The grunts, cheers, and downright moaning of the various denizens of Soliloquy (the gym I go to when at home) fills the air with a kind of charged atmosphere that only a gym at prime time can have.
After the events of this morning (re: parents being . . . well, quite in love shall we say?) I had to get out of the house for a while. Had to do something to dispel the tension in my bones. The girth of my cock was heavy and my balls full when I stuffed them in my CKs as I hightailed it out of the house.
By that time my parents were done with their fucking and were enjoying a nice cup of joe around the dinner table.
My mum called as I was leaving but I couldn't see them. Was afraid I'd gain a boner right there in the dining room. And so I just yelped something akin to 'gonnagotothegymlater' and then just booked it out of there.
I could hear her amused chuckle and my dad's grumbling as I left the house.
And you know what?
Fuck. Them. Him.
Like honestly.
(and literally cuz like . . . oh god no no no don't think about that now aaaaand there goes my cock for fuck's sake)
Oh also fuck Kevin for making me promise chastity till he comes back to town in a couple of days.
What can I say? I was both a sap and a masochist. And apparently liked to be told what to do. Yay me. Quite a few things came to light since that night. A few sexual, and otherwise aspects of my life that I've been trying to come to terms with. Going to therapy twice a week for the last couple of years might have a hand in that.
And thank the gods for doctor-patient confidentiality.
Yeah. To say my life changed immeasurably since that night a few years ago would be the understatement of the damn century.
And so here I am.
Sleep Token's new album blasts in my ears as I complete the final set of my bench press. 200lb for 10 reps ain't half bad. I high five my spotter who smiles at me and I go to retrieve my water bottle from the nook I've kept it nearby. Dumping a bit on my face and neck, I drown half the bottle in one go. God did I love chest days.
Call me vain and spank me daddy, but I look good!
The mirror placement in gyms always amused and confounded me in the same breath. These are the people who'll swear by their heteronormative nature and yet place lights and mirrors that bring out the best, most sexually charged aspect of you ever known. The dichotomy of humans was something to be studied and analysed.
I get rid of my tank when I see Leslie come over from where she'd been deadlifting. Her skin was flushed. Her abs and thighs in sharp relief at the recessed lighting. She looked well pumped, that girl.
'Leslie! Les. My girl. How ya doin', babe?'
For most people who are openly queer, high school is not a good experience. It can be downright harrowing for a vast majority of them. But well, for me . . .
I was best friends with the school's IT girl and the start quarterback. Needless to say, people thought twice before reforming to homophobia in front of us. Didn't hurt that I also was raised by my parents who hadn't batted an eye and had instead taught me the virtue of self defence. God I loved them so much. Oh, also hated them a tad bit. Well, mostly my dad. And well, mostly that one particular aspect -
'Look who's back in town! Ya come back and don't even call? Wassup with that, Hotshot?' Leslie says, stepping up to my side and posing a bit as I snap off a couple of pics. The lighting here is pretty damn good.
'Just came yesterday. And then promptly crashed. Didn't have much time to reach out. I was gonna call y'all today. Wanted to see if you were free this weekend. We could hang out, go down by the peer. Shoot a couple beers and have some fun, ya?'
Leslie smiles crookedly as I put my phone away. 'Just like old times, eh?'
I give a little shrug. 'Kevin coming soon then.' It’s not a question. More an observation.
I don’t look at her, shuffling around with my bottle. 'Yeah. He's flying in the day after, Les.'
She nods. Eyes stuttering. Soooo . . .
Yeah. Leslie and Kevin were a thing. The star quarterback and the IT girl. The power duo.
The keyword being were. When they say college is a transformative experience, they leave out the fact that it barely makes space for what was in order to make room for what is going to be.
And. Well. There's also the fact that I might have had something to do with it? A teeny, tiny bit. Just a smudge really. I mean, letting Kevin fuck me senseless on their last homeaway game was a little blip in the matrix, if you're looking at the grand picture.
