AITA for wanking to my boyfriend’s porn while he’s in the library?

I love sex.

I wake up every morning in the middle of a wet patch.

I eat my breakfast thinking about all the other things I could be putting in my mouth.

I go to class picturing my teachers naked and wondering if they got it good and hard last night.

I talk to my friend asking myself what they’re like in bed, if they prefer their sex boring or thrilling, vanilla or rough.

I go to training thinking about the glistening muscles and flushed skin of my teammates.

I shower spying on the hot bodies and soft cocks of the guys around me, doing my best to look as inconspicuous as possible as I get my daily free peepshow.

I go to bed with no pants on for easy access, mind full of fantasies and desires, going through lube bottles faster than muscle relaxant even as a high-level athlete who regularly overexerts. Sometimes, I mix the two and take myself for a ride.

I count the days until the next time I get to see my boyfriend and imagine how we’ll do it, how hard, how many times, how much I’ll come; I think of all the ways I could convince him to stay inside me for as long as possible and how to get him to be rough just the way I like it. Just thinking about it makes my throat spasm and my ass clench.

I might be a little bit obsessed.

And frankly, dating Vegas doesn’t help.

One, he is fucking sex on a stick, suave and sleek, all strong muscles and delicious curves, only wearing expensive silk shirts he hasn’t learnt to close above mid-torso and skin-tight downright illegal trousers that make everybody salivate after him, no matter their orientation.

Even in his university uniform, he manages to look way hotter than anyone else.

It’s both a relief and a curse that we go to different schools. I don’t think I would ever be able to concentrate if we were going to the same places. I would probably have combusted already, eaten away by my own endless libido. Actually, I do know. We used to go to the same high school. I barely survived and almost didn’t make it. I blame my poor scholar performance entirely on him for distracting me; you can’t expect me to study when he’s sitting next to me!

Two, I don’t see him nearly enough.

I know they say distance makes the heart grow fonder, but I don’t think they quite took into account what it does to hormonal young guys who need to come at least three times a day to function as a normal human being. I love my left hand but it will never make up for the impossible things Vegas makes me feel.

I have so many pictures of him on my phone, it’s embarrassing.

And when I say ‘of him’, what I really mean is ‘of every part of him’.

Pictures of his hands, the rings on his finger I imagine slowly fucking me, the edges catching on my rim every time he pulls out and pushes back in; the absolute filthiness of knowing he keeps jewellery that was inside my ass.

Pictures of his jaw, his cheeks, his eyes, all zoomed in and perfect nonetheless. I go to bed dreaming about caressing every inch of that skin with my tongue, my mouth, my dick and covering it in sticky white.

Pictures of him with his friends, head thrown back and laughing, exposing his neck and making me want to bite it and mark him for the whole world to see he’s mine; to kneel and kiss his feet for the whole world to know I’m his.

Pictures of him at the beach, topless and holding a surf plank, expenses of glorious skin shining under the sun. I want him to use me as a floating board, step on me and use me as a balance practise board; want him to crush me until my ribs cave in.

Pictures of him at the gym, muscles bulging under the strenuous effort, reddening skin covered in sleek sweat that I want to lick like a parched man.

And then –

Pictures of his dick. Many, many pictures. Some he took himself and sent me; some I made him pose for with a fuss; some I stole when he wasn’t looking or was asleep.

I don’t even feel guilty. He just has the most gorgeous, juicy, mouth-watering, heart-faltering cock in the universe. I would kill to have his cock permanently glued to my hand or stuck in my throat or buried inside my ass. I could wax hours of poetry about that cock, its shape, its colour, its girth, its length, its curvature (oh boy its curvature would deserve an opus on its own, scratching all the perfect sports inside of me).

The way it looks soft and tender at rest, like a little snake hidden in too many folds of skin, the way it slowly grows and fills under the proper ministrations, how the vessels turn purple as they overfill with blood, the way the tip becomes almost red and, when I play my cards well, starts to glisten and to leak from the eye… how hard and rigged and firm it becomes, standing proudly towards the sky and slightly off-centre, twitching and bouncing above gorgeous balls made to be slurped and gobbled... the strong muscle of his thighs below and the tensed skin of his tummy, the V-shape of his bony pelvis and the happy trail that wasn’t there when we started dating and drives me a little mad every time I get a glimpse of it…

Vegas’ dick is the eighth wonder of the world as far as I’m concerned, and no one gets to touch it and worship it the way that I do. I have a folder specially dedicated to this marvellous creation of nature on my phone filled with more than a hundred pictures all tastier and more tantalising than the next, and that’s just my back-up spank bank one… There might be a few of those folders in places.

Which leads us to three.

My boyfriend is smitten with me and spoils me way too much.

No matter when I ask, what I want, even when he looks at me like I’m a complete weirdo, he always indulges me. I think he gets a kick out of it. He once told me how much he loves watching me come and, you see, I’m a nice guy, I wouldn’t want to ruin his fun!

Of course, we have loads of sex - though obviously not nearly enough to satisfy me (see two) - and the sex is mind-blowing yet it doesn't sedate me at all, it just makes me want it more and more and more. I’m like a bottomless well that needs to be constantly filled with Vegas’ hot cum and strong dick and sharp teeth and wet tongue and skilled fingers and – you get the idea. I’m a total whore for him; as soon as he is in the vicinity, I turn shameless, sinful and ravenous.

He sees me as a horny guy who can never get enough of him, but he would probably run the other way if he realised I’m a sex-crazed freak, full-on sex addict in the making. I try to play it down and not let it show too much, but even then, it’s a close call.

There’s a ghoul inside of me that only Vegas’ spectacular dick can feed and it is voracious and insatiable; or maybe it’s a gremlin and we keep feeding it after midnight and it will grow and grow until it consumes the both of us entirely.

It’s a wonder his dick hasn’t fallen off yet with the amount of time I spend perched on it when it’s just the two of us.

Back in high school, I spent most of my time in class imagining him bending me over the teacher’s desk and sucking my ass until I passed out (and make all the other students watch me coming apart under the expert fingers of my duper cool boyfriend).

Sometimes, we would sneak out of class under fallacious pretences just to go have a quickie in the toilets. I could feel myself stretched out all afternoon, unable to focus on my lessons. At some point, I’m pretty sure my knees made an indent on the bathroom floor with how often we were in there.

Sex used to be so bad at first with how incompetent we were at it but luckily, we’re both obstinate knuckleheads and our efforts paid handsomely; interests keep coming and I’m lounging in the return on investment.

He spoils me, lets me gorge in scrumptious excess and now, I am starving.

And the most infuriating of it all?

He doesn't even look bothered; as if the two of us living eons apart and barely managing a date here and a fuck there is no problem at all and doesn't drive him half-crazy on a good day; or maybe it's just me. I’m the problem here, the sex-obsessed slut who can’t get enough of his boyfriend’s magic dick. He’s adulting, moving on with his life, being a proper study-focus freshman while I wallow in self-pity wanks and sex-filled fantasy over my super-hot way out-of-my-league boyfriend.

I guess that’s how we find ourselves in his apartment on a Saturday afternoon after I managed to get us to spend the entire weekend together (I will move mountains to get his dick). I was already imagining a sex fest of Dionysus magnitude, our very own two-people orgy, then why AM I FORCED TO STUDY when I should already be stuffed to the brim?

I sigh, looking dejectedly at the bedroom door on the side wall, which remains sadly closed, imagining myself on my knees on the bed as he fucks me slow and deep from behind, his hands holding me so tight I'd have bruises on my sides for weeks, his teeth scraping and marking my skin, his nails drawing bloody sigils on my back...

"Focus!" Vegas shakes me out of my daydream by throwing a small paper projectile in my face. He's unfairly handsome today, his hair grown so long he has to tie it back with a pin, and big clear glasses perched on his nose. They're new, he didn't need them in high school. He's like my dream version of a sexy librarian, except instead of fleece he is wearing a shiny black satin shirt with astronomical patterns that makes me rethink my major.

I would spend the next four years studying star charts if it meant gazing lovingly at Vegas' torso.

I frown. "Come on, Vegas, please? Just a quick one? I'll be good, I promise!" I try to beg, to get my voice to take on that tone that he seems to like so much and always gives in to.

I see him swallow, the tips of his ears turning red, but he doesn't budge. His gaze remains steady and unwavering despite my pleas. His stubbornness is usually endearing, but right now it feels like the bane of my existence.

"No dick for you until you've finished your work," he admonishes me with a stern look before turning his head towards his computer to continue working, squinting slightly despite his glasses. His tongue licks his lips distractedly as he scribbles in a notebook without looking at it. A strand of dark hair keeps falling over his eyes, and he blows it out of the way.

Just looking at him makes me want to cry with need. I feel empty and neglected, set aside and forgotten. My ass clenches around nothing and the emptiness inside of me hurts.

In another life he must have been a torturer. There is no other explanation. He's actually holding me hostage right now, only instead of whipping me bloody and electrocuting me, he's bullying me with homework and study sessions.

He's too bloody serious for our own good! Stupid, overachieving, career-obsessed nerd.

I clear my throat and feel a small thrill as he looks up at me questioningly.

I bite my lips and look at him between my eyelids, trying to make myself look seductive and sexy (I'm not. It's hellishly hot today and I'm sweaty and gross.) It's a wonder he's reacting at all, but I can't miss it, the way his eyes rake over my body, glinting with interest despite his apparent indifference. He smacks his lips together and takes a steadying breath. I think it's just because he knows how damn good the sex is, not because I'm attractive or anything; but who cares about the reason. I will use my body in any way I can to get my way. I may not be a looker, but I'm definitely a doer.

"Eyes on your sheets, Pete!" he snaps, and oh fuck, I really wish his dark, deep voice didn't zing me like a hot wire. I can feel it all the way to my balls, hitting me with lust.

As if I needed any more of it!

I obey anyway and look down at the blurry lines in front of me.

I hold on for five minutes before looking up again. He is holding his pen between his lips, absentmindedly biting and sucking on it, his red tongue appearing and disappearing between his puckered lips, which would look so much better around my dick.

It's as if he has a sixth sense. No sooner have my thoughts begun to wander than he looks up at me, his eyes narrowing to slits; he's some kind of freaky sexy mind reader!

