Xander Shows Me My Prostate

I shake my head, the movement tight and jerky. I'm afraid of drawing attention, but at the same time I really need Xander to understand that what he's suggesting - what I'm pretty sure he's suggesting - is a terrible idea. One that's guaranteed to get us caught, and I'm not sure about him but I know I'm in no position to explain exactly what the fuck is going on in my life lately. 

So I shake my head at him again, giving him a wide-eyed "don't even think about it" glare, because I really don't want this to happen. Making as entirely clear as is possible in non-verbal ways that we're not doing this.  No. Nope. Never gonna happen.

I do nothing to stop him as Xander eases his hand down the back of my sweatpants.

My boxers present a little bit more of a challenge, the waistband tighter, but he persists. I could take the opportunity to step to the side, to force him to pull his hand free again, but I don't. I'm just standing there, glaring at him still - an expression which is apparently powerless against his playful grin - as his slick fingers push down between my cheeks. 

Whatever resolve I may have had left, my body is betraying. At least, that's the only way I can think about it, when his fingertip brushes smoothly across my hole and my hips instinctively tilt back to chase the pressure. I know Xander would laugh at me, if he wasn't trying to at least be vaguely subtle.

It's still a terrible idea, but I adjust my stance slightly nonetheless. Spreading my legs a little wider, while his fingers are making tiny, teasing circles around my entrance. 

He's taunting me, I know, and it's a kind of torture. Xander wants me to be pretty much begging for it, and half of what's driving me mad with frustration right now is that it's hardly far-fetched. I might be embarrassed to think about it too much, but it's not like I didn't spend the past couple of days struggling to think about anything else than what he's silently proposing now. 

I just figured if it happened it would be just the two of us, rather than me getting finger-fucked in the kitchen surrounded by my sister's drunk friends. 

My brain tells me I should be pulling away. In fact it's screaming that right now, a five-alarm alert that what I'm letting him do is absolutely fucking wild. Pretty much guaranteed to go wrong, and if I'm still letting it happen then it's only because I'm a dumb, horny idiot and this is almost certainly something I can blame mostly on Dan, too. If my fucking stupid best buddy hadn't got it into his head to start playing with his ass while he jerked off, and insisted on telling me all about it, then I almost certainly wouldn't be in this screwed-up situation today. 

All that is echoing in my head, but the main problem is that my body doesn't seem to give a damn. Because Xander is applying direct pressure with his forefinger to my hole and, not only am I not doing a single thing to stop him, I'm actually gripping the edge of the countertop and levering my hips back against his hand. 

Because at the end of the day I really, really want him to play with my ass until I cum like crazy.

I just about swallow the gasp as his finger slides inside me. I'd be able to do a better job of it, if Xander was at least giving me a minute to adjust. But I guess he's as eager as I am for all this because he's just keeping pushing and, after a few seconds, his knuckles are brushing up against the crack of my ass. 

I'm suddenly thinking about that movie, where some idiot decides to make a theme park of killer dinosaurs and they all get loose, and how they have to stay totally still otherwise the dinos are gonna see them and eat them. That's how I feel right now, like if I move a single muscle, everyone in the room is gonna realize that Xander's finger is squirming around inside me, trying to nudge against that pleasure button and make me even harder than I already am. 

And right now I'm pretty fucking hard, y'know.

Like, regretting-these-boxers hard, because there's absolutely zero way that my underwear and these baggy sweats are going to do a single thing to hide my boner. If I take a step back from where I'm pretty much grinding myself against the edge of the countertop, the tent my dick is making is going to be so fucking obvious. And it'll only get worse once I start leaking. 

Xander, I figure, is fully aware of both of these things. Right now I'm working on the assumption that he's actively trying to encourage them. 

So it's altogether another reason to finally step out of reach. I don't believe in god and my parents gave up trying to get me to go to church with them every Sunday, but I'd be willing to give a little prayer or something to whatever deity might be listening that - so far at least - nobody has caught on to what we're doing. But it seems like I'm too interested in tempting fate, because instead of doing that sensible thing, I start to shift my hips instead.

Forward, and backward, and I'm basically humping the kitchen cabinets now, with the not-inconsiderable bonus that doing so also slides Xander's finger in and out of my hole. 

He leans into my side, not stopping my movements, but so that his mouth is closer to my ear. "Are you fucking yourself on my hand?" 

I hear the smirk in his voice, a hint of triumph there too. Turn my head just enough to glare at him; a look which I hope says "don't make this more complicated than it has to be." Because I love how this feels, and I don't want to stop, but there are some pretty fucking deep implications and neither my brain nor my body is ready to dwell on them quite yet. 

Especially not when he adds the second finger. 

He's pretty fucking sly about it, too. One moment I'm backing up on him, my ass past that "whoa, what the hell" sensation and getting much closer to that "fuck, yeah, rub that bit" part; the next, I'm getting spread twice as wide and, as my hips kinda lose their momentum and pause from the surprise, Xander's hand pushes in and I don't have a choice any more. I'm just gonna take both his fingers as deep as he wants them.

He's giving me a second to get used to that, at least, which is a fucking relief because right now - with my cock jammed against the hard marble edge and his fingers buried as far in as they can get - I'm very close to groaning out loud. The sort of groan that makes anybody within earshot turn to see what the hell is happening. 

Xander's patience runs out before mine does, something I'm fully aware of because suddenly I can feel his fingers wriggling around in my ass and my jaw is basically creaking with how tight I have to clench it. If I don't, there's zero guarantee that I'm not gonna start hopping around from one foot to the next, because his fingertips keep grazing over that swell of nerve-endings inside me. 

"We need... to stop..." I grind out, the words taking a little longer than they should because my brain is kinda melting. Xander chuckles. 

"Okay... you first."

He doesn't pull his hand away, though, and in fact he's started twisting his wrist instead. I've basically lost any way to describe what's happening and the flood of feelings from it, because it's like he's stretching and rubbing and tickling me all at the same time. Parts of my body that, to be very fucking honest here, I didn't have a clue could be stretched, or rubbed, or tickled. Or how it might feel if they were. 

"Are you gonna cum in your pants?" Xander teases. I don't think my glare is as effective this time around, because he just laughs at me. 

"You still making drinks, dude?" 

We both look up in surprise, and I almost feel some sense of achievement that Xander was as caught up in things as I am. I say almost, because it's taking every scrap of focus I can muster right now to keep from whimpering out loud.

And while the guy staring at us from across the counter might be kinda drunk, he's not deaf or blind. 

"Sure am," Xander says, "right Luka?" I open my mouth to agree, then have to clamp it shut and nod instead as the two fingers stretching out my hole take that opportunity to flex apart and tug on my weakly-protesting muscles. 

He sets a glass in front of me, and then passes me a bottle. I stare at my hand, willing it not to shake as I pour out a shot or so of whatever sickly-sweet smelling liquor this is. It glistens, kinda oily, in the glass, and of course that reminds me of how Xander's hand had looked, all slick with coconut oil. My cock throbs again, trapped uncomfortably between my body and the counter, which only makes me flinch back and further onto the fingers that are plying me.

He has to tug the bottle from my fingers, I'm so distracted. Replaces it with another; I splash out some of its contents.

"Y'know," Xander says, casually, "us bartenders measure drinks by fingers." He nods down at the glass, then looks up at the guy across the counter. "You've already got two... think you could handle a third?"

I can just about swallow my whimper. Xander isn't looking at me, isn't even talking to me right now, but what he's suggesting is coming through loud and clear. And though the idea of it is terrifying, I still can't help but wonder that if two of his fingers in me feels this good, maybe three would feel even better?

"Dude!" the drunk guy practically yells, smiling happily, "the more the merrier, right?" 

Xander turns, slightly, and cuts his eyes at me. Winks. "Totally, dude. I think you can take it."

With his free hand, he gives my fingers a tap where they're still clenched around the bottle. Prompting me to upend it again, and slosh a little more into the glass. I'm hardly watching what I'm doing, though, because my attention is pretty much all focused on the way Xander is slowly pulling out of my ass. 

And I know - with a certainty that makes me shiver and my cock liberally drool into the front of what I'm sure are already-soaked boxers - what's coming next. 

The cluster of his fingers feel blunt against my hole. Bigger, much bigger, than anything else we've done so far. The anxiety is building in my chest, that nervousness you get when you say yes to something and then realize moments later what you've just agreed to. 

I didn't say yes, but I didn't say no, either. And, scared or not, I'm not doing anything to stop Xander as the pressure increases. 

I'm watching the drunk guy take an eager sip when my muscles finally give up their protest. Gasp, even though I'm trying to steel myself to it, to prepare. Xander's hand pushing and there's nowhere for my body to move, the way I'm sandwiched between his arm and the cabinets. 

"Fuck..." 

I can't help it, the word slips out. Drunk guy glancing over at me, still grinning; raising the glass in a happy toast. "Don't worry lil dude," he reassures me, slurring just a bit, "I can handle it." 

I want to tell him that it's not his tolerance for alcohol that I'm worried about, here, but that would require brain cells, and they're all being overloaded with the eruption of sensations from my hole. Xander's not rushing anything, not hurrying, but at the same time there's no pausing or waiting either. I'm gonna take his fingers and - unless I actively do something to stop him - he's not gonna stop until all three are rubbing that panic-button spot inside me.

"You like that?" Xander's question isn't aimed in my direction, but I don't doubt that I'm the intended audience. I can't even hear the drunk guy's response, brain too focused on the sensation of being stretched open. My hole is fluttering around his fingers, my muscles going crazy as he pushes inside me, and it's taking all my self-control to not cry out or reach into my sweats and go to town on my dick. 

