by Nicole Casey
“I just haven’t been with a guy since Brad,” I replied, to which Scottie gave a sad sigh and began to brush his beak along the cage, creating a racket of noise that instantly beckoned me to turn my attention on him. “Yeah. Daddy Brad didn’t like Scottie when he was drunk, did he?”
“No,” the bird replied, then sighed once more.
Maybe Dylan will be different, I thought after a moment’s consideration.
He was rushing into this a little fast—the whole ‘three date before sex’ rule and all—but just because he was inviting me over didn’t necessarily mean that he wanted to have sex.
He’s a dude. It’s gonna happen.
Still—the idea of being with the sexy hunk of a fireman stirred within me a primordial urge that all men had: that desire that started at the center of my chest and expanded into the nexus of my brain, where it drifted throughout my body until it set my every nerve ablaze. I tried not to show my apprehension—tried, without success, to not squirm beneath Ariana’s grasp—but found myself doing so anyway.
“You’re not nervous,” Ariana said, “are you?”
“Of course I’m nervous!” I replied, a little too harshly.
“Just go. Have fun. Don’t do anything you don’t want to do. And if push comes to shove, leave, find a gas station, then call and I’ll pick you up. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said.
Though most of me was dreading the idea of even hooking up with a guy so soon after meeting him, a part of me was exhilarated at the possibilities that could occur. I was, after all, a man, and had needs and wants and desires that came from the intimacy of being with another person.
With that in mind, I rose, made my way to the bathroom, and slipped into the shower, intent on preparing for a night of relaxation and fun.
***
“So,” Dylan said as he opened the door to his apartment. “This is it.”
His apartment was sparsely decorated—and truth be told, did not look particularly lived in. With a couch posed before a flat-screen TV and only a few pictures hanging on the walls—most of which appeared to be of family consisting of multiple siblings and only a single mother—his home was quaint and small, comfortable in that its space was limited while at the same time not overly claustrophobic or filled with unnecessary clutter.
“I figured we could just sit here, order in, watch a movie,” Dylan said, feigning exhaustion by stretching an arm over his head before settling it across my shoulders. “How does that sound to you?”
“That sounds fine to me,” I replied. “What did you have in mind?”
“You like Chinese?”
“I can do Chinese,” I said.
“Cool. Let me grab the menu for the local place and we can decide what we want.”
I nodded and seated myself on his couch as he sauntered into the kitchen, humming something under his breath in a deep and pleasant tune that instantly reminded me of a country western singer. The fact that he could sing was even more of a turn-on, but the fact that he’d saved my life was what would possibly land me in his bed tonight.
He returned with the menus and settled down beside me, then proceeded to order the food before flipping the movie on and allowing it to run through the opening credits. During this time, I waited for him to get off the phone and instinctively, whether it was by habit with Brad or something else, set my hand on his upper thigh. He smiled at me and reached down to brush his fingertips along my arm before hanging up and turning to face me.
“Chase,” he said. “You ok?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Why? Aren’t you?”
“I just want you to be comfortable with everything that’s going on tonight.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“Are you sure? Because if you’re not, just tell me and I’ll back off.”
“What if I don’t want you to back off?” I asked.
“Oh?” he replied.
I leaned forward, then, and kissed him—first gently, as though virginal and reserved, then hungrily, with passion I felt had been brewing since the night of the fire. He tasted of sweat and cigarettes, of mouthwash to try and wipe the taste away, and though not overly fond of tobacco or the taste of it on another man’s lips, I loved it on him.
Everything about him was intoxicating.
His scent, his touch, his lips, the brush of facial hair against my otherwise clean-shaven face—everything compelled me to kiss him further: to reach up, part his V-neck, feel the strands of hair beneath my touch, to test the rigidity of his muscles. He groaned beneath my gentle assault and reached up to cup hold of my face, and only pulled away when a knock came at the door.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, devouring my mouth one last time before rising, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and making his way toward the door.
I waited, in eager anticipation, for him to return—not with the food, but with his body. There was no denying that I wanted every part of him at that moment—when, at the height of my desire, I was ready and willing to do whatever he wanted, anything he wanted.
I’m never like this, I thought as he closed the door, as he turned with the food in hand and set it on the coffee table. I never—
I wasn’t able to finish the thought, as shortly thereafter, he was hovering over me, his hard, muscular body dwarfing my much smaller frame. “Chase,” he said.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“You’re making me hard.”
I reached out to cup his length.
He groaned.
I grinned.
He reached down, took hold of my shirt, and pried it over my head.
Half-naked, now, and vulnerable to his ministrations, he leaned forward, took one of my nipples into his mouth, and suckled.
I bucked against his body, surprised at the intensity of the sensation, and allowed myself to fall prey to his advances—sighing, contentedly, as he made his way down my body: first kissing my chest, then my stomach, followed by the expanse of my abdomen. He then pressed his lips against the bulging outline at my crotch, which instantly caused me to groan and press against him.