"I'll tie you up if you continue," he threatens.

I swallow, perking up like a dog that sees its master taking out the leash, my metaphorical tail wagging happily behind my back. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

Cause I’m into that. Like, a lot. He knows it, or at least part of it. We are currently experimenting with it. It's a lot of fun. We broke the last pair of handcuffs we bought because we got a bit too enthusiastic (I say we, I mean me, I'm the freak of this relationship who loves to be held down and fucked raw but who's also stupidly strong, especially in the arms and shoulders, being a boxer and all). So Vegas, being the perfect boyfriend that he is, proposed to learn how to tie me up properly, with ropes and knots and lessons and the whole shebang. He warned me it would take a while (perfectionist much?) and I'm trying to be patient, but I'm vibrating with anticipation.

I already know I’m going to fucking love it.

I may be... a bit more kinky than he is, but he indulges me and I gobble up his offerings regardless of his reasons.

Vegas groans, looking more and more frustrated with my behaviour and so, so close to snapping. It’s a pity frustration looks so hot on him. “Fuck, you make it hard,” he humphs, shaking his head.

I bat my eyes at him in an exaggerated gesture, feeling like a complete tease and utterly ridiculous. But well, if you can't humiliate yourself in front of your boyfriend, you're doing something wrong. My horny persistence is eroding his righteous resistance, I can see it.

“Don’t stop on my account, I like where this is going,” I say, tone full of salacious insinuations. I try not to drool at the idea that he is indeed getting hard from my desperation; that it gets him hot rather than disturbed, flustered but not peeved.

All I get for my efforts is a dirty look.

"Oh come on Vegas, just a little taste? After that, I promise I'll work super hard! You don't even have to do anything, just let me suck on it for a bit! Just let me put it in my mouth!"

I can't believe I'm actually saying these words. My face burns with shame and I resist hiding behind my hands. I try to look cool and confident, like I haven't inadvertently revealed one of my inner fantasies about keeping Vegas' cock in my mouth just for the sake of it, to feel it and taste it and just be there between his legs as he goes about his business as usual. There's just something so hot about the idea of keeping him warm like that...

It's a testimony of how freaking desperate I am that I’m actually articulating those thoughts.

"You said that before," he reminds me with a raised eyebrow, although he can't quite help the flutter of his lips. He shifts a little, repositions himself on the floor. Maybe there is hope after all.

Full disclosure, he did let me suck him when I first got here, after I promised it would help me be more focused and concentrated, a proper straight A student.

I'm such a fucking liar.

How am I supposed to concentrate on anything that’s not him when he’s so close? How can I be contented with such a small taste? He hasn't been inside me for almost two weeks! I can feel my ass shrinking back to virginhood. I’m a wilting flower; I need grooming!

"At least take off a piece of clothing every time I finish a page!" I try to negotiate. You never know, on a misunderstanding, it could work! If I can get him naked, my chances of getting my way will probably increase by a good 20%.

He arches a brow in consideration before a wry smile stretches his lips. "I should just put another one on every time you're distracted."

I gulp; he is such a bully! And he looks like he’s enjoying my distress on top of it!

I bet he’s secretly a sadist.

“Do you even have enough clothes?” I deadpan.

I get hit with a pen for my trouble.

"Eyes down!" he orders me in his big, mean voice.

There it is, that zing that rattles in my entire body.

Maybe I would be more interested in my lessons if Vegas was my teacher. I wouldn't even want to take my eyes off him if he was the one standing at the front of the classroom. I could spend my days listening to his dark, wise tone - so cold at times, almost devoid of emotion; so warm at others, making me feel calm and relaxed; his soothing, thundering, commanding, flirtatious, gleeful voice that never fails to tighten the coil in my guts.

Yes, there wouldn't be a dull moment listening to him.

I bet he'd be the type to wear a tailor-made suit every day, whatever the weather, matching trousers and oversized pressed shirts, and oh - a tight tie in the lucky colour of the day, different every week; he'd walk around fully aware of the delicious curves of his body on display to the praying eyes of curious students, undoubtedly the most attractive and sexy of all the professors, filling the ranks of his course by reputation alone.

He would be a mean teacher, harsh, and would put you on the spot if you were caught daydreaming. Maybe he'd have a cane in his hand, taping his fingers as he spoke, slicing the air and pointing it at any inattentive student.

And oh - if I didn't listen, maybe he'd make me stand in front of the whole room, hands outstretched as he smacked them as punishment. Or maybe he would bend me over his knees and spank me like a naughty little boy?

Oh fuck, this image - this is... I can feel my whole face turning bright red and burning as my dick fills up in my trousers; I imagine his hand coming down on my bottom, making it blush and redden, the heat travelling up my skin as I beg him - to stop, to continue - tears running down my cheeks as he doesn't listen to a word I say and does what he pleases with my body telling me what a bad boy I’ve been -

"Pete!" Another projectile hits me in the face. Vegas lets out a long-suffering sigh and looks at me in exasperation. "You're all red! What the heck are you thinking about this time?"

I give him a sheepish smile.

I am such a freak. There is something so wrong with me. Are these even normal fantasies to have? I wasn't thinking about him slapping me enthusiastically during sex, but actually spanking me, hurting me and making me cry. Shit, am I becoming one of those weirdos who get off on calling their boyfriends 'daddy' and wearing adult size nappies?

(Look, I know those people exist, good for them and all, but does it have to be me?!)

In front of me, Vegas is shaking his head hopelessly, fed up with my attitude. His fingers are tapping the tip of a pen against the table in erratic rhythm and I can see him working his strong, masculine jaw.

I know I am being a brat. I can study, I do it all the time on my own, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I just... really don't want to do this right now, with Vegas sitting cross-legged on the floor so close to me, his slutty shirt half open on his ridiculously good-looking torso and unexpectedly hot glasses. I can study at any moment, but I only get a limited amount of his time, and I want to make the most of it.

Is that so bad?

"I've missed you," I say with a pout.

Maybe it's just me? Maybe he doesn't feel the same, maybe he doesn't care anymore? I know I can't expect things to stay the same now that we're at university and live on opposite sides of town, but it's so damn hard to be so close and yet so far away. I think about him all the time, from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed, I'm consumed by thoughts of him, I'm constantly thinking how much I want him to be by my side, sharing our classes, making fun of our teachers, sharing our meals, sneaking off to make out behind our parents' backs. I ache so much in his absence…

I know I'm needy and too clingy. Normally I try to keep it to myself, to not let him know how I can barely function without him, to not overwhelm him with it, but now we’ve got an entire weekend to ourselves and it’s like he doesn’t even see me or remembers I’m not just a study buddy.

What if he meets someone else? Someone better looking, smarter, less desperate? What if he's tired of me? Am I not enough? Am I too much?

"Baby," I hear him murmur as he crawls towards me, his eyes watching me with a tenderness that makes my stomach flutter. He cups my face in his hand and presses a kiss to my lips, his tongue gatecrashing my mouth without reserve or warning. Our breaths mingle and I finally exhale, his soft lips expertly attacking me and unravelling the nervous knot in my chest. He's well aware how I like to be kissed and doesn't pull any punches.

He leaves me breathless and panting, a little unfocused and the skin of my face buzzing with warmth. I blink at him, looking at his long dark lashes and the way he's a little out of breath too. In my trousers, my cock twitches with interest.

He's so damn attractive, I want to see him naked.

"I missed you too," Vegas says, resting his forehead on mine. He kisses me under my left eye, then on my cheek, his hand caressing the inside of my thigh. He peppers kisses all over my face, one of his hands still nestling in the back of my head, while the other's fingers wander up my leg, sending little shivers down my skin.

Suddenly he looks at me with a wicked smile and grabs a handful of my hardening cock, pressing down, a hot tide of arousal flooding me as my lips open to let out a long, whimpering moan.

A single deep squeeze and Vegas is on his feet, leaving me stunned on the floor, lips wet, ears burning and straining my pants. I blink up at him. Why the hell is he so far away all of a sudden?

"Tell you what," he says, his professorial tone ominous. I know him. It's his 'I'm getting my way, so just follow my lead' voice. "I have to go to the library to check something out -"

"What? You're leaving me?"

“ – but if you’re good for me and finish your work while I’m gone, I’ll make it up to you.” He smirks and looks down at me, challenging me to something that flies completely over my head.

I cross my arms, not amused. This is not how I imagined this day would go, damn it! I know I'm acting like a petulant child, but at this point I really don't care anymore. I'm about to enter the competition season; doesn't he know what that means? Training almost every day and fights every Saturday for the foreseeable future, barely any time on Sundays to catch up on my schoolwork; and that's not even taking into account the aches, pains and injuries I'll suffer after each match. I'll be barely functional.

This may be our last weekend together for a long time and he wants to spend it in the library? Why not just break up with me?

He ruffles my hair, his long, slender fingers brushing the side of my face as he forces my head to tilt towards him. I'm tempted to resist, but in the end I give in and turn to look up at him. He's standing over me, dominating me, his whole body towering over me, making me feel small and insignificant. The curl of arousal in my stomach expands and makes me weak and unable to oppose him.

God damn you, brain! Can't you get out of the gutter and just focus on being angry at him for a second?

Vegas looks at me with something dark in his eyes, as if he's holding back whatever it is he wants to say, then he leans in and whispers in my ear in his most sultry tone: "I'll rim you until you come."

A flash of overwhelming heat flashes through me, paralysing me where I sit, my cock so hard and throbbing it's about to dig its own way out of my trousers, my asshole fluttering as I imagine the feel of his tongue on it. I curse and Vegas laughs as he picks up his bag and disappears through the door after giving me a final kiss on the cheek, mock-singing about me being a good boy and don't cheat.

Fuck you, asshole! If you think I'm going to study just because of that... promise...

I swallow and pull at my trousers, desperate and hot and angry at my stupid tease of a boyfriend. It should be illegal to be so seductive and tantalising!

How am I supposed to study with a bloody boner?! Knowing what he's going to do when he gets back... just thinking about it makes me want to squirm and moan, and he hasn't even touched me yet. Phantom touches make my skin quiver with anticipation, the coil of excitement in my abdomen becoming downright painful.

I hate him so much sometimes!

