That Husky Voice

It was the voice that captured my attention first. The husky tone of it. Deep, full throated, a voice that I wanted to hear all the time. I imagined hearing it first thing in the morning, asking me to wake up. I imagined it asking what I wanted for breakfast, or if I wanted to go the beach or ride up to the mountains for a hike. I imagined it at my ear as I felt him on top of me.

Someone asked him what he was looking for and I sat up, leaning back to hear more clearly this voice answer the question. Yes, what were you looking for, I wanted to know.

“I don’t know. Someone who’s nice. Someone stable in their own life and…”

“But Brandon, what kind of person? Jess says your gay. Is that true?” the female voice asked after interrupting him.

“Okay. Yes, I’m gay. Do you have a problem with it?”

“No, of course not, but I bet Tracy and Amy will,” the female voice replied, laughing.

“Yeah, well…can we change the subject?”

“No. Come on Brandon, play along. Tell us what kind of guy you’re attracted to.”

I sat in the coffee shop, leaned back listening to Brandon ramble on, listing off various hair colors, different body builds, then a confession he liked blue eyes, but then he like green eyes and brown eyes too. I wanted to look around and see what Brandon looked like. You know, put a face to that voice. I found it adorable the way he couldn’t give a straight answer. How there was no one type. I would have agreed for I could go for different hair colors, or eyes or builds, but there was one thing that I did like over all the others and that was a husky voice. That gravely way the words spilled out, the deep tone of it.

My curiosity became too great. I thought about just turning in my seat and looking behind me, searching out the person whom this voice belonged. Then I remembered the toilets were behind me, at the back for the shop. I’d go the men’s room, just so I could get a look at the guy.

Rising to my feet, I turned while laying my novel in the seat of my chair. I scanned the room behind me. There he was, just to the side amongst three women, the four of them sitting on the sofa and two chairs making up a casual sitting arrangement. I couldn’t get the measure of him, sitting as he was, leaned forward. He looked lean of build, but there were things I did take note. He had brown hair, but a tone like ash. The light reflected with golden highlights and against his dark skin, it all appeared of the same family of brown. And even from twelve feet away I could see he had brown eyes, that looked black from this distance. There was Native American or Spanish blood in his veins, and I wondered if his last name would give clue as to which.

I used the bathroom, washed my hands and stared into the mirror. I had brown hair too, but there the similarities stopped. There was too much Irish in the veins. The fair skin, with the freckles over my cheeks and they spread out over my shoulders too. And my eyes were blue, the one characteristic that seemed to capture the attention of others. I was lean, a bit too lean. My friends kept saying I needed to add a few pounds, and I knew I would probably look better, more filled out, but it seemed impossible to gain it. I rode my bike religiously, hiked on weekends with friends in the nearby mountains and walked as much as possible. I wasn’t the gym type, but I did keep active, and as a result, I burned through the calories I consumed.

I wondered about this Brandon, what he would look like standing. What kind of build he would have. How tall. Statistics that didn’t mean a whole lot but intrigued us all. These measures we judged people by.

Heading back to my seat I saw Brandon and the women stand up, hugging each other goodbye and begin to head out, the women toward the side exit and Brandon toward the front. I sped up to fall in behind him just to get a sense of the person. He was tall, taller than my five eleven. Six foot three, if I had to guess. And he had lean build. His shirt was loose fitting so whether he was muscular or skinny I could not say, but I didn’t care. He had my attention the minute I heard him speak.

For days afterward, I went to the coffee shop hoping to see him. I worked on building up my confidence, getting the nerve to approach when I next saw him. But he didn’t show up again. I fell back into my routine of hanging out with friends some evenings, dinner, a movie, or a night in one of the bars of the neighborhood knocking back ten dollars cocktails like money was no object. The next Saturday I went hiking with Rob and Chris, not getting back till late. The next day I did domestic chores, went to the grocery store and took a long bike ride around the city. Falling easily back into my routine, the week passed.

