Watching his body ache with pleasure, his eyes burn with desire, fuels me to push harder, deeper. I pick up speed, plunging my dick faster into his tight, warm and welcoming hole. I watch how this stranger in my bed arches his back, how he tightens his grip around the sheets, how his red lips part. I savour how he moans.
“You like that?” I pant breathlessly, sweat pooling on my forehead.
His grunt answers my question.
As I look down at him on his back, a guy I just met, yet feel like I know, I can’t help but admire his beauty. His hazel eyes, square jaw dusted with just the perfect amount of scruff, and wavy slightly long black hair – that was once combed back, but now a mess – are what wet dreams are made of. Then there is his smooth body. It simply is perfection. Tight and toned in all the right places. I can see his muscles flex, his abs tighten, as we fuck.
Then there is his dick. Even that is flawless. At least eight inches long, not too thick, but oh so hard, and bent slightly to the right. I can still feel what it was like to have it in my mouth. I didn’t want to stop; I could have sucked on that dick all night long. But I knew I had to let go if I wanted to get to part two.
I slow down and lean forward just for a moment so that I can kiss those sweet, luscious ruby red lips once again. Normally I’m a soft kisser, but I can tell that’s not what he wants tonight. He wants me to be aggressive, to get as close as possible, to melt into one another. I can feel his strong hands grab hold of my back as his fingers and nails dig into my skin. I’ll have battle wounds tomorrow, but tonight I don’t care about those; all I care about is pleasuring the man in my bed.
I unwillingly remove my stiff cock from his tight hole as we change positions. My intention is only to withdraw momentarily; my dick feels odd so free. But as I lean back, I can’t help but stop and admire the man in front of me. I never thought someone like him would have sex with someone like me.
“What are you waiting for?” he demands, his eyes burning with lust. He quickly flips over onto his stomach. “Fuck me already!”
I don’t have to be told twice. I climb onto the bed, my knees by his, and lower myself back into that wonderful ass that I can’t get enough of tonight. This time my dick goes in effortlessly. I go after his hole with newfound aggression. I channel all the frustration embedded in my soul and use it to pleasure the man I just met.
“Fuck, you’re amazing,” he whispers in-between moans. “Just don’t stop.”
“Never.” My voice waivers despite my attempts to project confidence.
I have no plans to stop. I lift his body up, so that both of us are on our knees, with his back pressed against my chest. I take one hand and places it on his taut abs, while I place the other on his chest.
“Give it to me cowboy,” he says breathlessly.
I turn my head to the side and catch a glimpse of us in the mirror as we fuck. Even in the dim light, the image looks surreal. The juxtaposition of my lean physique, against his more muscular frame is obviously clear. That this beautiful stranger chose me is not something I can truly comprehend. To be fair, there is a lot about tonight I can’t comprehend. Never in my life have I picked up a stranger at a bar, a stranger that at first, to be honest, I felt was a bit of a douche. Never in my life have I topped another man. I always bottom; that’s just the position I thought I was always supposed to take.
When I first led Cameron into my room, there was no question in my mind who would take the lead in bed. I hate gay stereotypes, but everything about him screamed the word ‘top’. He seems like a guy who likes to dominate, not be dominated. The type of guy who sets the tone, pace and mood in bed. When I started to kiss Cameron, as my tongue explored his mouth, his hands found my ass, and I knew how tonight would go. But later he looked into my eyes and simply said: ‘Fuck me. Fuck me, hard.’ The next thing I knew my dick was inside his ass. Turns out, he did set the tone and pace, just not in the way I was expecting.
“I’m going to cum,” he moans as he furiously jerks his cock.
“I’m close too,” I gasp. “Go for it. Cum for me, babe.” Babe? What is wrong with me?
“I’m there. Fuck …. shit … oh … fuck …”
The feeling of his tight hole clamping down on my dick is enough to send me over the edge too. It’s one of my most intense orgasms ever. We both crash onto my bed, a mess of sweaty limbs, intertwined.
Once it’s over though, once I catch my breath, I start to realize what I’ve just done. I just had sex with a guy I met mere hours ago at a bar. The stupid things we do while drunk and horny. Fuck!
I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do now. What’s the protocol for an unexpected hookup? I kind of want him to leave, but I want him to stay too. Above all, I have to be cordial. We did just fuck. Do I make small talk, offer him a cold drink? A shower? Do I ask him if he wants to stay the night? To be honest, I hope he doesn’t. Though, I wouldn’t mind fucking him again, or feeling his dick inside of me. No, I can’t keep thinking with my dick!
“So, um, did you want to uh …” I stammer.
But he just winks and gives me a kiss. “Mind if I use your shower?”
“Yeah, of course.” He does after all have a fair bit of cum on his body. “I’ll grab you a towel.”
As I get up, I quickly put on a pair of underwear and a shirt. He just stands there, confident and naked, wearing only a wickedly sexy smile, as he runs his fingers through his hair, effortlessly putting it all back in place. I could never do that. I wish I had his confidence.
“Here you go,” I say passing him a towel.
“Thanks, I’ll just be a few minutes.”
When he walks by, I notice a tattoo and a scar on his upper right shoulder. How did I miss those? The tattoo is of a line charting a heartbeat, like you’d see on a hospital monitor. Just below it is the number 17, and below that the scar. It reminds me of a nickname I once had.
“That’s a neat tattoo,” I say.
“Oh, yeah,” he says turning around. “I got it a few years ago.”
“Is there any meaning behind it?”
For a moment he freezes, his mouth hangs open, as his eyes dart to the floor. For the first time tonight, he doesn’t have a quick, confident, witty response. He’s oddly hesitant. Clearly there is a strong memory attached to that tattoo. His hesitation though doesn’t last long, just as quickly his smile is back.
“Yeah … it um … it reminds me of someone I once knew, someone who helped me a lot. Someone who was my lifeline.”
Oh fuck. Who does it remind him of? “And the number?”
“That’s a long story.”
“How did you get the scar?” I ask nervously.
“That, oh, I fell a few years ago while biking. As I went down, I hit a metal fence. Part of it was sticking out and I got cut. Anyway, I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll be back in a second.”
Instantly, I feel numb. My mouth goes dry, as my heart starts to beat faster.
It’s not possible. It can’t be him. I’m simply over reacting. Many people fall and have scars on their backs. The tattoo and the number could just be a coincidence, right? Plus, nothing else matches. He had dirty blonde hair; Cameron’s is black. His eyes were different too. Cameron has piercings; he didn’t. It’s not him. It can’t be him. I would know if it was him. There is no way I wouldn’t know.
Still, I can’t shake this feeling, the feeling I’ve had since I laid eyes on him. He does kind of look like him. Then there is his name. How could I be so stupid?
I notice his jeans crumpled up on the floor. The answers to all of my questions are in that pocket. I know it’s wrong to go through his things, but it will give me peace of mind. It will confirm I’m wrong. I have to be wrong.
I start to pace back and forth while biting my nails. I kicked the habit years ago, but I can’t help myself right now. I’m nervous. I only have a few minutes.
I have to check. He’ll never know.
Shit! No, I can’t. This is wrong. Stop. Maybe it’s better if I don’t know.
Ah fuck it. I need to know. Just do it! As I grab his wallet, I hear the tap turn off.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I quickly flip it open and find his driver’s license.
That’s when everything stops.
All of the energy, my soul, drains out of my body. In an instant it’s all gone, everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve. All those painstaking hours, building up those walls. They all crumble.
I know him. I know him very well.
There is just one giant problem.
I fucking hate Alistair Cameron Easton.
Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments below. Special thanks to my editor Michael for his guidance and feedback.