“Dylan,” I managed. “The food—”
“Not now,” he said, batting my hand away. He undid the zipper holding my pants in place and reached up to take hold of my belt loops, during which time he shucked the jeans from my hips. He then, with a feverish desire I hadn’t anticipated from a man like him, leaned forward and took the outline of my cock into his mouth.
I could’ve come from the sensation.
“Don’t suck me,” I said, to which he responded by pulling off and looking at me with an odd, perplexed look. “Fuck me.”
He grinned, lifted me into his massive arms, and carried me around the corner.
Once in his room, he tossed me on his bed, stripped his shirt over his head to reveal the finely-haired and muscular chest beneath, and crawled back on top of me.
Our mouths made love with one another, dancing in wanton lust as our tongues slid between one another’s lips, testing teeth and gums and flesh all the same. During this time, I wrapped my legs around his waist and pressed my ass back against his swelling crotch. He groaned, then, and leaned down to scrape his teeth along my neck.
“You’re so hot,” he whispered, nipping at the flesh at the base of my neck.
“I need you, Dylan. Now.”
He parted my legs, reached down, and undid his jeans.
He wasn’t wearing any underwear underneath.
His cock—staggering in its length and thickness—was much bigger than Brad’s had ever been, and instantly made me weak in the knees.
“Before we get any further,” he said, his voice husky and filled with desire, “I want to make sure that we do this right.”
“All right,” I said, crawling forward and then reaching out to take hold of his cock, which throbbed beneath my grasp and wept precome in response.
He withdrew, from his night stand, a single, non-lubricated condom, which he tore o
pen and slid over his cock.
His willingness to be safe—even during oral sex—was all the encouragement I needed to devour him from head to base.
He groaned, and thrust into my mouth without warning, fucking my throat with abandon I felt was almost unnecessary considering he must have suspected that it had been so long since I had been with another man. Still—I loved it. I loved being dominated. I loved being controlled. I loved him taking control. And I showed it, too, by bobbing my head up and down his length, cupping his balls in my hand, fingering the space of skin between his testicles and hole. He groaned as I fingered his hole and reached forward to take hold of my hair—to shove his seven-and-a-half inch cock deep inside until it was all the way down my throat.
I hummed around his meat.
He groaned.
He pulled out, drawing spit along with his cock, then slapped my lips with the flared head of his member. “Your lips look good on my cock,” he said.
“Fuck me,” I replied.
He flipped me over, spit into his palm, slid one long finger into my quivering and waiting ass.
I groaned, almost too loud, and ground my teeth together to keep from crying out.
“You like that baby?” he asked as he slowly slid his finger in and out of my ass.
“I love it,” I replied, tightening my anal muscles around his thick finger.
“Want another?”
“Yeah.”
He slid a second finger into me, the cool sting of lubricant initially discomforting but eventually causing me to open up even further from him. He finger-fucked me for several long moments, dragging the tips of his fingers along my prostate and causing me to groan in pleasure, before he grabbed my legs, pulled me to the edge of the bed, and lined the head of his cock up with my ass.
“You ready?” he asked.
I only nodded.
With a slow, gentle push, he penetrated me.
I sighed.
He paused.
I moaned.
He fed me his length and I, desperate for climax, reached down to take hold of my throbbing cock.
“Oh no,” he said, swatting and then taking hold of my hand before I could grab my member. “You don’t get to touch yourself.”
“But—”
He pinned my hand to the bed and sunk more of his length into me. I, instinctively being the bottom that I was, pushed back to meet him, and groaned as his length slid along my prostate and into the depths of my being.
When he finally bottomed out—when all of his length was within me and I could feel his balls against my ass—I could’ve died from the pleasure.
My prostate throbbed.
My cock dribbled precome onto my abdomen.
His length, casually edging in and out of me, caused me to whimper.
“Tell me how much you like that cock,” he whispered as he withdrew his length and then slid it back in.
“I love it,” I whispered, locking my legs around his waist.
“Tell me how much you love it.”
“I fucking love it,” I said.
He spread my legs and began to fuck me harder, more urgently, with intent I knew was destined to cause climax. At his instruction I did not touch myself, but instead allowed myself to ride the waves of pleasure caused by his cock entering in and out of my ass. I shivered, trembled, groaned, desperate to touch myself but unable to do so based solely on the fact that he refused me. Instead, I merely lay there and tweaked my nipples, ran my hands along my chest, then across the hairs along my thighs before spreading them to allow him easier access into me.
He bore down on me with all his power after a few minutes and began to fuck me harder, more brutally, not bothering to pause to wait and see if I enjoyed it or not. He knew I was loving it—knew, from the way I was squirming and grunting and groaning, that I wanted more—and the more he fucked me, the closer I came to climax.
He didn’t want me to touch myself. He wanted me to come based solely on him fucking me. Based solely on his long and thick cock entering in and out of my—
“Dylan,” I managed. “Oh, God. Dylan.”