I may be the kind of freak who wants my boyfriend to hurt me and treat me like an object, but Vegas has a real fetish for his tongue up my ass.

I just indulge him.

I still go to take a shower to be ready when he comes back. I’m going to hold him down to that, it will teach him to abandon me during our only time together. Rim me until I come? Well, watch me, I'm going to hold back and not come for a fucking half an hour and make him go at it until his jaw hurts and he has no saliva left! I'll make him lick me and suck me for so long that we won't even need lube to fuck! I'll be so loose and lax he'll slide right in! How about that eh Vegas?

My cock is so hard it's actually torture not to jerk off in the shower to take the edge off. I look down at myself, my hand hovering, and for a split second I wonder what the hell is wrong with me. Am I not jerking off because I can still hear Vegas' voice telling me not to cheat as he left the apartment? Or because he promised me sex and it seems a bit redundant and useless to do it all alone now?

Maybe I should empty myself to take the edge off, though, so he’s forced to spend a fucking eternity down on me to make me come. I know how stubborn he is, he won't stop until he gets the desired effect.

I’m probably opening Hell’s gates for myself but fuck it, someone’s got to teach him a lesson and I volunteer as tribute! I’m gonna give his tongue the workout of a lifetime!

Somehow, between seething at Vegas' impossible audacity and cleaning myself thoroughly inside and out, I make the unconscious decision to turn the water to ice cold and watch with despair my cock deflate. After all, I know that if I keep myself all worked up, I am not going to stand a chance under his ministrations, and I have every intention of making him work for it.

As I step out of the shower, I stop in front of the mirror and watch myself in the cold bathroom light, my reflection sending back hard truths and inescapable facts. My body, as I look at it with the eyes of an interested stranger, is pretty good. Of course, I work out a lot, so my muscles are defined and I don't have much in the way of fat or flab; I know it's not a natural state, as soon as I reduce the intensity, those tend to reappear immediately, little pockets of soft tissue that give shape to my body.

My shoulders aren't very broad, but I'm quite tall for a Thai; my skin is golden, not quite as brown as many boys from the island where I grew up, but nowhere near as white as current beauty standards would have it. My cock is average size, average looking, nothing to brag about but nothing to be ashamed of; I would suck it on someone else if I wasn't in a committed relationship. I certainly never received any complaints.

My eyes move up in the mirror and I quickly avert my eyes. I don't like my face, it's too round, too soft, it doesn't suit a man. I know somewhere these aren't my words, but that doesn't make them any less true. Next to Vegas and his sharp features, I look unfinished and unpolished. He seems to like it though, keeps telling me how beautiful and pretty and attractive I am, so I pretend to believe him.

As long as he thinks I am hot, the rest of the world can go fuck itself.

I let out a sigh and start snooping around the cabinets. I'm not looking for anything, but curiosity always gets the better of me. As usual, Vegas is neat and organised, two items of each product, one opened and one back-up; nothing out of place, not even a smudge of product around the caps. I’m not surprised, Vegas FIFO his own fridge and writes down the opening dates on everything.

He's only dirty and messy when it comes to sex.

I leave the bathroom without putting my clothes back on. If it was up to me, I would never wear clothes. I just like the freedom that comes with being naked; it’s the normal state of men, the way we should all live. I don't get to do it too often, living in a dorm and all, but I know for a fact that Vegas doesn't mind me running around butt-naked; if anything, he often joins me.

In a few years, we'll be one of those unbearable couples that no one can visit because they're always naked in their house and go on holiday to nudist camps to be around other naked people. Before I die, I fully intend to get a sunburn on my balls.

I sit down on the couch, the leather creaking slightly under my bare skin, and take Vegas' laptop. I look at my homework for a while before rejecting the idea of working on it. I can pretend to Vegas that I did it, who cares anyway? I'm on the boxing team, no teacher expects me to actually study until the end of the year exams. I'll have all the time in the world to panic and hate myself for being so carefree when the time comes.

His user session is unlocked and, true to form, I put the laptop on my knees and look around Vegas’ bookmarks and browsing history to occupy myself waiting for my stubborn boyfriend to come back from his gallivanting. If I find something comprising, so be it. He should never have left me alone to begin with.

Maybe I should consider the benefits of tying him to the bed for once. I usually just let him take the reins and persuade him to treat me like I'm not made of glass, but I could improvise. I love riding him after all, so this might be food for thought.

At least, he wouldn’t get to disappear on me again!

I would keep him tied to the bed all weekend, using him as a human dildo, cleaning him with a rag and feeding him with my fingers. A boy in captivity for my personal enjoyment.

Not that I think about these kinds of things! Of Vegas tying me and using me like a toy, doing whatever the hell he wants to me, being reduced to a sex slave only there to answer his every whim … No, no, no. I never think about stuff like that.

I’m not a pervert.

Mostly.

I'm about to close the laptop, not finding anything to justify my snooping - Vegas can be so boring sometimes, seriously - when I notice a website with a name that sounds suspiciously like a porn site. Clicking on it, I'm pleased (and a little excited) to see that the video is about tying something called a 'TK'; my heart gets a bit too giddy in my chest and I can't quite resist playing it.

It's very technical and a bit boring to be honest, all about proper knotting techniques and anatomical lessons about the location of nerves and vessels under the skin, but it looks very promising and I can't wait for Vegas to actually work up the courage to try it on me. The idea of having real ropes to hold me down, to bind me in any way Vegas wants, to place and manipulate my body like an extension of himself, like I'm just an object for him to play with, sends a wave of heat through my body.

The nervous energy makes me tremble a little; it feels like there's a whole world within reach, and I wonder how far Vegas wants to take this exploration. How deep are his desires? Is this what he really wants, or is he just indulging my dark fantasies?

The very fact that he is exploring and learning this for me makes a hot feeling settle on my skin and raw tenderness blossom in my chest.

I haven't quite worked up the courage to tell him the... extent of what I (think I) like, but every time I allude to it, there's something uneasy in the way he looks at me; it used to make me uncomfortable, pushing buttons that should be left alone, and I chickened out of the discussion before even starting.

If I thought it just wasn't his thing, well, fair enough, sex is already fantastic as it is and he shouldn’t be forced into things he’s uncomfortable with, but I’m pretty sure it is, very much, our thing. It used to be, at least. Hopefully, it’s not just projection or wishful thinking.

Lately, as we delve into things a little bit more fringe (the biting and the roughness and soon enough, the ropes), I feel that what I see in his dark eyes is not so much reluctance but something else entirely, although I’m not quite sure what yet.

He gets a bit too enthusiastic sometimes and always freaks out afterwards and it makes me think that maybe... probably... most likely…

The video ends and immediately another one from Vegas' collection starts to play. This time it's completely different. For one thing, it's real porn, with actors and naked bodies and moaning that suddenly gets so loud in the quiet apartment I have to turn the volume down quickly, my heart pounding in my chest, hoping the neighbours didn't hear.

My eyes fall on the video and blood roars in my ears as I see what the scene is about. Oh. Is that research too, or...?

There's a man tied to an X-cross, he has black hair in a bowl cut, he's average height and size, and from behind he looks strikingly like me. I swallow and pretend that this is obviously a coincidence. I'm a very average looking Asian twink, the chances of porn actors looking a bit like me are just high, it's not like Vegas is actively looking for my BDSM porn actor look-alike or anything.

Shit brain stop thinking about it! This is way out there delusional!

The other person in the room is, as astounding as it seems, a woman. That makes me gape a little. Admittedly, it is a very hot woman in gravity-defying high heels, a black latex boxer and a gold chain bra that lets her tits peek out menacingly; she holds a flogger in one hand and caresses the leather straps with nails so long and so sharp they probably double as a defence weapon.

I feel hot all over and at this point I can’t help but set the computer down on the table before sprawling back on the couch and taking myself in hand. My legs naturally open a bit wider as my eyes don’t leave the screen. I try not to think too much about Vegas gay-extraordinaire watching straight porn and focus my attention on the screen. I feel like it’s been forever since I saw a pair of tits and the jiggle of her breasts as she advances looming and dangerous towards the man helplessly tied to the cross makes me lose my breath a little bit.

My cock starts filling nicely and becomes heavy in my hand, I rub it almost as an afterthought; I can’t get my eyes off of the screen. The woman says something and uses the flogger to caress the back of the man. I hold my breath, following each movement with rapture, and when she brings the flogger down on his ass and whips him, I actually jump scare a little bit, adrenaline rushing in my body and making my ends tingle.

My cock throbs, calling for my attention. I can’t focus on it though; I can’t look away from the screen; each whipping sound, each moan, each cry, each disparaging comment, it’s like they hit me directly, like I’m the one tied to that cross receiving the blows; my breaths align with those of the actor, and my entire body flinches under each strike – and during all of this, I can think of only one thing: this is one of Vegas’ saved videos.

Fuck. Does he wank to it too? The idea that I’m sitting in his apartment, on his couch, watching his porn on his laptop, sends me into a downward spiral of obscene debauchery that makes heat erupt all over my skin.

The round, perky ass of the man is getting more and more red and I squeeze myself between my fingers, wincing as the pain spreads through my cock, my thighs and belly trembling; I’m absolutely immersed in the video, blind to the world around me.

I give myself a few good strokes and a squeeze, a gusty moan escaping me as I fight to keep my eyes open and on the screen. There’s something so hot about what I’m doing, the forbidden taste of touching myself in Vegas’ space without his knowledge, snooping in his private collection, knowing I’m making a mess of everything around me, my sweat sticking to his luxurious leather couch and my cock leaking droplets in the rug’s hair; like I’m imprinting on his private quarter, scenting the place with my presence and all the pent-up sexual energy of the last couple weeks.

Maybe it’ll finally give him some ideas of what to do to me when he gets back, tapping into his primal instincts, lingering pheromones awakening his animal urges.

In the video, the dominatrix announces she’s going to slap the actor five times and that he has to count them; I can’t help myself and count the strikes with him under my breath, my body shaking with each of them like I am on the receiving end of the flogger myself. I can’t focus on anything around me but the sounds and whispers coming from the computer and the way my hand is tight and dry around my cock, jerking it fast and furiously, little pinpricks of uncomfortable sensations sliding along my skin just the way I like it.