And when we did it again on the flight home (I joined the mile high club then, yay!), and also when we met up at his house and he fucked me to next Sunday (I literally couldn't walk straight the next two days), and also later then at the barbeque that we throw every year for Thanksgiving (it's a rather manageable community to do it both as individual family and as an entire town), when we'd gotten pissed drunk and had stumbled back to my house (my parents were out of state at that time for . . . something that I really don't remember) and he'd proceeded to fuck me over the couch, against the hallway wall, then in my parents' bedroom, then in my room . . . Oh and then he'd had to go to the bathroom but I was sexed out and in the throes of memories and I'd convinced him to piss fuck me -
Well, like I said: a slight blimp in the grand scheme of things, my part in their breaking up at the end of high school.
'You're an asshole, by the way.' Leslie says unceremoniously. I flinch at the factual way she spoke. And yeah. Yes, I am an asshole.
But we are at the gym. And some places are not made for certain conversations that are long overdue.
And so I say, 'Do you wanna meet me for dinner later?'
It is both a peace offering and a chance. And I think she knows it. Or at least, she's trying, in her own way. Some past wounds heal. And others scab over. I was a horny asshole in years past whose exposure to sex was not through the normal medium. Working with my therapist has made me realise that some of my actions stem from the rejection and also the verisimilitude of the situations I find myself in often.
And yes, I can be adult enough to say that I helped someone cheat. Almost goaded him into it. And though there's Kevin's fault there too (which we've talked about at length and if he ever expects to come close to my ass again, it'll be after he and Leslie had a talk), we've come to learn that thing's happened. Shit often hits the fan. And the trick is to know what to do next.
Ergo, my proposal. A turning page.
Leslie seemed to turn it over in her mind before she finally said, 'Yeah, sure. I have a meeting at 6. But I can meet you after. Shaw's at 9?'
I smile.
'I miss you.' I'm in my room, the evening sun a lengthy halo against my childhood bedroom walls. The orange-golden glow has faded to a rich bronze, almost nectar in its essence. I'm feeling lethargic. Mellowed out. A strong gym session will do that to you. That's why I loved it so much. Why I put so much of my time, money, blood and sweat and tears into it.
My phone's in my hand. Kevin's frame fills that screen as he goes on making dinner.
We live together, he and I. In the city nearby. He's two years older than me. Hence why he finished school early as is now a financial advisor for a fortune 500 company, whilst I finish college working towards my psych degree. Needless to say, we were pretty comfortable, monetary wise.
It'd taken some time to get used to the idea, much less to acquiesce. Letting him pay for most of my life was something that I was dead against. I wanted to live in the college accomodation. Take part time jobs to pay for anything that my scholarship won't take care of. My dad was pretty straightforward about the fact that anything he has (and that's nothing to scoff at) was mine. But well. Pride cometh before the fall. Also, knowing that there was something I could always fall back to made it a bit easier to go out into the wide world.
It wasn't until Kevin literally followed me to the city where I attend college in the guise of a transfer/relocation at his job that I understood the depths of what we had.
I was always a naive kid that way.
'How did it go?' he says, drawing me out of my memories. 'Meeting with Leslie.'
I shrug, getting comfortable in my bed. The pillows that make up my bed engulf me whole. I love my bed in this house, scout's honor.
'Honestly, better than I thought it would. After my set I was pretty wiped, so I thought I'd keep it light. Keep it pc, as the kids say these days.'
Kevin looks at the screen at that, brows raised. 'You are kids these days.'
I blew a raspberry. 'Potato, potato. Anyways. I had a pump going, and thank you for demanding pics of that. As I was taking them, she saw me in the mirror. We made eye contact. And I had to think quickly on my feet. I'm an asshole. But not the kind that'd ignore people jus’ cuz of an uncomfortable conversation.'
Kevin makes affirmative noises as he flips something in the pan.
'You didn't know she goes there?'
I give him a flat stare, which he ignores to add some pepper to the dish. 'If only I had someone in my life who followed his ex on Instagram. My life would be so much fuller for it.'
