by Daya Daniels
“Beautiful.” I whisper.
Baby giggles. “I’m told only you married men rock the dick-froes.”
I laugh, focusing on my cock in my hand and the sight of his bare ass in front of me that rocks back and forward. “I think you’ll find my garden trimmed.” I hiss.
“You want to fuck me but you haven’t even kissed me yet.” He jokes.
“Sometimes the fucking comes before the kissing.”
I allow my fingers to dig into his fleshy cheeks, kneading and massaging them until he’s hissing and groaning beneath me. I spit into my hand, coating his tight muscle with my fingers, touching the warm skin there.
Baby moans and eases while I massage him for a while. A simple nudge is all it takes.
I release the hold I have on the back of his neck, a little and dip a hand under his waist. He’s already hard. I stroke him a few times, feeling the precum that’s already gathered at the tip of his thick cock. I rub it over his tight hole.
“I would let you see mine but I think if I do, you’d run.” I mumble against his ear.
His tight hole opens, right in front of me, glorious and begging to be filled. It’s an invitation. A sexy-as-fuck plea.
“You think?”
“Yeah, I’m sure of it.” I say, positioning myself a little better, looking for the most advantageous angle.
I rake my fingers through his thick blonde hair and tighten my grip in the strands at his scalp, yanking his head back, exposing his sweaty throat. His back dips and his ass rounds even more, making my cock hard as fucks. I massage my hands over his tight pink balls and down the back of his warm thighs. A low keening sound escapes his throat when the broad head of my cock, brushes against the hot wet spot of his entrance. I land a slap to his right ass cheek, staring at the red print that’s left there when I pull my hand away, admiring my work.
“You’re a sick fuck.” He grates out with a hiss, when I do it again.
Maybe.
A few more whacks have my balls tightening in anticipation. His ass cheeks are pink and shiny, covered in sweat and saliva. A hella masterpiece.
A startled grunt leaves his mouth right before it opens in a silent scream, when I slide the dripping head of my cock into his tight heat, immediately settling into a rhythm that has us both moaning.
Baby
The sexy fucker behind me, runs his large hands over the sweaty skin on my back, as he settles his cock deep in my ass. His hand clutches my neck, when he vaults me forward with a grunt. I spread my palms wide against the dirty mat and stare at the stains on it for a while, that I’m certain are old blood.
Pierce groans and the vibration spreads straight through his chest and lands in mine, causing my dick to become harder than it already is. I take everything he has to give. He’s fucking me, like he’s trying to carve a tunnel to my throat. He’s fucking me like he hasn’t gotten any in the last century. His stroke is deep, personal and fucking deliberate.
I guess it’s possible that he’s been dry for that long, with the divorce and all.
I chew on my bottom lip, as he slides in and out of my tight passage, grunting loudly as he does it, digging his fingers into the skin on my ass. He’s big and I’m taking every inch of the monster that I haven’t had the glory of seeing yet.
I suck in a breath while he goes to town, whimpering and saying things that I can’t really make out. Spitting in my hand, I reach down and wrap my hand around my achy cock and stroke it in the same rhythm he fucks me with.
He slows, letting out a hoarse sound and leans over me, catching his breath. “God, you feel fucking good.” He whispers, continuing his labor.
I work myself feverishly, balls tight, ass filled, eyes watering and chest full of fucking lust. I’m ready to come and by the sounds spilling from Pierce’s mouth, so is he.
I’ve reduced myself to allowing this man to fuck me on a dirty mat. How’d this happen?
I bite back a high-pitched cry when my cock twitches in my hand. Pierce picks up speed – all two hundred and thirty pounds of him blasting into me from behind. He pounds and he pounds and he pounds. I groan and grunt at the feeling of my flesh opening wide for him, feeling bereft each time he pulls all the way out and filled to perfection again each time he pushes back in.
“You belong to me, Baby. You may not want to but after this...” He breathes out. “You’ll belong to me.” He moans with a hiss that falls from the tip of his tongue.
I knew it wouldn’t take much for me to come. I’m already teetering on the edge, just waiting to fall to my demise.
He makes a kissy sound with his lips and runs his fingers lovingly over my ass cheeks, muttering something about the view he has. His hand grips my cheeks when he kisses each one.
It’s tender, as if he’s admiring me like I’m a pretty doll that deserves to be placed on a shelf not to be touched – just for display.
His grunts fill the air and drops of his sweat land on my back, sliding down my sides to drip on the mat beneath us, when he settles back into a hard pace.
“That’s it, stroke that cock Baby.” He commands with a raspy grunt.
I lift my head, jerking myself off like some virgin, desperate to come and bust a nut. I take in the sight of the two of us in a mirror across the room. His large frame settled behind mine. His muscular chest covered in sweat and his face pained, eyes half-mast and his mouth hangs open in pleasure. The sight of it turns me on even more. Our eyes connect across the room and I feel exposed, violated, dominated. This is more than sex, more than fucking. This is intimate. This is me making a connection with someone else, in a way I never thought possible and it chills me to the fucking bone.
His stormy eyes cloud my thinking, so I shut mine, listening to baritone of his voice when he speaks and tells me how I feel beneath him, how I feel around his cock. A savage growl leaves his mouth, when he stops, allowing me to feel the jerk of his dick that’s about ready to come. He can’t hold it back, which is clear in his facial expressions. He runs a hand over my lower back, breathing heavy and hard behind me.
Is this the lesson he planned to teach me? If it is, I think I might be teaching him one too.
Pierce speeds up, blasting into my asshole, making noises he’d be too embarrassed for anyone to hear. I wouldn’t want anyone to hear them, since I think they’re only for me.
“You belong to me, Baby.” He whispers over and over.
He continues his stroke slow and watches me from across the room, working my cock from root to tip with my hand. He growls and grips me tighter. His cock jumps and throbs, right when a shudder rolls through me when I come, soaking the dirty mat beneath me in thick white streams of my cum.
The beautiful man behind me collapses on my back, resting his cheek there. I drop my head low, looking at the mess in front of me. I’m exhausted, sated and fucking bewildered.
He pulls out slowly, leaving his cum to dribble down my thighs. He’d come inside of me. He’d marked me – somehow made me his. I shift around. My eyes flicker up to his grey ones and his pink cheeks. The same twisted expression paints his features that I find on my own face when I look at myself. I absorb the sight of him naked still on his knees, with his sweatpants pushed down. His huge wet cock is still out, just hanging there hitting the middle of his thigh. The monster – the size of it similar to my own.
I pull up my pants, stand and reach down to offer him some help up. He slaps my hand away, while I stand there frozen for a moment. He drags his fingers through his hair and avoids my eyes.
I jump out of the ring and head to my bag. Shrugging into my T-shirt, somewhat pissed off, I pull my hoodie on, tugging it down to my waist. I toss another glance over my shoulder, just as I finish dressing and see Pierce throwing a blue sweat top on over his head.
“Later.” I sing out.
He throws two fingers up and nods.
Asshole.
I make my way down the hallway and back out into the frigid air. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I he
ad down 31st Street, thinking about how everything had changed in the last three hours. Then I realized, I hadn’t been paying attention to the most important part.
Who on earth had won the fight?
Pierce
As soon as I step inside of my very empty penthouse, I toss my car keys on the console table and head into the den. My answering machine blinks incessantly like a warning sign, silently telling me I have forty-five messages. I know I’ve no desire to check them– half of which had to be from that cunt Andrew – my ex-husband, who I should’ve never married.
Andrew had lost his man pass and nuts many years ago. I didn’t understand him. He always said I could never open up. I could never give. I was incapable of love. In-fucking-capable? Closed off. Shut down. Stonewaller. Gaslighter. Cruel. Manipulative. A monster.
The last description came after months of useless marital therapy. After a while I began to think that the sessions were only being held for the therapist’s own sadistic amusement. A year into my marriage with Andrew and I was ready to call it fucking quits. It was too stressful. Too many feelings. Too much compromise. Too much everything.
A man like me doesn’t belong with anyone. I only break hearts. I don’t mend them. I’d yet to meet a man that could survive me and something told me maybe Baby could but he already seemed to be broken. Only I didn’t know why. So broken, even he couldn’t see it and I didn’t want to break him anymore, if I could help it.
Baby really is a baby.
He wears his emotions on his sleeve and seems determined to let out all his frustrations on whatever opponent he faced for the night, only to wake up in the morning feeling the same fucking way.
It did nothing to rid the demons. It only marred him, leaving him with scars and bruises and the pain that he loved. He’s a fighter. A man that loves war and for some bizarre reason I admire that he’s willing to fight for what he wants, whereas I...I give up, every single time. I’m a quitter, who hates quitters.
Maybe I’m the one who has something to learn?
I sigh and turn on a few lights and hit the stereo. Let It All Go by Birdy + Rhodes sounds from the speakers.
It’s Friday night. Staring out at the city lights, it all reminds me of why I’d love this city – full of life and awake and alive at all hours. I’d just left one of my buildings, where I’d just had one of the most fantastic fucks of my life.
The giver gives and the taker takes. It’s always so simple, only this time it left me feeling a little more confused than ever and that choking feeling of loneliness, suddenly seems like it’s wrapping around my throat and squeezing with a little more force than usual.
Heading over to the bar, I pour myself a drink and plop down on the sofa, shutting everything off, so only the hue from the city outside and the moonlight fill the den.
I should shower but I don’t want to. He’s all around me, on my skin, in my mouth, still wrapped around my dick. Everything Baby is here, except for his physical presence. Slumping against the back of the sofa, I let out an exhale, emptying my lungs of every single event of the day.
“Fuck.” I mutter.
Baby
“Oh, you’re here.” My father, Xavier Benedict II grumbles as he stands in the foyer of my penthouse the next morning.
Last night, I’d been so restless. I returned to my apartment first and then hit the fight club after two in the morning, desperate to empty my chest of the heavy weight that felt like an anvil resting on top of it, crushing me.
He shoves the key he holds in the pocket of the black Burberry wool coat he’s wearing and checks his Rolex, smashing up his face. He tugs the mauve cashmere scarf that’s wrapped around his neck off and folds it in his hands. I’m certain he has better places to be, instead of coming here to torment me.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes and head for the kitchen, desperate for coffee.
“Yes, I’m here. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t use your key before calling to see if I’m here first.”
His blue eyes roll, followed by an exhausted sigh. “I don’t know what to think when you don’t answer the phone, son. I know it’s possible you could have an injury that’s left you unable to get to the phone.”
Jesus. Fucking Christ.
“I doubt it, Dad. I think you just like to come here unannounced, throw your weight around. You know, the usual.”
He laughs. “Your mother worries about you.”
I shuffle around my kitchen, looking away from my father’s judgmental stare.
“Or, do you mean you worry about me?”
“We both worry about you.”
I hate my parents – both of them. There are no in between’s, no maybe’s and no but’s about it. I hate them – plain and simple.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
They’re affluent, wealthy and their only concern is what people think about them. Image is everything. What’s on the outside matters exponentially more than what’s on the inside. My father is a powerful man in his own right. He is a senior partner in his own law firm that he’d taken over from my grandfather. I’d elected not to work there for obvious reasons since we didn’t get along, never did.
Xavier Benedict II is a brute. A bully. A tyrant.
When I told my father that I was gay, he beat me to a pulp while my mother stood there and watched. To this day, they’ve never apologized for it. I was fifteen when he last tried that shit and by then it had been going on for at least two years.
I was a helpless scrawny teenager and he was a man. A six-foot tall, two-hundred and fifty pound man with a mean left hook. He loved to punch me in the stomach, leaving me heaving for breath on the floor much of the time after our encounters.
Not long after that, I learned how to fight and I haven’t stop fighting since.
If he’d had the senseless bravery to put his hands on me now, I’d likely fucking kill him. I used to dream about him dying in some freak accident or catching some unfortunate disease that would render him bedridden and unable to speak – at least until he died, which for me would’ve been a blessing.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
I have two younger sisters who I adore and they adore me. They don’t get nearly as much attention as I always had, being the only boy of the family. My parent’s focus always seemed to be on me, since I’m their only son. The only man in the family that could carry on the Benedict name. My parents control my life, my future and nearly everything I do – even now, since I won’t have access to my trust fund for another four years.
My mother is a socialite. Her only concerns had always been her clothes, her jewelry and her stupid fucking award-winning Siamese cats. My father had religiously cheated on her from as far back as I could remember. My mother could never figure out who the women were but something always told me deep down that she knew exactly what was going on. Much of the time, she ignored it but often there were fights.
Wars.
I’d always felt like I’d grown up in the middle of a war at home. They’d fight. They’d fuck and then they’d do it all again. Usually, I’d move to protect my mother from the explosion that was Arthur Benedict II, which often lead to us both being beaten beyond recognition. My mother would heal and forget and go back to her normal routine of champagne and brunch while I seethed, only waiting for it to happen again. She was a weak bimbo and she made me sick. She still does.
According to my mother, everything within our perfect family is and always has been fine.
“How is career in law coming along?”
“It’s the same old, same old Dad. Nothing’s changed.”
He nods, when I start past him heading for the den. Plopping down on the sofa, I grab the remote and click the 4K TV on, scrolling through all the channels until I get to the news.
My father lingers. “I will give this back to you next month.” He explains, referring to the key in his hands that goes with my penthouse apartment. “I figured since you’re doing everything we expect of you, you’re allowed your privacy.
”
You think?
Inwardly, I scoff.
He leans against the wall, looking in my direction. “Are you still dating?” He questions.
“What do you mean?” I mumble.
“I mean, are you still you know, dating men Xavier?”
“Yes, Dad no change. It’s not like the common cold, you know - being gay that is. You don’t just catch it and then somehow it goes away. It’s not a sickness or a Goddamn disease.”
My father only growls but doesn’t push any further. “Okay, son but I’d just rather that you kept the dirty shit you do in your spare time under wraps.”
Hate. Hate. Hate. Murder!
I exhale and keep my eyes trained on the morning news.
“How has working with Pierce Carlisle been, since I need to be more specific?”
“Good.”
I glance at my father, meeting his hard gaze.
He knows. Or, at least he assumes. He always did know how to read me.
“I don’t exactly care for your choice of lifestyle, Xavier but I don’t want you to get hurt.” He sighs. “Pierce Carlisle is an animal. He eats men for breakfast – in and out of the boardroom.”
I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing that live and direct.
“I want you to keep away from him, Xavier. No personal relations, strictly business please. You can’t afford to get close to a man like that. He’ll hurt you. Anyone but him.” He goes on. “His a-a ex-husband is/was in the mental hospital.” He hesitates to say. “They say Pierce drove him crazy. The ex-husband Andrew, tried to kill himself or something during the middle of their divorce.”
What-the-fuck?
I take a deep breath and sip my coffee. “I can handle Pierce Carlisle.”
“Can you?” He asks with a bit of a chuckle.
“Of course.”
“Okay, son. Just be careful.” He adds, as he heads for the door.
“You know you’re always welcome to come and work for me at the firm.”
No, thanks.
I shake my head and continue to flick through the channels without responding.