of spit and lotion. After the day I've had, though, my puffy, well-toyed-with hole seems willing to give Xander's play a try; I can't hold in the grunt as he grinds the digit inside, my overwhelmed muscles yielding yet again. 

"Fuck, you feel good," he murmurs, and there's some small part of my brain that still has just enough distance from the terror of the situation to preen at how eager he sounds. Can hear the lust and need in his tone, and hums with pleasure at the knowledge that it's my body that's causing it. 

Not that I can spend much time dwelling on that, when he eases a little further into me. 

"You love the danger, don't you," Xander accuses, and I open my mouth to tell him no, to deny it. Squeak, instead, halfway to a yelp when he digs even deeper and I instinctively rock my hips atop him. Pressing down, now, because even if my brain is terrified my body apparently wants him to keep going. 

"I can't blow you here, so if you cum it's gonna be so obvious," Xander warns me with a chuckle. "Running down your leg and giving you a huge wet patch. Everyone's gonna see."

There's something very wrong with me, that's the only conclusion I can come to right now. Something broken in my head, that when I hear that I don't pull away from him, force his hand out of my tightness. I know Xander wouldn't stop me from doing that, wouldn't keep at something that he knew I didn't want. And so the fact that I'm pushing onto his hand can only mean that somewhere, in the depths of my ruined psyche, I really, really want him to be toying with me in public like this. 

He doesn't wait for me to acclimate, when I feel his palm pressing at the skin between my cheeks. Just starts wriggling that devious finger, stretching and tugging at me as though he's decided he needs to fuck me again. That twice wasn't enough, not for the day I lost my virginity to another guy; that he needs to breed my novice hole another time in order to demonstrate to me just what my place is. 

The idea of it, of him toppling me sideways on this couch and - heedless of the people around us, sparse as the crowd might be - pushing my shorts aside just enough to long-dick me until he creams my insides, leaves my head spinning. 

Just when I think he's going to capitalize on that dizziness, though, Xander changes tack. His hand no less persistent, but the roles he has in mind reversed. 

"Just looking at the way you're bulging out of those shorts makes me want you inside me, dude," he observes. Voice thickened with lust, but he's still doing better than I am. I think, if I tried to speak, it would only emerge as a low and plaintive groan. "That fat head is gonna feel so incredible when you're in me deep."

I want to hear it, but I don't. Know exactly what his plan is here, his intention, but still at the complete mercy of my body's weaknesses. Brain screaming that this is all in the name of seeing me losing control, and yet my dick, my ass, what feels like every muscle in me is shuddering and twitching.

"Can't..." I manage to gasp out, not quite knowing what it is I'm denying here. Xander chuckles. 

"Oh, I bet you could. Your body would absolutely know how to deep-fuck me, dude." His finger shifts, as though to give me an internal example of just how that would feel. "You're gonna be a fucking natural."

It's not like I haven't thought about it. Ever since Xander told me how he'd been with guys; ever since he'd made clear that he had no issues bending over and getting his hole slammed. The idea of burying myself inside of him, of being able to let loose in a way I figured no girl would ever let me, was almost enough to make me cum in my shorts already. 

Instead, I look down to see a growing dark spot, where precum has already started flowing. "No..."

He snorts, amused, and I find myself wishing there was some way I could turn the tables on him. Make it Xander who felt out of his depth, exposed, unmoored by the flood of sexual feelings rushing through him. 

A good idea, some part of my brain agrees, but one you really should've considered before he started finger-fucking you on a coffee shop couch. 

"If we leave, now," I manage to gasp out, "we can do it. Right now."

Xander's smile is knowing, loaded. "Do what, Luka?" 

I'd glare at him, if I still had full control over my muscles. "Fuck you. I'll fuck you right now," I promise him, through clenched teeth. 

A chuckle. "Tell me you want to."

Somehow, despite everything my body is fighting, I just about pin a stare on his face. Hold his gaze, ignoring Xander's knowing smirk the best I can. 

"I want to fuck you," I tell him, softly. 

He cocks his head to the side. "Sorry, what was that?" 

My jaw is so tight, it's bordering on painful. "I want," I repeat, hating the extra volume but knowing he won't quit until he gets what he's demanding, "to fuck you."

A slow nod, of approval but also curiosity. "And how are you gonna fuck me, Luka?" 

I want to tell him that I'll do it any way he likes, any way he wants me to. Whatever it takes, in fact, to get his finger out of my ass and his hand out of my shorts, and some semblance of balance back into my brain. Only I know that won't be good enough for him; that it isn't what Xander is looking for. 

Because I know enough, now, to understand that part of the fun for him is hearing me say exactly what my body wants from him. 

"On your hands and knees, with your ass in the air," I tell him. Trying to find that ideal pitch, somewhere sharp enough that he's in no confusion what I want from him, but preferably without broadcasting it to everyone else in the coffee shop. Watch Xander's smile spread, too, at how I'm rising to his challenge. "I'm gonna hold your hips and I'm gonna fuck you bare, so I can cum right inside you."

He licks his lips, pupils huge, and I feel a sudden, giddy rush of victory at the knowledge that I've strummed some part of his libido in the way that he seems invariably to crank up mine. 

"Gonna rawdog my hole with that fat dick of yours, are you?" His voice is a murmur, lust adding a thick rasp to his words. "Gonna give me a good story to tell my girl?" 

I have to fight the urge to look around us, to check for inadvertent eavesdroppers, because I don't want to be the one who glances away first. My mouth feels dry, tongue thick. Even so, it's all I can do not to yelp as his other hand wraps carefully around my cock, squeezing me pointedly. 

"She's gonna want to know how every inch of this felt in me, Luka," he purrs. "I already told her how you taste, how good you felt in my throat. I know she wants to hear how you make me whimper as you wreck me." Xander squeezes me again. "You think you can do that? Think you can make me squeal like she wants?" 

I nod. Not trusting my ability to produce words; not really trusting any part of my body right now, the combination of his talk and his hands conspiring to drive me way past any point of self control. Every nerve ending feeling primed and raw, even as my brain slogs through a fog of lust. 

From the look on his face, Xander is fully aware of what he's doing to me. 

"I think we should leave, shouldn't we," he suggests, softly. I nod, trying not to let my eagerness show, but from the way he smirks I might not be hiding it well. "Think you can stand up, without giving everyone in here an eyeful?" 

I can feel myself blushing, red hot across each cheek. Knowing that, quite frankly, that might be impossible, and knowing equally well that he's of the same opinion. No hoodie or sweater to pull down across my crotch. I can't believe I let him dress me like this, even if the shorts were my own doing. 

I squirm as he pulls his finger out of me; lift myself, just enough that his hand can tug out from my shorts. Fighting the urge to gasp with relief, topple back against the cushions. It felt good, too good really, and that was the problem. Xander seems to know every place to touch me, to stroke me, in order to push me past any sensible, rational thought. 

He stands, and I'm gratified to see the swollen front of his jeans. The way the denim is stretched tight around his own hardness, less obvious than my predicament but a reminder nonetheless that just as Xander has an effect on me, I apparently do on him, too. 

I let him pull me to my feet, casting nervous glances around us to see if anyone is looking over. So far, so good. 

"After you," he says, grinning, and gestures to the door. I grit my teeth and, not daring to look around me, walk over as fast as I can without it looking suspect. Don't feel ready to exhale until I get to his car, though. 

"You look tense, Luka?" he teases, as I slam the door shut and let my head drop back against the seat, panting as the tension catches up with my body. Tilt my head to glare at him, his smirk only proving more enraging. 

"You get off on embarrassing me," I accuse him, and there's not even a flicker of denial in response. Xander just winks at me. 

"It's not my fault you're cute when you're all worked up," he counters. I shoot him a glare. 

"I'm not cute."

He reaches out; swipes a thumb across my pouting lips, playfully. "Yeah, you are. You're really fucking cute, and it's kinda hilarious that you don't even realize it." 

There's part of me which wants to smile, accept the compliment and maybe even dare to believe it. I'm not quite ready to let him see how easily I'm swayed, though. 

"You could take me seriously," I tell him, grumpily. 

Xander smiles at me, then reaches down and wraps his hand around my crotch. Uses the other hand to turn my head to him, fingers soft but insistent on my chin.

"I take this very seriously," he tells me, squeezing my crotch pointedly. 

I can't help myself, I have to drop my own hand to cover his. Use that grip to squeeze again, enjoying the way Xander unconsciously bites his lip as I encourage him to grope at me. There's something about him which makes me feel more confident, even with his frustrating tendency to like embarrassing me in public. Like, I've started to see myself through his eyes sometimes. Just little glimpses, but enough to upend the critical view I usually face in the mirror. 

"Tell me how much you want it, again," I prompt him. Xander snorts. 

"You want me to beg for it, Luka?" he asks, eyes narrowing as his smirk widens. "Because I will, I'll beg. I really, really fucking need you in me."

---

This is the fifteenth part of an ongoing story - thank you to everyone who has commented, emailed, or rated it so far! If Luka's exploration of his sexuality has you looking for more straight-boys-discover-gay-play tales, and you enjoy your erotica filled with ass-play, cum, college boy hookups, and some remote-control sex toys, then I think you'll like my story "Seven Days to Squirm" too...