He chuckles at that, moving to open the cupboard and draw out a wine glass. Uncorking a bottle of red from the nearby counter, he says, 'She sent me a request. What was I supposed to do? I thought it was to initiate contact but well, she hasn't reached out yet. And you know me. Keep me in front of three dude bros with billions in their bank and I'd eat them for breakfast. But with her . . .'
And I know. Know the guilt he still carries. We've had quite a few conversations on this matter. Late at night, after we're both too tired to bother with sex. The first time it was me who broached the topic. The next was me too. But after that he'd opened up a bit. Told me how he felt the responsible one, being the oldest person out of all three. How he should have just broken up with her but was too afraid to do so. The star quarterback might have a best friend who's gay. But he himself couldn't be. And that's America at its core: an oxymoron of light and darkness. A breath of fresh air in a cocoon of suffocation.
'I get it. Being in denial, then being out of essence with who you are can be challenging. I'm really proud of ya, ya no? For having grown so far. For being who you are, both outside the home and in it.'
He smiles at that, lifting his glass to take a swig. And that's Kevin in a flurry of motions. A guy who can drink whiskey like it's water and also turn right around and enjoy a bottle of cabernet like it's all he's ever known. God, but do I love him for that.
A man should be kind. A good listener. A supporter. That's what it means to be a man, Ash.
So, yes, while I might have daddy issues (both physical and mental), and whilst Kevin is in the full know about it, I still love him greatly. He's the person I'll fight a war for, go to the mat to defend. The person, after my parents, to whom I gave my heart and hoped he'll keep it protected.
And till now, he has not stumbled a bit in that department. There have been times when I'd second guessed my decisions, my feelings as to whether they're a byproduct of some actions in my past. But those are coming far and few in between nowadays. Time is the answer and the question in most facets of life.
The ding of the oven makes Kevin keep his glass down and go over. As he serves dinner for one, I fleet through Insta. After a while of that, he says, almost conversationally, 'So, how's my cock doing? Is he behaving like a good boy? Or has he been . . . unruly?'
I huffed out a breath, chest shaking lightly at his remarks. 'Unruly, really? Sexy, dude.'
Kevin's eyes glinted with unspoken promises. 'I aim to please. Now,' and his demeanor changes as if a switch was flipped. Gone was the mirth. Gone was the man who's my partner. A tenor of demand, of possession, of mine, mine, mine ran through the words, 'you haven't been touching what's mine, have you?'
And that. Well that's always done something for me. In the basics of senses, in the most primal of places, men who know how to take with consent are the sexiest thing ever. And only two people in my life have ever had that from me and ever will: my dad, and Kevin. And God do they know how to use it to make me get down on my knees.
I am a good boy after all.
But a brat's a brat. Can't make it all too easy for them, after all. Have to keep them on their toes, and from flying too high.
And so I fake out a snort. Adopted a devil-may-care attitude, even as I can feel my cock lengthening, can feel it feeling up with blood.
'Who knows? I mean, for all you know I've been cumming left, right, and center. After all, I've been so horny lately. And you're soooooooo far away. What's a boy gotta do in these tense circum-'
The clatter of utensils makes me choke off the rest of the words as Kevin picks the phone up from where it has been resting against the opened wine bottle. His face fills out the screen as I see his eyes darkening, a calm demeanor rippling out from his eyes, transforming his entire feature into one exuding power. Transforming him from Kevin to . . . Sir. Not daddy. Never daddy. That's reserved for someone else.
And I think, there he is, there's my man as a small groan inadvertently rips out of my pressed lips.
His eyes darken farther, iris almost blotted out by the depths of shadows that swarm in them. He notices that groan, of course he does.
A dangerous smile flits across his lips. 'Oh my sweetheart, I do hope you're feigning. For your sake, and for the sake of my cock, I do hope you're just being a brat. Are you, darling?'
He never refers to his dick as my cock. It's always my dick, or my prick. For my penis he refers to it as my cock.
Like I said, my life is . . . something, alright.
And apparently I'm a daredevil too as I say, 'Well, no not really. You should have seen the mess I made this morning. I'd just given it two tugs and there was cum every -'
'Ash.' One word. One syllable. My world quiets down. The outside sounds of the world, the house settling, all fissures away like a lungful of cigarette smoke in a windy area. My mind narrows to a point. To his face. His eyes. His thin lips. To him.
I looked at his eyes for a while. And when I can't hold it anymore I lower it to his lips. Submissive. Diminutive. I am his and he knows it.
I take in a breath. Hold it. 'No,' I say. 'No I haven't touched it. Not since, well, not since I last saw you.'
He waits. I breathe in and out. In and out. And when I finally figure it out, I add, quite mindful of the seconds that I make him wait. 'Sir.'
His pupils blow. His nose releases a sharp breath as he proceeds to close his eyes. He takes a deep breath, as if it does something to him. Something visceral. Physical. To have me like this.
My cock is a juxtaposition to the otherwise flat, and symmetrical surface that I'm lying on. It is raised like a 21 gun salute. But I don't touch it. Don't even look at it. It's not mine anyways. Not now.
When he opens his eyes, he whispers, 'Good boy. My good boy. I'm so proud of you. You're doing real good. Just wait a couple of days more. Just a couple of days and then I'm there. I'll take care of you, sweetheart. So good. So good for me, baby.'
And. I am. Dead. Floating away. My libido comes back in full force. The week that we've spent apart is the longest we've ever spent apart since we made it official. And I'm not used to it. Not used to not touching him. Not having him.
A keening sound releases from my lips. I whimper out a 'please' and a 'I want you' and a 'I need you' and 'please, please, please touch me, I'm yours'.
I would be ashamed of it. I would not even be like this. If this was not him and I. If this was not Kevin. Not my . . . everything. (Well, nearly everything, I mentally correct. But then that has never been a secret, has it.)
My hand slowly reached down. Just a bit. Skimming the exposed strip of skin from where my tank has ridden up. I wear my boxers low, and the hairs leading down my naval are stark against the creamy material of my boxers. I'm almost to my aching dick when Kevin snaps, 'Hands behind your head.'
I curse out a low fuck, but do as he tells me to do. Putting both my hands behind my back, I balance the phone on the bedside table so he can see I've followed his orders.
The darkness from his face fades a bit as he sees that I've followed his command. 'Since you're being so good for me,' he says, getting up. He opens up the third button of the shirt he's wearing, the top two already undone from before. The curve of his pecs and the hair between them comes in sharper contrast and he unbuttons his shirt slowly. Methodically.
Until he's at the last button. Until it's just hanging from his shoulders. Until the creases and valleys of his abs are brought out by the loving touches of the shadows emanating from all around the kitchen. Until two peaky nipples come into view. And I wanna lick them. Suck them. Bite into them and he enters me without even asking or prepping me. Because as much as my cock is his, my hole is more so. And it doesn't need his permission. Or preparation to take him.
Everything in it belongs to him.
'Breathe for me, baby.' I didn't realise I was holding in my breath. My lungs contract as I release the breath I was holding. Carbon dioxide is a disposable entity, and my body needs the man on the screen more than it needs the oxygen I force it to inhale. To expand and make room for.
Since he again kept the phone on the kitchen counter against the wine bottle, the food discarded nearby, I narrow in to his hands as they brush across his nipples, making them pucker up. As they train across his torse, playing with the hairs on it.
I bite my lips from whimpering out loud. My cock seems to grow ever harder, seems to hate the restraint I have put it in.
I know. Dear lord do I know.
He reached his navel, his middle fingers circling the slight divot there. And then -
His cock is hard and aching from where I can see it stretching the fabric of his jeans.
'You see what you do to me? See how you affect me? How you test my patience?'
I nod. Too aroused, too overstimulated to say anything more. To say anything at all.
One hand gives his jeans a tug as he flexes the other over his head. His biceps bulge, straining the shirt as his underarms and the hair there come into view.
I can't help the saliva coating my mouth. As the ache of my nipples intensifies, begging for someone to touch it. To pinch, bite. To take from it what it's willing to give.
He brings his nose closer to his underarm. Sniffing once, twice.
Ah. I think. So this is what they wrote about when they explained dying a slow, aching death.
Dear lord. If you're there, if you're listening, then take me for who I am.
Let me atone for my crime. Let me die as I've lived -
As his.
He pops open the button of his jeans, lowering them down to reveal -
He's wearing a white CK jockstrap. Just like I love him. There's something undeniably masculine about a pair of well worn jockstrap.
And I -
Can't help it anymore. I beg him. My voice hoarse, I say, 'Please.'
He stops moving. Hand stalling over his cock as it strains against the pouch it's been caged in. Demanding it be released to claim what rightfully belongs to it.
'Please what, sweetheart?' he says.
'Please let me touch myself. Please, sir. I've been such a good boy for you. I have not even jerked my cock since last week. Please.'
His grin is downright devil blessed. 'Not yet.'
I whimper, tears gathering at the corner of my eyes. Seeing that, seeing what he's doing to me, his eyes soften a bit. Loses their ruthless glimmer. 'Tell ya what?'
He goes out of frame for a while. And when he returns there's an empty glass bottle at his hand.
I can just stare, stare, stare as he relieves the beast from its cage. His dick is long. Thick. The vein runs from the uncut tip through underneath the skin to his balls, standing in sharp relief.
It's an angry red, and I can't wait to be spared in two by the sheer bulk of it penetrating me without mercy. Taking, taking, taking, until I'm a writhing, sweaty mess.
He grips his cock hard, strangling it in his grip. And aims the head directly at the mouth of the bottle.
I don't breathe. Don't move. Captivated.
And then he takes a deep breath, abs constructing, pecs standing out in tension, as he lets loose a strong stream of clear white piss right into the bottle.
The jet stream of piss is strong. Beautifully liquid as it escapes his cock in a thick, clear line. It hits the bottle and makes a sound that quickly drowns out as the bottle is filled up.
He's a Greek god that I'll get down on my knees to obey. He tugs on the foreskin whilst he pisses down the bottle. And I -
I can't help it. Can't stop it. Can't do anything as I cum all over the inside of my boxers. Cumming hand free is a painful, uncathartic resolution to the events preceding it.
I cry out. A long drawn-out cry, as my eyes shut close. My hips gyrate on their own against the pillows as I turn around on my front. My tank has ridden up, and I push down my boxers to release my cock and ass as I dry hump the shit out of it.
'Jesus christ.' I hear Kevin breathe but I'm lost to the sensation as I continue ruthlessly attacking my cock. How dare it cum without permission. Without acquiescence from its master. How dare -
'Stop.' He says. Commands. And I do immediately. The head of my cock read, the bedsheet matted in my cum and sweat.
I open my eyes and see him standing there with a bottle full of piss and a hard cock standing at attention.
He looks at me for a while. Not bothering to button up, he corks the bottle and keeps it aside. He puts his head cock back in its cage and buttons up his jeans. Leaving his shirt opened, he comes closer to the camera.
And I can't help it. Again. As tears spring free and rain down my face I whisper, 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' Again. Again. Again.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
I don't know how long I go on like that. I don't care. I did not follow through on my master's orders. I'm useless. I'm nothing, no one. And -
I can hear Kevin saying something in the background but I can't hear it over the noises in my head. It's all static. It's all nothing, a white noise as the past threatens to engulf me in its grasp.
And I'm 20 again. 19 - eighteenseventeensixteenfifteenfourteenthirteentweleeleven
And I'm standing in a white room. And there's a man in robes in front of me and he's saying something -
Strong hands engulf me from behind and I catapult through the years
eleventwelvethirteenfourteenfifteensixteenseventeeneighteen1920
I'm 21 again and there's a body behind me, unmistakenly male and it's saying something against my ears. There's a voice in front of me and it's saying something to the voice behind me.
Kevin. And -
Dad.
And as my father engulfed my body from behind, hand going over and under me, not even caring about any of the cum splattering my boxers and lower torso, my mind stutters. Hitches.
And when my dad says, 'My boy, my son, you're here, you're alive. You're mine,' my mind shuts down and I drift off to oblivion, safe in the arms of the man who made me, and the man who keeps me sane.
At my front and at my back.