By the next weekend, I had settled into the belief that my mystery Brandon would remain a mystery and I made plans with Ian and Jackson to go to a fundraiser that Saturday afternoon. It was for the youth center, one I donated what I could. Being out of college for only three years and still paying off loans required to get me through it, I wasn’t in a position to do much. But I did what I could, writing out a check the night before after paying my bills. I knew there were guys who supported the center like I never could. They were older guys, settled into careers with good pay and bonuses. They wrote four to five figure checks that were the ones that really supported the center. I hoped one day to be able to do the same, but then again, I hoped by then we wouldn’t need a center for youth being tossed out by families for simply being gay.

Friday night, I went down to this little bar on Matheson Avenue. A dive bar, my friends called it, most unwilling to go. They said there was not enough cute boys there, and the atmosphere was old. But that was just it. It was an old bar, one that had been in operation over forty-five years, and for that reason I loved the place. The interior was dimly lit, and the walls and bar were a traditional wood construction of dark woods and copper, the beautiful tray custom built along the service side of it, perfect in every smooth corner. It looked such an extravagance in the place, but then again there were the large mirrors behind the bar, the tin ceiling that was original to the 1920’s building and the taps that looked like they came out of a British pub, not some gay bar in the South. The patrons were all age groups, and there were even straight guys showing up from time to time, to play on the large billiard tables in the other room.

There were a few guys I knew, bar friends as I thought of them. We never met outside the bar, but once there, it was like we were old friends who could share anything. We talked of jobs, problems at home, the need for a mechanic or we left all our troubles at the door and talked about nothing of importance, telling jokes and bantering back and forth. I sat next to Tom and Seth and TJ stood at our sides, talking about something important at the time, but what I’d not remember. For he came in. Brandon of the coffee shop. He was with two other guys, and the way they leaned on one another, talking animatedly back and forth, I couldn’t tell if he was with one of them, or neither. The other two guys seemed as infatuated with him as I. They stood on either side of him at the bar, keeping some of the other guys at bay. Even so, there were a couple of guys who went after the newest patron. It was almost comical how you could always count on Nick or Peter to circle in for the kill. But tonight, they obviously were at a disadvantage, for Brandon arrived with two guys who were making sure he was focused on them.

And I felt jealous. Yes, I admit it. How come I always seemed on the outside? Even my friends say I’m not aggressive enough, that I should put myself out there more. Easier said than done. I didn’t feel like I measured up to these guys with their fancy leases for an Audi, or BMW, or Mercedes. I didn’t wear the latest fashion, that new shirt that just arrived this afternoon in the most expensive clothing store in town. I couldn’t afford it, and if I could, not sure I’d want it. Looking at the two guys with Brandon, I’d guess late twenties or early thirties, with jobs at one of the big banks, or some attorney’s office, or maybe they already had their own business. A restaurant or specialty clothing store, or a yoga studio in a warehouse with high ceilings and wood floors. They could entice anyone with their stable lives and large salaries.

I finished my drink, told Tom, Seth and TJ I was heading out. That I had to get up the next morning. A white lie, but a useful one, as I motioned for Eric to bring me my check to sign.

I met Jackson for an early dinner at Aunt Leslie’s, the soul food place on 9th Avenue, then we rode by Ian’s place and picked him up. He worked as an interior designer for a furniture showroom and had to work every other Saturday. We drove out to the Cherry Hill neighborhood where the youth center was located, finding the parking lot full. Parked in the residential neighborhood behind it, we walked the four blocks back and made our way inside. It was crowded, the lobby and meeting room full of people. Some of the youth were acting as servers and the caterer had the conference room adjacent to the meeting room set up with food. A bar was in the meeting room and another outside on the patio, a fenced in area shaded by an old oak tree.

I dropped my check into the glass vase and signed in, while Ian and Jackson did the same. We mingled, talking to guys we knew, made a pass by the food and a couple of trips to the bar. After a while Ian was cornered by two guys, one an interior designer and the other an architect. They fell into their usual conversations of trends, color and their latest projects.