It's then that I see it: a strange shadow at the foot of the couch and ragged breath that isn't mine. My head shoots up in panic and I catch Vegas standing by the door, fingers clenched on his trousers and staring at me wide-eyed, a little breathless and pink-cheeked. He’s drinking me up and down like a man parched and I’m his oasis; before I can even react, my cock decides exhibition is hot and pulsates and twitches with a pleasure so intense I can’t muffle the moan that escapes me. A bead of precum slides down the shaft and down my leg.

Shit! How long has he been standing there? When did he come back? … What did he see?

Vegas catches my gaze. "Don’t stop," he breathes out.

I can’t explain the rush of panic and shame that sweep me over when I hear his voice; at this point, Vegas has seen and touched and tasted every inch of my skin, yet him finding me jerking myself off naked on his couch sends me clambering to grab a pillow and hide myself, but right as my fingers graze the fabric, Vegas pulls it out of reach, looking a little bit frantic.

"Let me look," he says urgently, his voice dripping with lust as his eyes rake over my exposed and flushed body.

My face is burning so hot I feel on the verge of auto-combustion, my heart is hammering and I can’t quite look at him; the shame pooling in my gut, horrifyingly, makes me feel a surge of arousal so intense I can barely contain my voice.

The moment seems suspended in time, grotesque yet electricity builds around us as Vegas stares at me and I do my damn best to avoid his gaze. On the computer screen, the sounds of the whips cracking the air and hitting the flesh are interspersed by moans and whimpers from another man, and only adds to the tension of the room and the surrealism of it all.

I use my hands to cover my raging hard-on; it’s futile and useless, but it’s the only thing at my disposal to try and regain some semblance of dignity. I’m frozen where I’m sitting and my blood turns molten lava as I observe from the corner of my eyes Vegas move around the room like a predator about to pounce on his prey.

I’m suspended on his movements, unable to usher a single word in defence of myself, unable to move, to forfeit or to expose myself further.

The haze of desire in his eyes makes me flush from the tip of my ears to the bottom of my feet and I realise belatedly that he’s not mad or horrified but turned on; the coil in my stomach comes a little bit loose and my shoulders drop as I realise I’m also ridiculously turned on by this turn of events, even if the humiliation burns deep into my veins; or maybe it is the humiliation of it that feeds the inferno raging inside my guts.

Vegas licks his lips and squanders his shoulders, there’s an edge of something in the way he looks at me. He stares unblinkingly.

“Keep going,” he says once again, not hesitating anymore but demanding, his voice deep and biting, coming back into himself. “I want to see you.”

I swallow and move my hand, let him see me like he asked. Slowly, almost scared that he’ll realise what a harlot I am if I move too fast, I let my eyes fall on the screen again. It’s easier to look at the kinky porno video than watch Vegas observe me with rapture.

The pulse in my neck is almost deafening as I take my cock in hand; the simple touch makes me whine softly with how pent up I am. I feel more than I see Vegas positioning himself by the coffee table, at a perfect place to enjoy the show I’m about to give him.

I’m naked wanking myself and he’s standing right next to me with all his clothes on, hands on his hips, and there’s something so fundamentally humiliating and thrilling about it my entire body seems to tense like a bowstring about to break; I don’t dare touch myself more than a few shy superficial strokes for I might come undone from the setup alone.

I have never been this turned on in my life.

“Don’t cry, bad boys deserve punishment, you brought it on yourself!” the dominatrix in the porno says in an ice-cold voice. A shiver run down my spine, I dare a quick look up at Vegas and I see a smirk unfurl on his lips. An alarm blears in my head as I see the wicked way he looks at me; I squirm and his smile deepens to the point I can see all of his front teeth.

“Vegas…” I sigh; I don’t even know what I want to say at this point.

“Come on Pete, touch yourself. Do you need me to tell you what to do?” he says in a rich dark voice; he sounds so calm and collected and I’m a total mess.

I thought I couldn’t be more turned on but oh boy was I wrong. The words hit me like an electric wire, making my spine jerk up straight. My entire body is tingling. I can’t look away from him anymore, he’s got me suspended at his beck and call; hypnotised by his confidence.

“Tell me,” I whisper so low I’m pretty sure it’s impossible for him to have heard me.

He takes a deep shaky breath, bracing himself then – “Alright baby. Tighten your hand, stroke yourself,” Vegas says. I was expecting a looming commanding voice the same way the woman is in the video, but he talks slowly, rich tones of tenderness and care weaved into stilled words; it feels like honey in my ears, like he’s coaxing me with whispered love promises as he guides my hand with his voice.

I do as he says, I stroke myself and I moan, my toes curling in the rug on the floor. I’m so close to coming already, I can feel my orgasm growing in my groin, muscles pulled taut and ready to snap. I start jerking myself faster, desperate to reach the sweet oblivion of release, I can almost taste it on my lips when –

“Squeeze your balls,” Vegas says, and I comply with a whine of disappointment to have to let go of my cock; but the satisfaction of following his instructions is well worth it, it settles in my brain and make it buzz warmly. It’s both incredibly frustrating and enthralling and absolutely maddening.

I’m pretty sure I moan, I don’t even know anymore.

I squeeze my balls, the sensitivity of the skin under my harsh hand sending sensations flying all over my body, and I leave my hand there, not moving until he gives me the next command.

I can’t stop looking at him now, wanton and lustful and shameless in the face of the chicken game we’re playing. My perversion might be mortifying but as Vegas drinks it up like warm nectar, I can’t help but preen a little bit under his stare.

Dignity is overrated anyway.

He swears under his breath.

“Shit Pete, you’re so hot baby,” he lets out in a breathy moan. “Okay, touch the tip now, spread the slick.”

The fingers of my right hand dig into the soft leather of the couch as I slowly bring my left hand on my reddened tip that is leaking profusely everywhere and making a mess of Vegas’ expensive couch and rug. I feel a tremor of anticipation, I’m harder than I ever remember being and it’s like my entire body is trembling from the intensity; and Vegas keeps on making me go for the soft spots that feel so good, are both simultaneously too much and not enough.

The head of my cock is notoriously sensitive when I’m this turned on and Vegas knows it that jerk!

This is driving me insane. My fingers on my head burn, heat and pleasure spreading through my body as I caress myself, spreading my slick around with tentative finger; the slide making it at least a little bit less intense.

I’m shaking with the desire to have Vegas’ hands on me, but he seems content where he is, observing me from afar with a scrutinising gaze. I’m putting on a show like a common whore and it makes my blood sings.

“Don’t pretend Pete,” Vegas admonishes me, his mean tone doing weird things to my insides. “Squeeze it, make yourself feel it.”

I whimper. I can’t. It’s too much. I need something, to grab the actual meat of my cock and to jerk myself furiously until the coil in my gut snaps; but there’s a veil on my thoughts and I do as Vegas says like a puppet on a string, I squeeze the sensitive tip and my entire body writhes under the overstimulation, the pain and the pleasure mixing in a haze until they become one. My fingers graze the underside and it’s like I’m getting zapped all the way to my spine.

Vegas doesn’t want me to stroke myself, so I squeeze my tip desperately, I knead the flesh in a way near excruciating. My entire body is trembling and I want to come so badly, I’m clenched so tight and the tide of pleasure keeps on rising and rising, every single muscle around my groin tensing up and readying –

“I want to come, please,” I beg and I vaguely hear Vegas swear on the side but pleasure and want are melting my brain as I hold on desperately to Vegas’ command.

“You can come whenever you want, baby,” he says almost like he’s comforting me. At some point, my eyes clutched close and I can only use my imagination of what he looks like now, watching me pleasure myself.

“Push your fingers in the slit like you want to finger your cock,” Vegas instructs, in a voice that sounds almost detached but is just a bit too breathless.

I can barely breathe and the deep thump-thump-thump of my heart is thunderous. I have never done that; it sounds scary and painful, I’m not sure I want to put my finger there. I whine, look up at him helplessly but I’m placated by the intensity of his gaze.  There’s something almost challenging in the way he observes me; I don’t know what he expects though, for me to obey despite my hesitation or for me to ignore him and make myself come the usual way. 

I move before I take the decision, like it’s not even a decision to follow Vegas’ instruction, no matter the dread of reluctance I feel. I was right, it’s uncomfortable and it burns; it’s perfect. Under my eyelids, light explodes in a scintillant mix of unexplainable colours; my body clenches tight and I come with a guttural groan, narrowly avoiding painting Vegas’ laptop with my cum.

I slump down against the back of the couch, skin sticking to the leather, breathing hard and body still tingling all over from my release.

I can’t believe we just did that. Fuck, that was so hot. Scratch all those professor Vegas fantasies; this is the real deal.

I open my eyes, glancing up at Vegas who is still standing half-petrified next to the table in front of me. He’s wide-eyed and his face is a deep red, his breath ragged. I smile lazily at him, relaxed and at ease now that my orgasm has washed away all my worries and my modesty. My eyes follow the curves of his body and settle on his groin where I can see the heavy shape of his dick straining the fabric.

I just came but I can’t help the pang of sheer want that shoots through me as I observe the twitching movements of his hard member barely visible through the tight pants he’s wearing. I lick my lips and catch his eyes.

“Come here,” I say as I lay my head on the back of the couch, opening my mouth, slacking my jaw and relaxing my throat in shameless invitation.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” I hear him stammer before the hasty rustle of fabric informs me he’s taking me up on my offer; done with his game of gatekeeping his gorgeous cock from me. In record times, he’s in front of me, a little unsteady standing on the padded cushions of the couch.

I can’t help but chuckle a bit when I see he didn’t even bother to remove his shirt, only hopped out of his trousers and pants before coming to find me. His cock is raging hard, pointing up proudly and sagging slightly under its own weight, deliciously red and leaking, big and strong, long blueish veins crisscrossing the length of the shaft looking ready to explode.

Vegas leans forward, places his hand on the back of the couch on each side of my head to stabilise himself then he’s pressing against my lips and I swallow him as far and as deep as I can, the taste spreading in my mouth and making me drool. My jaw already hurts a bit; I did suck him off less than two hours ago after all and Vegas packs.

“Shit I’m gonna come fast,” he warns me and really? I don’t care. He forced me to wait all afternoon when we could have been fucking all along, my ass should be bleeding from overuse and all I got was a hand job I had to give to myself (hottest hand job of my life, but still).

I’m going to fucking choke myself on his tasty meat and he’s going to take it like a man!

Not heeding his warning, I grab him by the ass and I pull him inside me, his cock sliding down my throat in a swift movement making me gag and so, so good; heat spreads all over my body and I whimper, wishing I could take him even deeper, feel him fill me up all the way down my stomach.

He comes with an impossible broken grunt.

It happens so fast and so unexpectedly I don’t even get to taste him, it all goes down to the back of my throat direct link to my stomach in total waste and sticks in the back of my mouth and makes me cough unsexily.

Vegas falls back on the couch next to me, one arm thrown over his eyes and breathing hard.

I glance at him, baffled and a little bit affronted.

“Really?! That wasn’t even ten seconds!” I huff.

He raises his arm a little and look at me from below it, both smug and spent, satisfaction curling on his face and making him even more unfairly attractive than he normally is; l deflate like a balloon. I can’t stay mad at him when he looks so good.

I’m only letting this slide because he’s not usually an early shooter. He better not make a habit of it.

“S’ your fault, you’re too hot,” Vegas muffles, finally moving his arm from his face. He looks completely dishevelled; sprawled over the couch with his white perfect-student shirt all rumpled and no pants, his dick disappearing shyly under the hem of the shirt, his entire face red and little beads of sweat pearling on his forehead.

I looked down at the trail of hair on his thighs and arousal strains my stomach again. He’s not even doing anything and I’m ready to jump him.

I used to a normal person with a normal sex drive before Vegas; I’m just a shell of that guy now, cum-addicted and unable to contain myself.

A long, plaintive moan whips through the air and our heads turn simultaneously towards the computer. The scene is different, I can’t tell if it’s a continuation of the first one or another video, but it’s definitely the same actor. He’s on his knees and keening as the dominatrix (possibly the same? Boobs seem bigger and she’s naked now) pegs him with a giant dildo on a freaking hand-held jackhammer.

My jaw drops as I do a double take. Vegas all but pounces on the laptop and shuts it closed, the sounds of the guy getting demolished persisting in the air a few more seconds before going silent.

I can’t help it; I start laughing nervously. Oh my god. Vegas is bright red, kneeling between the table and my feet, hands still on the back of the computer like he’s afraid it’s going to open up on its own and start playing the incriminating video all over again.

“That was… it’s not… I don’t…” he stammers.

Oh, this is nice; I love seeing him flustered like that. If he could crawl under the rug he probably would.

“Interesting tastes,” I tease him, nudging him with my foot.

“I was just… researching stuff!” he defends himself vehemently, finally letting go of the laptop and turning, sitting down on the floor below me, back against the table. His hand lands in the puddle of cum I spread everywhere and he makes a face. He’s going to have to shampoo the damn rug.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“On the mating rituals of the straights?” I nudge him again with my toes. “I’m not sure you’ve got a very representative sample.”

He makes a face and shoots me a dark look. “Please, I keep having to look away every time they zoomed in on her boobs. They jiggle, Pete,” he adds, looking a little bit horrified.

I snort. That’s a more normal level of gay for Vegas. “They make the same in gay, you know?”

I nudge him again and let my foot rub over his torso, feeling the ripple of his skin and muscle under my toes. I almost reach his left nipple before he grabs my ankle to keep me from moving, his fingers squeezing me just the right way.

“Well, not with the same actor…” he mumbles looking a bit disgruntled. His thumb strokes the inside of my ankle distractedly, making little tremors run up my leg, which is why I don’t react immediately.

“Got a crush on straight porn star?” I tease him. I find it terribly amusing, but Vegas brusquely looks up in panic.

“No! It’s because he looks like you!” he justifies himself, then his eyes grow comically big and he shakes his head. “Not that I think about you when I watch it! That would be weird! It’s because you’re my style of guy, that’s all! He matches my aesthetics it doesn’t mean anything…” he trails off, realising he’s digging himself a grave deeper and deeper as he keeps talking.

His grip on my ankle turns slightly painful, but I don’t mind it. I blink a bit blankly. That’s… a lot to unpack all of a sudden.

I can’t believe Vegas is watching straight porn – Vegas! – for the sole reason that an actor looks vaguely like me. It makes a deep warm feeling bloom all over my chest and I can’t help the silly smile that comes with it. It’s just so darn romantic and flattering! It’s not often that I think Vegas is cute, but him sitting on the floor, one hand tearing hair out of the rug with red cheeks and looking all shy and embarrassed by his own admission apparently makes the trick. It makes me want to kiss him stupid.

I love him so much, it’s ridiculous.

Also, he’s definitely thinking about me watching those – I get it; I mostly masturbate looking at pictures of his dick, to each his own – but I bet he’s probably thinking of doing those things to me too.

And oh shit.

Shit shit shit.

I flush as the realisation settles over me and my cock stirs; and how could it not? That’s so freaking hot!

“Pete? Are you mad?” he asks softly. He’s mostly flushed down now and looks more tentative than embarrassed. He’s observing me from below the couch, fingers still on my ankle, and I can pinpoint the exact moment he sees how I’m reacting to what he just said, his eyes pausing briefly on my groin before looking up, his eyes a bit wide and shocked.

I feel a kiss against my ankle and glance down at Vegas, who is looking at me cautiously, his eyes fluttering between my face that is surely turning beet red and my cock that keeps twitching.

“You don’t think it’s creepy?” Vegas asks, a slight croak in his voice.

I swallow. Smack my lips together. There’s a current of anticipation building inside of me, making my insides quiver slightly as the image gets clearer and clearer: Vegas in his bed late at night, his computer playing a filthy movie, his hand dripping of lube slowly caressing his shaft, his fingers working himself as he thinks of me; tied up and ass up, buttocks reddening under his hand, seeing me, hearing me.

Watching freaky people having debauched sex in front of him and thinking only of me.

“Do you want to?” I ask lightly, catching his gaze and holding it. I try to ignore the way my heart is hammering in my chest and making me feel a little bit giddy. My cock keeps filling up and up and up until it’s standing at full mast without a single touch, earlier orgasm long forgotten already. “Do those kinds of things to me?”

I can see the exact moment he recoils and crawls back into himself like an oyster clutching its pearl. Vegas refuses to look at me, his jaw is clenched so tight I can almost hear his teeth grinding. I know I have to tread cautiously; I will not spend the weekend with him brooding in the corner.

I slide down the couch, bracketing him between my thighs and I cradle his face. “I think it’s very hot,” I breathe against his face, loving the way speckle of red bloom all over his face. His hands move along my legs and come to rest on the small of my back, then keep moving up and down and mapping the entire expanse of my skin.

Like he can’t quite believe this turns me on. He’s full of hesitation and restraint, his touch feeling like an unconscious reaction, as if I cannot be so close to him without his hands on me.

I let my hand slide from the back of his neck to the hem of his shirt, clutching the fabric between my fingers as I brace on his shoulder and I grind down, heavily with a sinful rotation of my hips that makes our cocks drag against one another deliciously.

He lets out a raspy gasp and his hands immediately grab my waist, hovering a little bit against my skin, not pulling me up and off him, but not encouraging me either. He doesn’t protest though, so I do it again, rotate my hips expertly and let him feel just how not crept out I am by the way he thinks of me.

The slide is exquisite.

“Pete…” he sighs, fingers more insistent against my skin. He doesn’t stop me, so I keep going.

I lick a long strap of skin from the juncture of his collarbone to his ear, drinking the little pants he lets out. I plant a kiss against his lips and open my mouth, licking into him until I feel him respond to me, letting the warmth spread slowly between us. I keep humping against him and his hands slide down my back, burning against my skin. It feels slow and tender and doesn’t quite appease the devouring need I feel inside, but at least, Vegas seems comfortable.

He nuzzles my neck, dropping kisses and promises of love against my skin. It’s hot and wet and intimate, it makes me want to make love slow and deep and looking in each other eyes until we come in blissed unison.

I viciously bite him in the neck and he yelps, looking at me like I lost my mind.

“That’s for being distant and shitty today,” I say. I tap my fingers against his forehead. “Stop overthinking everything. You can’t scare me away.”

Does he really think I don’t see how black and desperate his eyes become every time he roughens me up even slightly? The way we would be having sex and he would suddenly tense and freeze and make an ugly face and I have to pull him back to me before he lets his thoughts eat up his brain?

How oblivious does he think I am?

Oh shit.

How oblivious is he? Does he even know me at all?

“You don’t get it,” he says with a stutter. There’s the same hesitation in his eyes I see often when we skirt around the topic, the blackness shredded in clouds. He lets me go, his hands falling limply on the floor.

I’m sorry. Am I not naked on his lap? He’s all slumped down and I’m a raging ball of fervent passion.

We are not synching today.

“Sometimes I want to do despicable things to you,” he confesses like he committed some sort of terrible crime, full of unjustified distress. He’s looking to the side, won’t even cross my eyes.

I’m seriously re-evaluating my impression of him being smart and cool. We’ve been having sex for well over a year and he still hasn’t computed that I like him hurting me and holding me down and throwing me around? He’s learning to tie me up in ropes for god’s sake! He was literally telling me how to wank not five minutes ago! I’m pretty sure none of my mates go around with bleeding teeth shape marks and chaffed wrists and a limp; or that none of them continuously daydreaming about having a cock in their mouth making them gag and choke for hours.

It is probably a total I’-m-an-inconsiderate-jerk move to be turned on by words admitted in anguish, yet my cock, that complete traitor, jolts so hard I have to grind my teeth from grunting. We’re flushed together, he cannot not have felt that, and I know it because his cock twitches in response to mine, which makes my dick do a little happy wiggle.

At least they’re having fun.

“And you should tell me all about that, preferably while inside of me,” I say, bringing my thumbs under his chin to make him tilt his head towards me. I press kisses against his lips and insist until he exhales and kisses me back, tension uncoiling from his body and his hands trailing back up my legs to grab me by the hips.

It’s a one-trick wonder, but it works every time.

If he insists on having an emotional crisis on my watch, he’ll do it with his cock buried in me. At least then, I’ll be able to distract him easily if he spirals down. He always gets horny after being emotional anyway, so we might as well skip that first step and get to the good bit already.

I’m a one-track mind man on a mission.