That's the thing which is really making me dizzy right now. The part I'm struggling to come to terms with, more than the discovery that my ass can open up to three of Xander's long digits. It's the fact that with each further half-inch he pushes steadily in, my body has only been getting more and more turned on. 

He hasn't even touched my prostate properly yet, and already it would probably take just grazing my fingertips across the head of my dick and I'll be cumming like crazy. This whole feeling of being stretched, spread open, is so weird, so teasing,and then the fact that he's doing it when we're surrounded by a room full of people. I just want to whimper and grunt, and I'm struggling not to just slam myself back on his hand and get it all fucking done with. 

I have zero doubt, too, that Xander knows full well what he's doing to me right now.

The guy gives us a lazy sorta-salute with his glass, and stumbles off toward the chairs. It's about as private a moment as I'm gonna get.

"You need to stop." I can hear the desperation in my voice, but the lust there too. Xander's expression makes it clear he can hear it too, and the way his fingers push further into me - wriggling in a way that makes me afraid my legs are gonna buckle underneath me - makes it equally clear he has no intention of stopping. 

"Tell me you want me to stop, Luka." His voice is a murmur, little more, but it makes me want to sob with frustration. I know, and he knows, I'm not going to tell him that. Xander chuckles. 

"Feels good, right?" The stare I give him is almost sullen, but I can't maintain it. Not when he pulls his hand up, his fingers suddenly tugging at my insides in a way that makes me want to squeak with shock. 

I'm up on my tiptoes before I even realize it, desperate to relieve the pressure and squash down some of the flood of wild sensations he's generating in me. Hopping from foot to foot, almost, but that's only making it worse. Moving Xander's fingers around inside me, pulling and stretching my hole to the point where I start to wonder if I'll just cum, like this, hands-free and no hope of hiding it. 

"Stop moving," he tells me, chuckling, and the pressure eases. Not that he pulls his hand out, but Xander is just making little, half-inch thrusts into me now. Still dizzying, but I can at least stop panting and whimpering. For a second, anyway, because that's how long it takes for him to glance around the room, see nobody is obviously paying attention to us, and then push his hand down the front of my sweats. 

I gasp so hard, my chest hurts. Terrified of making any more sound than that, though, because anything could draw attention to us. And if it was bad enough when Xander's hand was playing with my ass, I can't imagine how someone could glance over and not see that he's basically pawing at my dick, now, too.

"Fuck... stop, please..." It's a whisper but I'm putting as much power into it as if I was shouting. I know it's a risk, that anything could get us spotted, but I'm also totally sure that if he starts playing with my cock I'll cum. Like, big, messy, explosive, soak-through-your-sweats cum. 

Xander has my dick in his hand. Not jerking it, not even really rubbing it, just his fingers wrapped around my shaft. Even then, from the way my body is shuddering and twitching, it's still sliding in his grip. All that precum I've been drooling into my boxers has left me slippery and easier to rub.

He's leaning in, as though there's some big secret he wants to whisper into my ear. Close enough, I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. 

"You are so... fucking... hard," he murmurs, and I can hear his amusement. The knowledge that he did this, he's causing all this. My mortified embarrassment and my excitement, and if I'm contributing something too then it's the way those things weirdly overlap and aggravate each other. Because I also know that the fear of getting caught should be enough to kill my erection, and yet if anything it's making it harder.

"We can't do this here," I tell him, desperation making my voice shake almost as much as arousal is. This is different to when it was me and Xander in my room, to when he'd caught me playing with myself. It's that realization that, as certain as my dick is hard right now, I'm so fucking turned on in this moment that I could make the very worst decisions, and rush into them, headlong, and gladly. 

I cast a nervous glance around us, Xander still leaning into me. The counter blocks the view of where, exactly, his hands are, but it's still a weird way to be standing. So close to my side, his chest basically pressed into my arm, now. 

I look up, and immediately make eye contact with Lucy. 

She's still on the couch on the other side of the room; still surrounded by chattering friends in various states of drunkenness. For that matter, I don't know exactly how much she's had to drink, or how much she's even seeing, versus staring out into the vague middle-distance.

The way she looks at me, though, makes me think she's sober enough. To tell that something is off about what her boyfriend and I are doing over here in the kitchen; sober enough to see that there's something tense and brittle about me, even if she doesn't know it's because I'm about thirty seconds and a quarter-dozen strokes from creaming my sweatpants. Sober enough that, as I whisper - no, mouth - "fuck" in horror, and Xander chuckles against my ear, still assuming I'm only thinking about my body as it teeters on the edge of a stomach-creasing, muscle-clenching orgasm to end all orgasms, I see her eyes narrow, suspiciously.

The cool smirk that follows tells me we've fucked up.

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This is the sixth part of an ongoing story - thanks for all the great feedback so far! You can find more of my writing at www.alexpendragon.com - appreciate you reading!