“Come on, he’ll be there the rest of the night” said Jackson, pulling me away.

We were heading to the patio for some fresh air when Tyler stopped Jackson. I knew Tyler had been trying to get Jackson to go out with him for weeks, and I felt sorry for him. Jackson, in the past, gave no indication of interest. But he didn’t flat out refuse him either, which troubled me. I liked Tyler. He was a landscaper with his Uncle, a small business that served mostly corporate clients. And it was evident the work Tyler did. A lean muscular body and his brown hair had blonde streaks in it from being outside all the time. Why Jackson had put him off, I didn’t know, but tonight I saw Jackson address Tyler in a friendlier tone. He actually smiled, when Tyler first approached. Maybe he just waited to see if Tyler was really serious. Either way, I greeted Tyler, and made an excuse to make myself scarce.

There were several small groups on the patio and a few lone wolves such as me, and I nodded a greeting toward the two guys I knew and made my way to a bench at the rear of the patio area. It sat at the trunk of the tree, where it was cast into a dark shadow, not even the lights of the patio could penetrate. I leaned back, looking through the window at Jackson and Tyler deep in conversation, hoping Jackson would go out with him. I sipped my glass of wine and glanced up through the canopy of the tree, amazed how such a huge thing could grow in this environment of pavers and raised planters.

“Hey, can I sit down?”

It was the voice and I looked down to Brandon standing in front of me. “Yes…please,” I replied sliding from the center of the small bench to give him room.

“So, why are you out here alone?”

“I just wanted some air and needed to give my friend some space,” I replied giving a quick point toward Jackson.

“I see.”

“What about you?”

“Well…I just needed to get away from some of the guys. They were getting to be…”

“Clingy?”

“Yeah,” Brandon replied, and the way he smiled, the arch of his eyebrows over those dark brown eyes. I found myself holding my breath.

“I’m David.”

“David, I’m Brandon.”

“I’ve not seen you around very much. You just getting out or what?”

“I moved here about two months ago. A new job in a new city.”

“Is it living up to expectations?”

“Yes. I love the job so far.”

“What do you do?”

“I teach history. American history to be exact.”

“High school?”

“Yep.”

“Wow, not sure I could handle that.”

“What do you do?”

“Accounting. Well, I’m working toward being an accountant. I just finished college two years ago.”

“Sounds like a good job. I bet the salary is better than teaching,” said Brandon, his husky voice having a jovial tone.

“Not yet, it’s not. I look around at some of these guys and I wonder what in the hell they do for a living. The nice clothes and…”

“Fancy cars? I’ve seen what some of them drive,” Brandon interrupted.

“Yeah; makes me feel a bit low class.”

“Let’s compare.”

“Compare?”

“Yes. First what do you drive. Second, what do you live in. A house or an apartment, or? And Finally, the most you ever spent for an article of clothing.”

I smiled, for I realized he wasn’t overly dressed in expensive clothes, something I’d not noticed before. Instead, he was dressed simply, same as I. I had on jeans and a plaid shirt and he had on jeans and a black t-shirt. And his shoes had that well worn look, frayed enough to look cool.

“Okay, I’ll play along. I drive a 2014 Ford Focus…one of the plain ones, not the sporty hatch. I rent a one-bedroom apartment in the Crestmont Apartments and clothing…the most I’ve spent? I paid $160 for a black jacket…wait. I spent $165 on a blue suit last year. There was a wedding back home and I needed a suit that would fit.”

Brandon nodded his head, chuckling. “Nice. But I think I’ve got you beat. I drive a 1996 Ford truck. One my grandfather gave me when I left for college. I rent; one bedroom like yourself, and regarding clothing, I spent $75 on a blue sport coat. The most I’ve ever spent on clothes.”

“Okay, you win,” I replied laughing. “But I thought the truck is better than my car, to be honest.”

“So, what’s my prize?”

“Huh?”

“What’s my prize?”

He threw me, for I wasn’t expecting this flirtation. As much as I imagined it after seeing him in the coffee shop, I wasn’t expecting it now, so quick after meeting.

“I don’t know…”

“How about you take me out for dinner? I know this really inexpensive Mexican place on Central Avenue.”

“Guadalajara’s?”

“Yes! You know it.”

“Of course! The cheapest tacos in town, and the best, if I do say so myself.”

“So, it’s a date?”

“Yes. It’s a date. When would be good for you?”

“Tomorrow. Either a late lunch so we can hang out some, or dinner. But if we do dinner, I’ll have to cut the evening short. I’ve got some work to do before Monday.”

“I like the idea of a late lunch. We could eat, then if you’re up for it, we could do the Museum. They have a new exhibit on the Incas.”

“I see a theme. You want me to pick you up at a quarter to one?”

“That sounds good. I’ll give you my number and you can text me your address.”

I let Brandon punch it into my phone and saw him put his name in it too. Brandon, then Behan.

“Brandon! Hey man, you ready to go?” called a voice from the door and I looked up to see the two guys from last night.

“My friends are ready to go. They are insisting we go to a bar for a while. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Brandon as he stood up.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I replied and felt myself flush red when he smiled back before turning. I watched him leave, the two guys patting him on the back as he walked by them.

It was twenty to one when a blue and white Ford pickup pulled into the parking lot. It looked almost new, the paint shiny and clean. I watched it pull by my apartment, stop, then backup. Brandon backed into a space against the fence. I watched him climb out, then stepped from the window not wanting him to see me watching, something I had been doing for a few minutes. First pacing around the living room, then looking out the window. I had just peeked out when I saw the truck pulling around.

Within a minute a knock at the door. I stood still for a second, not wanting to look too desperate, smiling at the silliness of it, then went to open it.

“Brandon, come on in.”

“David,” Brandon replied as he walked past me, his greater height apparent to me. He strolled into the living room and gave the room a look around. The simple furnishings, the five-year old bike sitting against the wall behind the dining table, and over the sofa, framed photographs.

“The photos are great.”

“Yes, they are. They were given to me by my sister and a couple of friends.”

“You ready to go? I’m starving.”

“Yes. I didn’t eat breakfast so I’m ready to eat as well.”

The little restaurant was busy. People at the ridiculously small bar, the top less than 12” wide where it was crowded with plates, beer bottles and margherita glasses. The booths along the opposite wall were full and the long table down the middle of the room, one that made walking around the space difficult, was packed with two parties. We were seated at a small two-top in back, in a corner where the television was over our heads and the table so small, we had to push the condiments to one side.

“It never ceases to amaze me how busy this place stays,” I said as I watched Brandon survey the room, for I had my back to it.

“I’ve been here a few times and it is always like this.”

The waiter came over and took our drink orders, both of us ordering a beer, then we browsed the menu while waiting, although I knew what I was going to order before I picked it up. The thing I had been craving since I got up.

The waiter returned and took our order. We settled into a light conversation about last night. How I stayed till about midnight, then went home and he went with his friends to some bar then begged off when they tried to get him to go to a club. He laughed as he told of his Uber driver. The guy arrived in a big Mercury wearing a suit. The strangeness of the guy was hilarious to Brandon in lieu of something to be leery. Then we talked about our lives. I told him of growing up in Tampa, where my father was a mechanic and mom a secretary of some insurance company. I told him of going to college, and after graduation finding the job in the city, determined to find my own way. He spoke of growing up in Wyoming, of being poor with one parent Native American and the other a cowboy with no ambition. He talked of putting himself through college, then looking for a teaching position when the schools were suffering so with budget cuts.

Once we had finished eating, plates cleared by the waiter, I asked for the check, waving Brandon off as he reached for his wallet. Brandon drove us into town, following my directions to an area I knew we could park on weekends for free. It was eight blocks back to the museum, and we strolled along the sidewalks while I told Brandon what I had come to learn of the city, the festivals held in downtown, the Pride festival in October and the main park where you could watch guys walking their dogs or throwing frisbees.

The museum was quiet and comfortably cool when we entered. I had not been since last year and really was looking forward to seeing the current exhibit. It was a nice coincidence that it was something Brandon would be interested in too.

We strolled through the museum, unhurried since there were so few patrons visiting the museum on a Sunday afternoon. Brandon talked of the history behind some pieces, the conflicts, the Western invasion of the region and its effects on the people. I could hear a sadness in his voice, the way it fell lower, slower, as he spoke of it. It lured me into this image of how things were, as I listened to his husky voice. It endeared me to Brandon even more.

The museum was closing by the time we made it back to the lobby. Brandon wanted to browse the gift shop, but a closed sign at its entry point prevented him from doing so. I saw how he looked at a display for the exhibit. The trinkets and scale models of some items, and in the middle of it, a couple of books, one a historical record relating to the exhibit. I made a note of it. A possible future gift, should things work out.

Back on the sidewalk, we stood by an art piece that towered over us and watched other people who were out for a stroll or biking through downtown.

“I saw your bike. It’s nice. Maybe we should ride sometime?” Brandon asked.

“That would be fun. The bike is nice. I bought it last year from a friend who was upgrading. He sold it to me cheap.”

“I need a friend to upgrade. My bike is ten years old.”

“I’ll keep my ears open for one of my friends are always looking at new bikes. It seems every spring one is itching for the latest model.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen all the new ones zipping around.”

“Hey, thanks for coming with me.”

“It has been a nice date. We did something both of us were wanting to do,” replied Brandon. He glanced at his watch and I knew he felt a need to get going. To get prepared for the next day. “I guess we should go. I do have a stack of papers to check and my lecture to iron out.”

Back at my apartment, Brandon didn’t bother parking, instead just stopped in the drive, in front of my place.

“I hate to end our date so suddenly, but…”

“I understand. It’s Sunday and you’ve got work to do. When can we go out again?”

“After Tuesday, I’m good for any night.”

“Wednesday night?” I asked, smiling.

He laughed, shaking his head, “Wednesday night would be nice.”

“Why don’t you come over. I’ll cook something. Just don’t expect anything fancy.”

“I’m not picky. What time?”

“Seven?”

“Seven it is. I’ll see you then.”

I climbed out of his truck and stood at the door. “I had fun today. It was nice to just have a date without all the…pressure to impress.”

“I agree.”

“I’ll see you Wednesday,” I said as I closed the door. On the sidewalk I looked back, waving, seeing him wave back then drive off.

When I finally clocked out for the day, I rushed to this specialty grocery store over in the Addison Neighborhood. One of those stores with a large produce and meat section that had a butcher at the back cases for any specialty orders. I had been in the store once before, but the prices were too much for my ordinary shopping. But this was no ordinary day, for Brandon was due to arrive at seven. I browsed the cases, trying to determine if something else would be better than my first impulse. Typical for me, I ended up asking for two particular T-bones in the display case. Wrapped up in butcher’s paper with the exorbitant price in black wax pencil, I made my way to the short aisle of condiments in search of a specific marinade. There was one my father uses, a brand that had been around for a long time. I found it and winched at its price, knowing it was probably cheaper at the grocery store I normally shopped, if they had it. I swung through the produce section, picking up a bag of mixed greens, a couple of tomatoes and an onion. Two baking potatoes completed my list and I headed toward the door. On the way home I stopped at this small market that specialized in beer and wine, grabbing a locally brewed beer.