“What is it baby?” he managed, pressing a sloppy kiss to my lips.
“I have to come. Please. Let me come.”
“God yes, babe. Come for me.”
I reached down and jerked myself three times, then had the orgasm of my life.
I cried out—no longer caring if anyone heard me—and wrapped my legs around his waist as I impaled myself fully on his length, jacking my cock with the intensity of a jackhammer as I showered myself in rivers of come. Dylan, in response, grunted, slammed into me several more times, and came—hard, his strangled grunt one of immense pleasure and need.
When he finished, he collapsed atop me, then pressed a single kiss against my jaw before saying, “Thank you.”
“For what?” I managed.
“Existing. Surviving.”
I reached up and wrapped an arm around his torso.
I held him there for what seemed like hours, during which time I listened to the sound of our breathing, breathed in the scent of our sex. The room was sweltering—hot with passion made by two men who had come together to make irrational love—and caused beads of sweat to run down my face and into my eyes. My chest swelled, my heart pounded. His cock, softening in my ass, slid out as he collapsed to his side and reached up to run a hand through his hair.
“I’m the first guy you’ve been with since your ex,” Dylan said, “aren’t I?”
“How’d you know?” I asked.
“I kinda guessed. Your reservations, your unsurety, your—and I hate to say it—desperation.”
“I am a man,” I laughed, to which he responded with a laugh of his own before sliding his arm back around my shoulders. “I have needs just as much as anyone.”
“A need to have a nice thick cock in that hot, tight ass of yours,” he said, then moved his head to the side to press a kiss to my cheek.
“Dylan,” I said.
“Yeah?” he replied.
“We should probably shower and get to our food,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “We should.”
***
We cuddled on the couch in the hour after our coupling—not really watching the movie but just simply enjoying the closeness of each other’s company: kissing, holding, and hugging one another. His hands played sonnets of pleasure along my ribcage and his lips chords of ease against my cheek and neck.
“You’re going to get me going again if you keep doing that,” I said, leaning my head against his chest and expelling a tired breath.
“Maybe I want to get you going,” he grumbled, gently nipping the flesh at the base of my neck.
“Not now, big boy,” I laughed, gently pushing him away from me. “I think I’ve had enough of you for one night.”
“Too bad,” he said. “I was even going to offer to let you spend the night.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Part of me wanted to. Another, more rational part of me knew that it was probably a bad idea. I’d enjoyed the sex—even though I probably shouldn’t have, especially so soon after the pair of us meeting—but I figured it was like Ariana had said: I’d had fun, and there was no harm as long as we’d played safe. Right?
You know how wrong that can be, I thought, but remained silent as he drew me against his chest and nuzzled his beard atop my head. You know how badly things could turn out.
Still, I didn’t want to think about that. I wanted to simply enjoy the moment I was spending with this man, this hunk, this beautiful person whose soul I wished so desperately to connect with.
I sat there for several minutes in silence, simply enjoying the closeness between us, then looked over at the clock in the kitchen. When I took note of the time—which was drawing dangerously close to midnight, and far past my parrot’s bedtime—I sighed and said, “I should probably get back. I didn’t tell Scottie that I’d be staying the night.”
“You sure you can’t s
tay?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I can’t.”
Dylan smiled, stood, and stretched his arms out over his head. “Can’t let the bird get upset,” he said with a smile. “Besides—it’s probably best I drive you home now before I get too tired.”
“If you can’t drive,” I started.
“I can drive,” Dylan said. “Don’t worry, Chase. I’ve got you.”
He’s got me.
I smiled.
He smiled back.
Then he waved for me to rise and gather up my clothes from the floor.
***
Scottie was immediately intrigued by my reappearance later that night.
“Someone got laid, someone got laid,” Ariana said in a sing-songy voice.
“Someone got laid?” Scottie then asked.
“Ariana!” I cried, shocked that my bird would even begin to repeat such a thing.
“What?” my friend replied with a casual shrug. “I can’t control what he says.”
“But you can control what you say around him,” I replied, shaking my head. I stepped forward to greet the bird and sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Ariana asked. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me I have to kick someone’s ass.”
“You don’t have to kick anyone’s ass,” I said, gently running my finger through Scottie’s pinfeathers. “I just didn’t want to leave.”
“Then why did you?”
I pointed to the small bird currently admonishing me for being gone for so long with his beady little eyes.
“He’d’ve been fine,” she said.
“No,” I replied. “He wouldn’t have.”
Ariana shrugged and collapsed on the couch. “Well, I’m sorry you had to leave earlier than you expected. I could’ve put him to bed.”
“I know. But he needs me here. Especially after, well… you know.”
The bird buzzed, for he certainly did know what I was talking about.
Ariana nodded and reached up to run a hand through her hair, considering both me and the parrot before standing and saying, “At least you had a good time, right?”
“I had a great time,” I replied, then stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug.