by Tanya Chris
“I want to lick every one of them,” he told Jordan, which made Jordan smile. Archer smiled back. Then he proceeded to lick all the muscles he’d told Jordan he wanted to lick. There were a lot of them. Jordan, being a biology major and a jock, might be able to name them, and maybe someday Archer would ask him to, but not right now.
When he’d finished with the licking and gotten the rest of everyone’s clothes disposed of while he was doing it, Jordan looked as hungry and needy in real life as he had in Archer’s imagination, but maybe a bit of something else too, something like nervous.
He didn’t know how much Jordan had bottomed. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d followed the stereotypical role foisted on him up until now and had only topped. Or possibly he had bottomed before, but Archer wasn’t going to ask. An exchange of sexual histories might have been a good prelude to finding themselves in bed together, but he liked the idea of it being Jordan’s first time, so instead of launching into a sensible line of questioning, he said, “Nervous, big guy?”
“I trust you.”
“Good, because I’m going to take care of you.” Which he hoped was true.
He’d said he was a top because he knew he was. A person didn’t have to kiss X number of men before he could call himself gay, and he didn’t need to fuck X number of men before he could call himself a top. But he wasn’t exactly an experienced top.
He’d done plenty of research, though, and had calculated the best angle of trajectory—factoring in the curve of his particular cock and taking into consideration the various positions in which he’d like to fuck Jordan—to hit someone’s prostate, assuming it was located in the anatomically-expected position within a reasonable degree of variance.
He lubed up his fingers and set Jordan’s feet wide on the bed so he could see what he was working with. Jordan didn’t try to cover himself with his hands, but he did look away like there was something really interesting on the other side of Archer’s dorm room, which there wasn’t. Archer put his fingers on Jordan’s chin and turned it so he could see into Jordan’s eyes. It was important to monitor his partner’s reactions. Communication was the key to a successful encounter.
Also, making Jordan look at him when Jordan didn’t want to was hot.
Archer swallowed down the burst of arousal that threatened to swamp his common sense and brought a finger to Jordan’s hole, watching him carefully as he pressed inside. That first moment of penetration was mirrored in Jordan’s eyes, a sensory feedback loop between the sensation of slick heat against his finger and the glory of seeing his possession of Jordan’s body written across his face.
He worked gently, adding a second finger, letting the two of them stretch Jordan incrementally. They had all night and though Archer’s cock screamed for him to move on, his mind begged him to slow down, to write every moment of this night into his memory banks in searing detail. All the research in the world couldn’t have prepared him for the actual experience.
When he crooked his fingers, he found Jordan’s prostate right where it was supposed to be, and the motion had the appropriate effect on Jordan, though the effect it had on him was beyond what he’d anticipated. So much … pride? love? anticipation, lust, heat. He wasn’t good at identifying emotions, but the tightness in his chest seemed to encompass all of them.
He leaned forward and traced a kiss along Jordan’s cheekbone as he brushed his fingers a little harder over that spongy constellation of nerve endings. Jordan arched up against him, bringing their chests together, a choked sound of incomprehensible longing bursting from him.
He wanted more of that, so he asked Jordan: “What? Tell me?”
“Please.”
Yeah, that. “Please?”
“Please, Archer. Please?”
So, so sweet. So, so beautiful. So exactly what he’d imagined.
“Perfect,” he told Jordan. “You’re perfect.”
He shifted back onto his knees and Jordan’s eyes opened to watch him as he put on the condom. He’d practiced sufficiently that even his shaking hands didn’t impede his execution.
“I’m going to give you what you want now,” he told Jordan. “OK?”
Jordan nodded, so he lined the head of his cock up with Jordan’s hole and pushed, just a little. Jordan’s sphincter oozed open around him. It molded him perfectly as the head of his cock popped through, snapping shut like a vice around the bottom of his flare. Archer held there, admiring the way the shaft of his cock led up to Jordan’s asshole and then just … disappeared inside of it. A perfect joining, a seamless meld.
Jordan’s fingers clutched tight on his arms, digging in with unspoken urgency.
“OK?” he asked again. He hoped like hell it was OK because the need to push in further was overwhelming. It was fuck or flee, and his vote was fuck.
“Fuck me,” Jordan answered, his words perfect, his voice a little soft, his expression plaintive but unsure, and Archer slid the rest of the way in, trying to go slow, to appreciate every inch, but finding himself balls deep before he could blink.
It was so, so good. It was nothing like a Fleshlight or a fist, because the channel Archer had buried himself in was a man, a living body, a face and a voice and a buffet of muscles and a symbiotic need. This thing Archer was fucking wanted to fucked, as much as Archer wanted to fuck it. More even, if the way Jordan arched and tugged and moaned was any indication. Yes, Jordan was loving it and Archer was giving it to him and it was good, good, so good.
He fell forward, landing on top of Jordan’s firm chest which was slick with sweat and heaving with hunger. Their bodies slipped against each other as he continued fucking in and out, working his hand between their torsos to find Jordan’s sticky cock, rutting without any rhythm or thought, reduced to his animal self and communing with Jordan’s animal self until the wetness of Jordan’s release burst against his hand and he allowed himself the same release.
He probably didn’t have to worry about smothering Jordan, not given their relative sizes, but withdrawal was a matter of courtesy even if he did sort of want to live inside Jordan for the rest of his life. He went over and threw out the condom, then retrieved the container of wipes he’d bought in consideration of their need for post-coital cleanup. He mopped up his hands and his dick and, regretfully, the trace of come Jordan had splattered across his stomach.
When he went back to the bed to offer Jordan the box of wipes, he found him asleep, his mouth open, his body lax and come-streaked, spread wide across most of Archer’s small bed. Archer swabbed Jordan down himself. He doused the lights and pulled up the covers and found a way to wedge himself onto the bed with his head on Jordan’s chest and their legs twisted together.
Miracle turned out to be a pretty good word for it after all.
~~~
The next morning he had to rush to bundle Jordan out of there because he hadn't thought to set his alarm early enough to take advantage of waking up with a naked man in his bed, a mistake he’d rectify next time. Jordan asked if they’d see each other again and he said, “Of course.”
The evening had resulted in a highly satisfactory outcome. It should definitely be repeated at the first possible opportunity.
~~~
They were both naked. He’d proven the efficiency of immediate, comprehensive disrobing over the course of their encounters and Jordan now stripped on command, his cheeks turning red and his eyes peeping up to check on Archer’s progress every time, as if it never got normal.
They were in Jordan’s dorm today, with all the time in the world because Jordan’s roommate had gone away for the weekend, and Archer planned to use the luxury to test his hypothesis that the volume of semen and force of ejaculation directly correlated with length of build-up. He’d never really been able to prove his theory on himself because he always gave in to orgasm immediately, but today he had a test subject.
He put Jordan on his back on the twin bed. Jordan’s sheets were white, and Archer appreciated the contrast of Jordan’s warm, sum
ptuously-toned skin against the cool, crisp linen. Jordan was a prime specimen, laid out but not restrained. If this were a dissection, he’d have Jordan’s limbs anchored to keep them in place, but this was a seduction and Jordan was conscious, which was necessary for the sort of experiment he wanted to run, so he merely warned Jordan to stay still as he separated his legs and straightened his arms so they lay along his body.
“Is this going to hurt?” Jordan asked.
“I hope not.” He was there to catalog pleasure, not pain.
He slicked up Jordan’s dick, which was already hard. Though Jordan made a show of being too shy to undress, it got him fierce-hard as far as Archer could tell, considering he’d never seen Jordan’s dick come out of his pants in any other state. Either undressing aroused him or Jordan just walked around like that all the time.
“What percentage of the time would you say you have an erection?” he asked, in an attempt to narrow down the possibilities.
“Around you? Too close to a hundred.”
“Yeah?” That was flattering.
He had to admit he spent a lot of time around Jordan hard himself. That was anticipation and also appreciation. Jordan was gorgeous, even more gorgeous naked, and he got to see that, which was pretty spectacular.
Right now, for instance, with his lighter hand on Jordan’s darker dick and the wet, squelching sound of skin against skin filling the small space, and Jordan already squirmy, his balls tight against his body and his mouth open in that slack expression of helpless lust that really pushed Archer’s buttons—this was spectacular.
“Does it ever hurt?” he asked Jordan. “Like, if I leave you hanging?”
“Ungh,” Jordan said, which wasn’t even a word.
He mentally recorded it as a yes. Occasionally he and Jordan saw each other when they didn’t have an opportunity to get naked, and he always had to go straight home and beat off like mad to prevent a case of blue balls after, so it was affirming to know that Jordan had the same experience. How did heterosexual men ever figure out what they were dealing with?
Well, they could experiment, like he was doing.
He evaluated his subject—flushed skin, heaving breath, sub-verbal vocalizations. Yep, it looked like Jordan was about to come. He removed his hand from Jordan’s dick.
“What?” Jordon spluttered, his hips chasing after it.
“How close would you say you are to orgasm? Like on a scale from one, where you’re not aroused at all, to ten, where you’re actually coming, would you say you’re an eight? Seven and a half?”
“Nine,” Jordan panted.
“Hmm, I’m not sure that’s accurate.” He lowered his hand and jerked it up and down Jordan’s shaft a few more times. “See? You didn’t come.”
“I could,” Jordan protested when he removed his hand again. “If you didn’t stop.”
“Exactly. You require more stimulation, but you’re close. Let’s call that a seven.”
“Seven,” Jordan repeated as Archer went back to jacking him. He closed his eyes and twisted his hips up, and Archer stopped what he was doing.
“This isn’t going to work if you interfere. Promise me you’ll stay still.”
“Seven,” Jordan repeated mournfully. “I’m not going to survive this, am I?”
“Promise you’ll keep still?”
Jordan nodded. His squirmed his hips deeper into the mattress as if anchoring himself and gripped the edges of the mattress with both hands.
“Ready?”
He put his hand back on Jordan’s dick which he noted was lying flat against his stomach again, no longer bobbing at a forty-five degree angle. He figured Jordan was back down to a four or five so he went at it hard, twisting his hand and working his palm over the head of Jordan’s cock with each pass until they were back in the seven range, which he catalogued as including a deepening of color as well as the appearance of beads of sweat on Jordan’s forehead.
“Seven?”
“Yuh.”
“Little more then. Tell me when we’re at eight.”
“Eight, eight.” Jordan’s hands clawed at the sheets and his hips lifted, despite Archer having told him not to do that. Perhaps involuntary movements were one of the indications of being at eight.
He removed his hands from Jordan’s cock since he wasn’t ready to bring him up to nine yet. Jordan whimpered and chased after Archer—not with his hips this time but with his torso, leveraging himself into an abdominal crunch so he could press their upper bodies together.
Archer put an arm under his back to help support his weight and let Jordan nuzzle into his neck.
“Hmm?” he asked, as he traced his hand lightly over Jordan’s cock, too lightly to produce the answering shudder. Someone was definitely overstimulated.
“Kiss me?”
Archer wrapped his arm tighter under Jordan and helped raise him high enough so they could kiss. His visual observations were hampered by Jordan’s face being mashed into his, but he had to admit he enjoyed having those little moans made directly against his mouth as he ramped up stimulation again.
“Seven?” he asked into Jordan’s mouth. Jordan sucked harder, like he could pull strength from Archer’s body.
“Eight. Fuck.” Jordan dropped back onto the bed and his hips came up again.
So, he’d been right. Involuntary movement was a sign of impending orgasm. Also, Jordan’s mouth opened and his head tilted back as if he could suck in more air that way. His eyes squinched into wrinkled lines.
“Yeah,” Jordan gasped. “That’s it, that’s—”
“Nine?”
Jordan didn’t answer, but Archer was pretty sure about the nine so he let go. Jordan swore and his body collapsed in disappointment but, interestingly, his breathing got heavier. He’d probably been holding his breath, Archer decided. He’d heard oxygen deprivation could intensify the sensation of orgasm. Perhaps holding one’s breath was an instinctive attempt at chasing pleasure.
Or maybe Jordan had just forgotten to breathe. He didn’t look very coherent at the moment. He looked … angry, Archer decided when Jordan opened his eyes and he had more features to judge by.
“Nine, right?”
“Yes, fuck you. Nine.”
“Would you say, like, straight nine? Or nine and a half?”
“Nine and three fucking quarters.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” He trailed a fingertip over Jordan’s cock which looked almost as angry as he did. It jumped at being touched but it didn’t start spurting come, so he figured they had a ways to go yet. “Let’s begin again. Now, this time ….”
The next day, when he had a moment between classes, Archer pulled up his journal to record his findings.
Subject’s arousal levels …
Erectile firmness consistently measured …
Pre-come was observed to increase in direct correlation with …
He backspaced over everything he’d written and typed HAWT. After a moment’s consideration, he added some exclamation points. That seemed to cover it.
~~~
Archer eyed Jordan across the quad, ignoring whatever Dave was nattering about. Research suggested that men found prospective partners more attractive than current partners, preferring the thrill of the chase and the conquest of the unknown over certainty and familiarity, but he hadn’t found that to be the case. Every time they fucked, Jordan got a little hotter. The muscles, the floppy blond hair, the shy glance away and the bold request for more—those all belonged to him now.
There was another phenomenon at play, of course. Humans were socially conditioned towards loyalty, which contributed to the survival of the species as a whole and the survival of the family unit more specifically. The loyalty effect explained why people always thought their favorite sports team was the best despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
Archer thought Jordan was the best, but he had better justification for thinking so. Jordan actually was the best. He could write a paper.
; He pulled out his phone to check his calendar to verify that he and Jordan had a date scheduled tomorrow. He knew they did, but he liked to double-check his appointments. It was a nervous tick that did not approach the level of OCD and was useful for keeping him on track, so that was fine.
Having verified the appointment, he put his phone back in his pocket. Dave nudged his elbow.
“What?”
“You’ve got the hots for that guy, don’t you?”
“Yep.” He absolutely did.
“Like you’d ever have a chance with a guy like him,” Dave scoffed.
“I don’t know on what rationale you’re basing that opinion, but I can assure you that your conclusion is erroneous. That’s my boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend,” Dave mocked.
“Boyfriend,” he repeated. He and Jordan hadn’t officially applied a label to their relationship but according to any commonly accepted definition of the term, Jordan was his boyfriend.
“Why aren’t you talking to him then? Why’re you sitting here with me?”
Archer had assumed that he and Jordan’s friends wouldn’t share common interests, but there he was stereotyping jocks again. Jordan had proven to have many insightful things to say, even aside from “fuck me” and “please” although those were his favorites. Dave had a point. Why wasn’t he talking to Jordan?
“Because you know he doesn’t want to acknowledge you in public,” Dave supplied. “Maybe you’re hooking up with him and maybe you’re not, but he’s not going to admit it in front of his friends.”
“Who said that?”
“I’m saying it, and you know it’s true.”
“It’s a simple matter to prove you wrong. I’ll go over there and kiss him.” Resolutely, he began his trip across the quad, his eyes fixed on Jordan who had yet to notice him coming.
“Don’t.” Dave grabbed at the long-sleeved flannel shirt he wore unbuttoned over his Blade Runner 2049 t-shirt.
“Why not?”