At home, steaks marinating, I put the potatoes in the oven and prepped the salad, then I paced the floor wondering what I was forgetting, or if I should do something else, or if Brandon would realize I was going all out on the steaks, even if the meal seemed fairly simple, a basic meat and potato affair. Glancing at my watch I saw it was after six thirty, so I rushed to the bedroom to shower and put on clean clothes, even if they were going to be jeans and a t-shirt. This was to be casual, a no pressure date, and nothing speaks of casual more than a pair of worn comfortable jeans and a plain white t-shirt.

Right at seven I came into the living room, eyes scanning the room once again to make sure everything was in its place when three quick raps came from the door. I strolled to the door, deliberately taking my time, and swung it open. Brandon was standing there in a loose-fitting tank top and jeans and for a moment I just stared at him.

“Can I come in?” asked Brandon, smiling.

“Yes, yes, sorry, I don’t…come on in.”

Our plates were pushed back, only the scrapes of T-bones and the skin of potatoes left on them. There were a couple of empty beer bottles for each of us, and a third in our hands as we leaned back, relaxed, talking about nothing of great importance. Things that made us laugh and reminisce by telling stories of past events in our lives.

We moved to the living room, and I watched Brandon ease down on one end of the sofa in lieu of the armchair. I sat opposite, and we turned toward one another, leaning back into the corners where the high arms met the back. Our legs were close, real close, and I could not stop letting my eyes roam up and down his body. The muscular shoulders, arms that were nicely defined, just enough to show a toned body had to be underneath the tank top. And there was the way the tank top lay so loose around the waist and further down, the faded and worn jeans bulging in all the right places.

And I found myself in that moment.

You know the one. The time during a date when it is casual, the get-to-know-you stage, but there is a threshold about to be crossed. The shift in the atmosphere between the two of you. That moment when everything becomes sexually charged. You’re both ready. There is a hum in the air, the charged nature of it that indicates now is the time. The time to move forward is upon you.

I don’t know what was said. What gesture led to it. I know who made the first move. Brandon. I know who made the first serious touch, a hand running underneath a shirt, sliding up bare skin. Me. I know who proved the most aggressive: deliciously, wickedly, so. Brandon.

A tank top lay over the back of the sofa and a t-shirt on the floor beside it. Shoes lay scattered from the living area to the door of the bedroom, as if walked out of instead of the fumbling and struggling it took to slip them off. In the bedroom, jeans lay on the floor in heaps from being flung across the room. Socks too. A pair of boxers lay on the floor next to the bed, the other pair dangling from a foot. Up from the foot, along the bare leg, lightly dusted with dark brown hair, upward around slightly bent knee and along flexing thigh you come to the bare ass. Round in shape and flexing with its movement.

I’m on my back and I feel him. The weight of his body. The way it undulates against my own. The trapped heat generated between us. I feel flush with each touch. With eyes closed, it is touch that gives me sensory overload. Every caress of my skin, every rub of fingers against my flesh, and the wet lingering kisses that make my trapped cock flex with arousal. I’m hard, rock hard, pushing up against Brandon, letting him feel it. Letting him know how much he is pleasuring me. Driving me to want more from him.

I feel fingers dig into flesh as they take each leg. I relax to his manipulation, let him bring my legs up and against his chest as he hovers over me. I open my eyes to see the long lean body hovering over me. Then I feel his cock touch me. Rub along my ass, touching me there. I can’t help it. I moan and dig my fingers into his thighs.

“Do it…put it in me…” I plead as I feel the pressure build as he pushes against my tightness. I shudder with the pain of penetration, while begging him to keep going. I shiver with every inch that tugs at my tightness as Brandon pumps his cock inside me, going deeper and deeper until I feel his hips bumping against my ass.

He moves over me, folding me in half. I feel my ass lift, perfect for our fuck, and he begins to move inside me. Deeply, all the way, he pushes into my hole. I throw my arms over my head, stretching out my torso while pushing against the headboard. The leverage allows me to push upward, in some vain attempt to get him deeper inside me. I want him, all of him, and even though I know I already have every inch, I still want more. He grabs my wrists and holds me down and I cry out “yes”. I feel his kisses on one shoulder, up my neck then lips take my earlobe and tug on it. When a tongue follows the curvature of my ear, I push up hard, roughly, rocking the whole bed. He tugs harder and I beg him to fuck me harder.

He’s inside me, on me, whispering in my ear. He’s everywhere and everything. I feel his movements. The depth at which he penetrates me. The strength of his grip holding me down. The passion of his movements. The bed begins to rock. A rhythm mirroring our pace. It increases my sense of this carnal copulation. My moans reverberate in the room and I feel his body moving against the back of my legs with greater momentum.

I should feel trapped, pinned down, but I don’t. I feel secure, cocooned beneath the weight of him. The room recedes into a blur and the air grows hot. It feels like a sauna. My skin is wet. Sweat trickles from seemingly everywhere. It even rains down from above, as it drips from Brandon’s face.

“Fuck” Brandon utters as his pace increases. Everything about his fuck becomes physical. The way he hammers hips against my ass, driving his cock into my depths. It feels like he is going deeper. I let him control me, hold me down, while fucking my ass. The bed protests, squeaking and banging into the wall. The sound of it aligns with my moans and grunts.

He settles down on me heavier. His body seems to weight thirty, forty pounds more, the way it smothers me. His skin feels hot to the touch, his body a furnace of heat, as it rubs against my own. Flesh against flesh. I feel the way he grinds his hips against my ass, and I push up against him, feeling my own cock flex with my aroused state.

“I’m going to cum” Brandon whispers, and I feel the shuddering and jerking of his body as he hammers hips against my ass.

Then we’re laying next to each other, heaving for breath. I feel sweat trickle down my face and sides, and I let it, unable and uncaring to wipe at it. I reach for my own cock, so hard I know I’ll come quickly. Just a few strokes, is all I need to do, but as soon as I wrap my fingers around it, a hand pushes them away.

“No…let me,” Brandon utters, breathlessly, still trying to catch his breath. He moves with authority, up on knees, straddling my waist then easing down on me. I feel his tightness squeeze my cock, first the head then inch after inch of the shaft.

“OH…oh…fuck…” I utter mindlessly as he moves down on me. I lift my head and see he is seated firmly on my cock, his own still dripping.

I see the strength of his body. The muscular structure of it. Every muscle straining with his exertion as he rides my cock. He moves with a rapid pace, knowing I won’t last long. I struggle not to shove upward because of the tug on my cock as it moves through his tight opening. He moves on me with tenacity. Up. Down. Over and over, till the bed once again protest beneath us. I hold his thighs and feel the flex of muscle. I reach over and toy with his sensitive cock and he shudders and jerks while riding me. I slid my fingers up his sweaty stomach and chest, feeling the firm hardness of him and the slickness of his skin. I tweak a nipple, bare down on it hard and he cries out and rides he harder, rougher, and I can’t hold back any longer.

He’s been gone an hour and yet, I still lay here awake, unable to fall asleep. It’ll be a long day tomorrow, but I don’t care. Right now, I’m replaying the night’s events over in my head. Brandon’s arrival, dinner, hanging out in the living area then ultimately in my bed. I replay afterward, the laying still for a long time, trying to calm our bodies. Then we showered together, renewing our aroused state. I went to my knees in some primitive worship of his body, as I took him in my mouth. He filled it, then turned to the wall. I played back the image of my cock sinking into his ass as the water cascaded down our bodies. I replayed his cries and utterings, those pleadings to fuck him harder. And I did and now lay half erect thinking of it.

Friday night is his night. He’ll cook for me and then we’ll sit in his small apartment and talk or watch television or maybe we’ll skip the formalities and move straight to his bed. Either way is fine with me. We’ll have all night, unlike tonight. He already told me to be prepared for his famous enchiladas, and on Saturday morning, he’ll make waffles and cook bacon and brew coffee so strong he promised we could go all day.