“Maybe we shouldn’t…” he mumbles –

Oh I’ve had it with this twat!

At this point, I really don’t care if he wants it or not. He’s been keeping his masterful dick from me for way too long already. Now he can lie there and think of the king for all I care, but I’m getting railed with or without his participation.

I’m in a complete frenzy, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and ripping it open, pasting my mouth on his torso, sliding my hands all over him, his skin scorching hot under my fingertips, pressing a long filthy kiss inside his mouth and raking my teeth along his throat; not letting him get a word sideways; attacking him like a wild animal, a thorough assault of his senses and he grunts and groans and pinches and gropes me encouragingly and I’m starving.

I grab his cock, all hot and slick and at perfect mast already; I barely stroke it before situating myself on top of it.

“Fuck Pete, slow down, fuck what’s got into you” he breathes out, daring to put a hand on my side to make me slow down.

This ain’t happening.

“Nothing got into me, that’s the problem,” I scowl, blindingly reaching under me to guide him inside.

“Wait, wait, lube,” he tries to stop me, again.

Does he have a fucking death wish?

“No need, too far,” I shush him hastily with a loaded glare.

There is absolutely no way I’m getting up to get the lube. I need him inside of me now, it’s imperative that it happens fast and with no delay. The tip of Vegas’ cock is nudging me, hot and slick and scalding against my sensitive little hole fluttering greedily and opening spontaneously with barely any probing.

I scant my hips and push down feeling a tremor wreck my body when I feel the tip dip in, my rim stretching to accommodate him. I moan much louder than I intended, my brain going in overdrive in a mindless repetition of yes yes yes finally! –

Until Vegas grips me by the hips and stops me, his breath punched out of him and his eyes hazy, so so dark and big and looking like he can’t quite believe what he’s doing himself. I desperately try to push down, to impale myself on his glorious weeping rod but he holds me firmly, his hands pressing bruises on my hips as he keeps me hovering over him, just the tip in – not even the entire head! – in the most underhanded cruel fashion imaginable.

I shriek in frustration. I push down and he pulls me up. I can feel tears gathering in my eyes as I look at his clouded face.

“Vegas!” I whine pathetically. I’m spasming around him and he stops any attempt I make to sink onto him.

It's like a parody of sex; a tug of war between his dick and my ass.

He grinds his teeth under the effort, his arms bulging up from the tension and using his entire core to get me off his cock, but I don’t even waver. I will have him inside of me! I squeeze to make the little bit that’s already inside stay right there and he moans brokenly. Good, I hope it feels like I’m strangling his dick.

We look at each other; it’s a battle of wills, of strenuous effort. He’s frowning and reeking stubbornness and I know what he’s about to say before he even opens his lips.

“Don’t want to hurt you!” he splutters, jaw tight and face flushing in exertion. His thighs are shaking against mine, and I don’t even know who he is fighting the most: me or his desire to capitulate and slam into me.

His entire body is quacking and he still doesn’t let go. I hate how controlled and coherent he always seems even when I’m reduced to sounds and illogical babbles, but this is different. He’s the enemy standing between me and my Graal, my eternity granting amulet, my precious ring of power. I don’t care if, technically speaking, the cock belongs to him by virtue of being attached to his body. He forfeited his ownership the first time he fucked me into oblivion; he can’t take it back now!

I go feral. I bite him in the shoulder; savagely; like a rabid animal.  I brace on his shoulder and I put all my strength to make him slide inside me. I get a few inches, his head plopping inside, but he braces back and stop my progress.

We’re both frowning, engaged in a visual battle of whom will give up first. I’m obliviously going to win; I’m only fighting him where he is fighting the both of us.

“Pete, for fuck’s sake, just let me get the freaking lube!” he pants aggressively.

I’m so sick of him treating me like I’m made of crystal, precious and breakable. I spend my days punching guys and making them bleed and taking hits, and even if it feels great to be coddled and pampered, this is the last thing I want right now. I hate it when Vegas is like this, withdrawn and scared and cautious with his words and his body; preaching and caring when it’s all so fake fake fake.

Now if I knew Vegas was actually the vanilla I-want-to-make-love-not-shag kind of guy, sure, I’d adapt. But he’s not, and as much as he likes to pretend otherwise, I know he’s not. Back when we started dating, he came at me like a bulldozer, destroying everything in its path, me included. He was libidinous and cringe and cruel; he pushed me and scraped me and hurt me – but we were barely-seventeen morons with absolutely no idea what the fuck we were doing.

I thought sex hurting so bad was normal and to be expected, pain had always tainted everything good in my life, why should sex be otherwise? It took a very embarrassing trip to the ER and a humiliating conversation with a nurse (which is why, by the way, they should always have a gay nurse on call) to learn that no honey you’re doing it wrong here is some stuff to read for you and your boyfriend to educate yourselves.

When Vegas understood he was hurting me – not in the yes, yes please more thank you I’m totally into that shit sense, but in the shit I’m bleeding there’s something wrong yes it hurts but I didn’t want to be the nutjob who doesn’t like sex so I never told you sorry I pretended everything was fine sense – he was mortified and had a complete sexual-existential crisis about it.

He refused to shag me for almost two months; we kept having fights and nearly broke up; but we figured it all in the end. We love each other; I’d go the rest of my life without sex if it meant having him in it.

We certainly had a few interesting months experimenting foreplay and toys and fingers and mouth and thigh gap (and on that one drunken occasion, armpit) to get my ass to comply and understand that cock=good; but it worked so well that now, I’m pretty much in a constant state of empty=bad.

Yet it drives me nuts when Vegas still treats me like a porcelain doll sometimes and I have to constantly coax him into being rough and hold me down and bite me and tie me because yeah I like it that way, duh, and I can see he gets off of it too. It’s not like I wasn’t coming out of my mind even when it was excruciating.

And I became an expert at cock-sitting, thank you very much. I don’t need Vegas to coddle me anymore; I would make taking his dick my Olympic speciality if I could; a perpetual state of existence. Sitting on his shlong is to my well-being what breathing is to staying alive; one cannot exist without the other.

I’m not cock-hungry. I’m cock-ravenous, cock-starved, cock-gluttonous. And if I say it’s gonna fit without lube, it bloody will. Nothing will stand between me and his dick, not even the laws of nature!

I’m sorry for sex-traumatising Vegas and reinforcing his inner fears of being just like his father, only good at hurting people around him; but doesn’t he see me perched on top of his cock, offering him free sex shock therapy?

“Then fucking hurt me,” I growl grabbing his hands and ripping them away from my bones, digging my thumbs on the inner side of his wrists to force him to let go.

He grunts and I go down; it burns as I stretch over him and swallow him down and it’s perfect, long and slow and intense, scorching and rough and heady. My body yields to the intrusion and my heart hammers in my chest two, three, four times like a bell chiming through my entire body, I feel it all the way to my fingertips.

I sigh in relief, feeling like I can finally breathe after holding it in all day long, the tight coil in my chest coming undone. I don’t move, I don’t need the friction, I just wanted to feel him inside, filling me up and occupying all my empty spaces. I sag onto him and my mind rights itself, all the early anxiety melting away.

I’m on my seat, he is my throne.

I look up at him with a victorious gleam in the eyes, licking my lips curving up like a cat who got the milk.

He’s observing me with a gaze so dark I could lose myself in it. He doesn’t seem mad per se, but flummoxed, watching me silently and adamant. The intensity of it petrifies me; I wonder if I went too far, if my lack of inhibition in the face of my overzealous avidity forever shattered the erroneous prim image he had of me.

I quickly let go of his hands like I burned myself on them and shift back, his cock sliding further inside of me and I gasp. I feel put on the spot, my rib cage teared opened for him to see everything I usually hid deep inside, and an uncomfortable shiver runs down my spine, but I’m rooted in place by the stake in my back and the stare in my eyes.

There’s something exhilarating in this; to let Vegas see all the ugly bits and unsavoury longings.

Vegas blinks and I clench down. We both moan.

His hands land on my ass, one staying right there fondling me almost soothingly, and the other rise to my back, circling my torso, sliding up my arm until it comes to rest against my throat, not pressing down, just there, a weight and a beat.

I swallow and the feeling of his fingers pressing against my skin makes me shudder.

Vegas’ eyes are like black pools and I’m drowning in them, breathless and suspended in them. There’s no sound in the apartment but our heavy breathing, the regular tick-tock of the artful clock on the wall and the random honking of the cars in the street below.

“You have no idea,” he sighs, his fingers tightening just slightly. “You make me lose my mind.”

My breath catches in my throat. There’s a fire burning inside of me and it keeps on getting bigger and brighter, growing and consuming everything on its path; and I have no intention of stopping it; I’ll spray gasoline on it until it reaches the sky.

I grab his hand and press his fingers closer, wrapping them properly around my neck. “Show me then,” I whisper, squeezing his fingers around my throat until I feel the blood congestion, the dizziness getting to me. He’s breathing hard and so am I, our eyes locked together, clasped, the ugly truth laid bare in front of us.

We’re standing atop a ravine and we’re about to jump in it; hand in hand; we go down together or not at all.

Breath getting raspy and difficult, I grind down on him, my hips buckling around his shaft moving lasciviously inside me. Using the hand around my neck to pull me in, he presses a kiss on my lips. It’s hot and heavy, a clatter of teeth and a swiping of tongues; it makes heat pool in my belly, clinging to my organs and eroding my bones.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” he whispers and the barely veiled threat makes a shiver of fear and anticipation flash through me.

I smile; a loose smile, a bit loopy. I feel slightly drunk, it’s hard to keep my focus on Vegas when he holds me like that. I can’t control my facial expression properly, my head is in shamble and everything is out and exposed for him to see.

The hand on my ass tightens, the other one stays on my neck. He hauls me up and down, makes me fuck him nice and slow and languidly, each stroke touching the deepest edges inside of me.

Vegas’ breath is hot against my ear and each word makes me shiver with want and unbridled desire.

“It’s not just the sex,” continues Vegas on a rampage; like an egg cracked open, he leaks and spills everything. It’s not surprising, he’s always been an emotional fucker. “I want to be with you all the time, I want to know where you are and who you’re talking to, I want to keep you here with me, I want to tie down and never let you go. I want to fuck and treat you like you don’t matter and make love to you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. I think about you all the fucking time. I’m terrified I’m gonna scare you away. I don’t want you to ever leave.”

My heart is stammering, I’m fucking flying with his confession, the wrongness and obsessive behaviour a direct link to my hind brain who yaps yes, yes, yes, more. There’s a voice in there somewhere that tells me I should be running the other way, but I only grip Vegas by the hair and press him even closer to me, to let him know how fucking fast my heart is beating, my cock and his arm trapped between our bodies.

Moral righteousness can go to hell. Oh no, you know what? Vegas and I can go to hell. As long as we’re together, I don’t give a shit about anything, good and wrong and evil mean nothing when I’m here with him in my arms. I want to spend my existence with him, the entire eternity, all my lives at his side.

I will obliterate anyone who dares to stand in our path.

“You don’t get it,” I say. I might have snarled a little bit. I’ve been dying for him to throw me down and take me like a bitch in heat all afternoon and he held back for what? Fear I’d be obfuscated? Like I don’t deal with the same shit he does? Does he not understand the depth of my love? “My life belongs to you. Everything you just said, I want it too.”

As cliché as it sounds, Vegas looks at me like I just hanged the moon. I feel put on the spot and it makes me flush, the way he looks at me, hungry and enthralled and amazed.

“I love you Pete,” he whispers like he just discovered the secret meaning of life. He leans on me and kisses me softly, his lips warm and gentle against my face. “You’re the best thing in my life. I would do fucking anything for you.”

I’m not that great, but Vegas makes me feel like I’m invincible.

“How about you fuck me?” I ask, hoping this time he’ll finally agree to feed the monster growing restless inside of me. He’s pressed hard inside and I still feel ravenous. It’s not enough, it’s never enough.

Vegas’ hand around my neck tightens just a tiny bit, not enough to choke me or anything, but his touch is so proprietary my mind takes a small tumble and I lose my rhythm; fucking awkwardly like a beginner who has no idea what he’s doing.

Vegas smirks.

“That what you want baby?” he asks hotly against my face. “Do I feel good inside of you? Tell me.”

He does something with his cock, I’m not sure what. He holds me in place with a hand on my waist and do a little wiggle-twist with his hip and it presses right on my prostate, hard and long. I whimper.

“Feel good Vegas, need more please,” I beg him, each word feeling slurred and distant, like my brain can’t quite connect to the area responsible for speech.

He does it again, looking particularly smug and proud of himself, and my legs give up a little bit. I fall forward on him, my nose press against his throat.

My moans reverberate against his skin and make him broke in goosebumps.

“Yeah? Like that?,” he slaps my ass with one hand, sharp and quick and the sound seems to explode in the room. “That what you want, baby?”

The sudden sting makes me startle and clench down, a rush of impossible pleasure and heat unravelling in my body.

I feel downright dizzy, my cock feels hypersensitive, like overfilled and about to explode from the inner tension.

Vegas didn’t strike me very hard, but it’s enough to make my entire body shake.

I desperately grab his shoulders, holding myself up on him as my last tether as he gives me another slap. His hand is still around my throat, trapped in an awkward angler between our chests and it makes his fingers dig painfully in my skin. It doesn’t quite restrain my breathing but I still feel absolutely heady with the feeling.

I love choking on his cock, but I never realised I liked choking, period. I’m so hot it feels like my body is about to go up in flames and combust right where I’m perched on Vegas’ cock.

I kiss his neck and suck lovebites in his skin, rocking into him and following the movement of his legs and uprise of his hips coming to meet me halfway.

His hand slides on my ass to brush the place we’re linked, fingers skimming around my rim and I squirm on his laps, feeling so stretched and sensitive the simple touch sends a shiver through my entire body. I can’t help but squeeze his cock and he lets out a satisfied moan.

“You feel so good, Pete,” he gasps. “I want to spend my life inside you.”

I would love that, he’s the one who kept denying me! I move back a little to be able to see his face.

Vegas always looks good, but there’s something very peculiar about him when we have sex. Hair tousled and face red and eyes so deep; even in the throes of pleasure, there’s a sense of control in him, a tight leash he keeps on himself constantly threatening to snap and release whatever he feels the need to hide underneath.

And he looks at me, always, all the time, swallowing my moans and my squirms and my reactions like they’re his; like he gets off almost as much from watching me loving it than from what he’s feeling himself.

Maybe that’s why he’s such a skilled lover, always putting my needs above his.

It didn’t stop him from acting like a dick today, though.

“You kept pushing me away, I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” I sulk, fucking him with renewed fervour, making both him and I moan appreciatively.

How do I keep forgetting how freaking good it feels to have him slide inside of me? In this position, he just goes so deep it feels like he’s pressing my stomach from the inside. I bet I’d managed to feel him through my skin if I placed my hand flat on my belly.

He grunts and thrusts up in me, dragging against my walls and making me blubber a moan.

“That was so hard,” he laments. “It was so hot to see you so desperate for it, baby.”

That asshole. He was doing it on purpose! I’m going to chew his face off!

The way he angles his hips on the next slide up drags right along my prostate and I keen a little, my body shuddering with the intensity of the feeling, making my thought go awry for a few seconds.

What was I thinking? Ah, yes. Be angry with him… alright, maybe after we’re done. He seems to have built his endurance up since his 10-second stint; it’d be a pity not to take advantage of it.

I still get into his face, my nose almost pressed into his. He puckers his lips, expecting a kiss. Yeah, right.

“You have a lot to make up for,” I say in a simmering tone, that’s immediately dialled down by the gasp I can’t hold back as something happens in my ass, pleasure striking like a blow. How does he do that? Does he secretly have an inflating cock? “You left me all alone today!” I still manage to grind out.

He hums and smirks, regards me like I’m a coveted possession, looking amused by my half-hearted spluttering. I can’t look very convincing bobbing up and down his cock and moaning my last breath.

A dark glint appears in his eyes as he looks at me closed up, his thumb caressing the hollow of my throat, and the sharp curl of arousal travels my body like a hurricane, starting low in my guts and spreading uncontrollably around my entire chest. I can’t breathe and it’s not because of the hand on my throat. He’s barely pressing anymore and I still feel like he’s holding my heart in his hand and is about to squeeze it until I pass out.

“Do I now? I left you to study and come back to find you wanking? Snooping through my stuff again?” he asks accusatorily. His nose presses against mine and his tongue licks my lips and he smiles something dangerous and exhilarating. “The way I see it, you deserve a punishment, not a treat.”

My head falls on his shoulder and I let out a strangle moan at the notion, my face flushing embarrassingly and my nails digging into his shoulders. A bead of precum pearls at the tip of my cock, sliding down my shaft and losing itself somewhere below where a little pond is forming between our bodies.

Vegas’ dark smile curls up and his eyes shine like he just found a diamond under a rock.

“Do you want that Pete? Do you want me to punish you?” he presses on, his thumb becoming more insistent on my neck, painfully so, and my brain just. Give up. Full overload, complete short-circuit.

Yes yes yes please.

“Answer me”

“Yes!”

It’s all it takes.

In a feat of great athleticism, Vegas grabs me under the thighs and turns us around so he’s sitting with his back to the couch rather than the table. He keeps me on my knees and his hands slide up, grabbing my ass and kneading the globes together and apart, smacking them and caressing them reverently.

I’m a ragdoll perched on him, braced on his shoulders, feeling fuzzy and so horny my brain is going in overdrive. My cock jolts and throbs and leaks so much I’m going to die from dehydration.

What a brilliant idea, to die fucking Vegas.

“I think, since you were so desperate to get on my cock,” he says, sly and drinking me up and down, his eyes covering every each of my body displayed on top of him, so heated I can feel his gaze touch my skin, “that I should let you do all the work.”

I moan a little, that sounds hot. Ok, it’s not so bad. I can take it.

“And since you’re such a big, strong guy, you can do it without your hands, right?”

Without giving me time to react, he snatches my hand and brings them behind my back, settling them right behind my ass and interlacing our fingers together. There are knuckles grazing against my bump but I’m so lost in sensation at this point I can’t figure out if they’re his or mine.

The way he situated us, I can’t touch him and he can’t touch me, we’re only joined by our hips and the head of my cock that bumps against his stomach and mine, spreading a trail of precum between us.

Vegas… doesn’t move. He stays sitting on the floor, embracing me with his arms to hold my hands behind me and looks up at me with an almost evil glint. “Gotta move if you want to come, love.”

Ah. Yes. Moving. I can do it. I rise up on my knees and slowly push down, taking the time to reaccustom myself with his cock like we haven’t been fucking for a time already. Still, the little reprieve gives me a chance to savour it all over again; the first slide, my body opening around him; the long press in and my muscle quivering around his shaft; the retreat and the forlorn emptiness that follows, the little tug in my belly that screams to be filled again.

My entire back is covered in shivers as I pick up a rhythm again, moving up and down and thrusting helplessly in the empty space in front of me, my shoulders aching slightly from the tug on my wrists.

My legs are already shaking.

“Better hurry Pete,” he teases me. In complete opposite of his earlier expression, he’s open and bright, looking like he’s having the most fun while I strain over him. “It would be a pity if I came before you.”

A swoop of heat flashes through me as I finally understand what he’s planning. What he’s meaning. You can do it without your hands, right?

“You can’t be serious,” I pant, gaping at him slightly.

There is no way I could possibly come this way, with next to no friction on my cock and having to strain myself to keep bobbing on him. I have come untouched in the past, but it usually takes long and strenuous efforts to get me there, or him railing me again and again until my body forgets how not to come.

Even as fit as I am, there is no way.

His brows arch in obvious taunt, an evil glint in his eyes, mouth stretched in a smirk. “Better work for it, baby.”

“Vegas, please…” The prospect feels almost daunting. When he offered to punish me, I thought about a lot of things but this feels impossible… unreachable. My body doesn’t work like that. He wants me to run a marathon at the speed of a sprint.

It’s a punishment alright.

“Show me how desperate you’re for it Pete, come on,” he says, squeezing my hands and I get to it, pushing myself higher and quicker and moaning desperately as I try to sink into the sensations, let them expand and consume me until I can’t think of anything else.

For a while, I get lost in the limbo, fucking myself silly on my boyfriend’s cock, enjoying the sparks and shivers of my body, the heat of his skin below me, the squelching sounds we make as we join over and over again. I try to get a nice steady stimulation against my prostate to make the ride even more enjoyable and I keep going, my ass clenching on the way up and opening on the way down. The lack of lube starts to make itself obviously noticeable, the burn increasing by the moment and I know I’m going to fucking regret this at some point tomorrow but right now, I can’t bring myself to care.

Maybe I like that it hurts a bit too.

The whole time, Vegas keeps looking at me, his attention entirely focused on me, on the movements that I make, on each breath that I pull, on each sound that I produce. His eyes caress my body in a way that’s almost tangible, I can feel the weight of his gaze and it burns like candle wax, clinging to my skin for a long time. It spurs me on, makes me want to do well and make him proud.

I give it my whole, ramming myself with all of my strength, wanton moans escaping me at an alarming increasing tempo, but it becomes glaringly obvious that I'm not going to make it. It feels so good, maddeningly so, I want to sob with the way my body trembles all over, overstimulated and yet it’s not enough.

“That’s it baby, keep fucking me, that’s so good,” Vegas encourages me when I start to falter, to fall back on him a bit more heavily, the slide up slower, lazier.

“I can’t Vegas, I need more… please…” The frustration is getting to me. I keep dragging up and down, feeling a coil inside of me curling tighter and tighter but it does have anywhere to go. My hips jerk forward helplessly, the tip of my cock humping against Vegas’ stomach, the brush against his skin just short of the sort of stimulation I need.

“Look at you, such a cock-hungry little slut. Do I feel good inside of you?” Vegas asks, looking at me even more intensely, studying me like he’s trying to crack a complex code.

If he’s worried about calling me a cock-hungry little slut, he needs not worry. The words zing through me like a live wire, making all the air of my body stand up and my fingers tingle. I’m surprised myself by the extent of my reaction.

“Nggh”

“Do you like it when I call you a slut?” he asks, his eyes widening slightly, something almost reverent in the voice. He calls me a slut but speaks like I’m the most precious thing ever.

I look him in the eyes, breathing out: “Just for you…”

His smile widens and turns a little soft, making his eyes crinkle a bit. “Yes baby, just for me. Fuck look at you. You’re so perfect. Are you gonna come?”

Fuck, Vegas is good at his, what the hell did I doom myself to? He was a dormant dragon and I woke him up and he’s going to devour me until I’m nothing but dust and bone.

I might have miscalculated slightly.

“I can’t,” I sulk between two gasped moans.

Pleasure washes over me, waves and waves that make me quiver, my orgasm is right at the corner, taking residence in the depths of my body, settling down in my bones, growing steadily towards an apex that seems impossible to reach.

“It’s okay, we have time. You can keep going all afternoon, I’m happy to sit here and watch you,” says Vegas, like he isn't bright red and panting himself.

There’s no way. My thighs are burning and shaking, drained of any strength and I’m almost wheezing under the effort of keeping myself bouncing up and down on his shaft.

I can’t. I can’t.

My body won’t comply no matter how much I beg it to.

I’m reminded of the physical punishment from high school. They never hit us but forced us to some sort of strenuous exercise until near exhaustion, to that point where the brain gets hazy and the body is thrumming and it feels like you will die if you take another breath but somehow you just keep going. Others seemed to hate it, but I always got out of it with a raging hard on and disoriented from having so much blood pounding in my head.

This, what Vegas is putting me through, is exactly the same type of punishment, with the difference that our teacher always set a goal for us to reach before being set free and Vegas promises me a release that is impossible to achieve and I’m losing it completely. I don’t even remember what I did to deserve it, I will do anything, I will say anything to make up for it.

I push myself up and down, legs shaking and breath ragged, my entire body a furnace making me sweat and tremble under the effort.

Vegas keeps looking.

White noise feels my mind and I feel lightheaded, my head spins and spins like a whirligig in the middle of a hurricane. I exist outside of my body, the ache and pain are nothing but an afterthought, entirely negligible quantities.

In this moment, in this instant, nothing else matters but Vegas' heated look on me, the expectancy in his eyes, the pride seeping from them.

I'm reduced to my most basic, fundamental parts and the bone-deep, visceral need to please Vegas, to answer his challenge and man up to the task. Everything disappear, the ache in my thighs, the burning in my lungs, the tension in my shoulder, I transcend my body to exist somewhere else, where all sensations good and bad merge together in a sparkle of gold and infinite need.

The tension is my gut pulses painfully, I’m so close to coming, my balls are retracting and ready to launch but – I’m stuck, suspended over a fence I cannot cross. I whimper desperately. Why?

I push harder and my thighs buckle, I almost fall on top of Vegas.

The shame of failure burns deep. Under me, I feel Vegas move back, getting away from me and I’m filled with desperation.

I’m going to die if he moves away now!

“No, please please Vegas. I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry just touch me,” I beg shamelessly. I’m so gone, way past the point of caring. My entire thoughts are reduced to the single overwhelming desire to come. I’m a sports student, I’m no stranger to body exhaustion, but this is different; my muscles are shutting down and I can’t stop myself from moving, pushing far beyond any reasonable efforts in complete desperation. It’s like floating up and away from my body yet feeling so damn much my brain feels about to explode.

“You’re my good little slut, are you not? You should learn to come just from my cock. Are you telling me it’s not enough for you? Fuck, how greedy are you Pete?” he asks darkly, his voice smouldering me. His fingers tighten around mine and he tugs me closer still, even more trapped against him and with a smaller range of motions. “Don’t you want to come?”

I want to! I want it so much it burns my entire body from top to bottom; but my body just won’t cooperate! I want it for myself and I want it for Vegas and I want it for our entire future laid in front of us and taking shape on this late afternoon; and the fact that I can’t is mortifying. It burns deep and high and wrecks everything in my mind.

“Touch me, please, please Vegas, I can’t,” I beg, tears of frustrations welling up in my eyes. My entire body is one long line of taut muscles trembling in exhaustion, I’m on the fringe of a mind-shattering orgasm that keeps building higher and higher and will absolutely wreck me, but I can’t push myself over the line, can’t cross over and let tension make way for elation.

A single touch on my cock, a simple skimpy stroke, would be enough to tilt the scale, I feel it deep in my gut; my orgasm is on the fringe, tethering and infuriatingly out of reach.

In my back, Vegas squeezes my fingers, our hands clasped together in a travesty of lovers hand-holding when really, it’s him holding me when I desperately want to break free. The hold is nothing like a handcuff or a rope, Vegas’ hands are hot and a little bit sweaty, but it’s so intimate I can’t even bring myself to pull out of it. My body doesn’t lack strength, but my mind is weak and loves it as much as I hate it.

I rock and grind down on him earnestly, rubbing my prostate against his shaft with reckless abandon. My entire body seems stuck in the middle of a plasma ball, every little electric arc coming to tickle and prickle my nerve-ending and creating ricochet of goosebumps waves all around my skin. 

“You can do it baby,” he encourages me, his breath coming out in ragged little puffs interspaced with little moans and grunts he can’t contain; he speaks and acts aloof but his body betrays him. He’s reaching his last straw as well, and it fills me with renewed vigour. I have to come before he’s finished. Please, please, please just let me come!

He leans towards me a little to smell my neck and nip at my burning skin.

The simple touch almost makes me topple onto him, my body reacting like his lips are branding me. I moan breathlessly, whimpering, tensing up towards him wantonly for more, only to be held back by his hands that keep me in my place.

I have never in my life felt so desperate for a single touch, a caress or a pinch. I’ll take any sort of contact right now, any attention at all, to uncoil the impossible tight knot that ensnarls me from inside. In this suspended moment of time, I would do anything, no matter how depraved or preposterous, provided it brought any sorts of relief.

He could slap me across the face and I would probably come from it.

Vegas’ eyes never leave my face and his arousal burns through me like a hot wire, setting heavy in my stomach, radiating around my ribcage and twisting around my spine.

I want to be good for him, I want to make him proud, I want to prove to him that we can have this, that we can make it work.

I push my body relentlessly, clenching and stroking and sliding up and down despite my legs cramping; my prostate is so tender and overused each graze against it sends a spark of electricity rippling through my body and I can’t say if I like or hate it; if it feels good or excruciating. My body screams to leave it alone yet I keep pressing into it, it’s addictive and makes my mind spiral higher and higher like I’m freefalling and there’s nothing to grab onto but Vegas’ burning cock in my ass.

Behind my back, Vegas’ thumbs draw encouraging little circles against my palm; his breath is wet and scorching hot against my neck.

“Come on Pete, be a good boy and come for me,” he blows as he straightens up. His hands move higher in my back, forcing my arms to bend at an awkward and painful angle, locking them in place, and his mouth latch on my left pec, right about the nipple, biting into it viciously.

I light up like a firework and my orgasm crashes into me, rips through me, wave after wave of my body shaking and trembling and my cum spilling everywhere in front of me. Pleasure keeps curling and exploding in all my muscles, around my groin and my tired thighs and my shaking arms; it lasts and lasts and settles deep inside of me as I quiver in the aftershocks. It's so good I scream and tears spill out of my eyes.

I might have died a little. I’m definitely drooling all over my face, having lost all control of myself as I sag forward, falling on Vegas like a puppet with no strings.

Vegas’s hands let me go at once and before I understand what is happening, the world is spinning around me and I’m suddenly on my back, Vegas desperately hammering into me and coming with a long guttural groan that breaks out of his throat.

It takes long seconds before my mind comes back online.

I think I’m about to die. Spent and heavy and still trembling, Vegas pressed deep inside of me and his cum hot and sticky inside, it feels like heaven.

It feels like home, he’s right where he belongs. I don't want to ever move ever again. We can stay here until the end of time, until our bodies decompose and turn to dust and we can't ever be separated again.

He presses kisses in my neck and touches my hair, raking his hands everywhere for all that he refused to touch me earlier; and I cling to him, not ready to let go. My mind is still rumbling, floating, as if I have too many thoughts but I cannot hear a single one of them, a blank page waiting to be filled again.

I feel good, otherworldly good. Sated, contented.

Happy.

There’s a vital question still on my mind, though.

“So, how do you feel about cockwarming?”

The End