Oscar - 12. Part 12

Over the years I’ve spent a lot of time watching men.

Young, old, smooth, hairy. Large and small and average. African, Caucasian, Asian and Indian. Blond, brown, black, grey, red.

I’ve watched their arms and chests, legs and backs. Muscled, skinny, toned, broad, fat and slender. Their necks, shoulders, chins, mouths, noses, ears. Their eyes. Their hands. Their feet.

I’ve watched how they sit, how they stand, how they move. How they run and walk, jump and crouch, swim and sprint, stop and start. I’ve watched them play sport. Ride bikes. Drive cars. Read and write and work. Eat and drink and dance and fight. Shout and shove each other, full of testosterone.

Or hide away, shy and timid, where they think no-one’s watching.

No two are the same, and, variety, as they say, is the spice of life. But, if you were to ask what my all-time favourite thing about a boy or a man is, one common feature that stands above the rest, I could answer in a heartbeat. Quicker than a heartbeat. I’d answer before you finished your sentence.

His arse.

Don’t get me wrong, cocks come in at a very close second. No question. Especially long, thick, juicy ones dripping with pre-cum, or huge, mystery bulges aching to be unzipped. Cut or uncut, veined or not, I don’t mind. But naked or fully clothed, a pair of pert cheeks gets me going faster than a bullet fired from a speeding train.

And James really did have the best I’d ever seen. At least back when I was eighteen. His was astonishing.

The kind of arse I could play with all night.

As he clambered to his feet and wiped away the strand of saliva from his chin that had moments before connected us, his empty lungs pulling in deep, refilling breaths, my balls tingled with anticipation.

I knew, the moment he ascended a few steps, his perfect little arse, coated in his spotless white briefs, would be level with my face. For however long it would take him to lead me up the grand, sweeping staircase, I would have the best view in town. Each delicious cheek mere inches from my mouth.

But I wasn’t going to rush this part. I wanted to enjoy every brief second we had.

Kicking off my trainers, I pushed my jeans and underwear down to my ankles, stood out and to the side and bundled everything in my arms. Stuck my shoulders back and breathed in.

Looking my naked body up and down, his mouth hanging slightly open, he locked his eyes on mine. They shined even bluer through his tears. Tears that come after you’ve had your windpipe filled for the first time.

His panting subsided, he cleared his throat.

‘You look great,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

‘Follow me.’

‘Walk slow.’

He paused. Checked a grandfather clock ticking quietly to his right.

‘We don’t have long,’ he said.

‘I said walk slow.’

He paused again. Then grinned.

It took us three minutes to reach his room. Not because of the size of the house. Yes, it was big. Bigger than any I’d been in. It was exactly what you’d expect from an Edwardian manor house in the nice part of town.

The staircase reached up and to the right onto an open first floor that spanned the outline of the grand room below. Directly in front of the upper landing stretched a long, tall hallway illuminated by three miniature chandeliers hanging in a row.

Large, curtained windows, that in the daytime would no doubt reveal a finely manicured garden below, punctuated the right wall of the corridor. More old oil paintings in lavish frames dotted both. We passed a closed door of old, polished oak hiding an unknown room and reached a thinner, steeper spiral staircase, set into the wall and winding upwards. Leading to what James jokingly called his “wing”.

Two fit boys could easily have made it up in under sixty seconds. Even at the pace we took. Slow and steady and unhurried. It’s just by the time we were almost at the top of the second stairway, I couldn’t help myself. On the narrow, twisting helix his arse was almost touching my face and the voices came back, unable to be silenced.

Throwing my bundle of clothes to the landing below I grabbed hold of his hips and stopped him in his tracks, four steps from the top. Then I moved my hands closer together until they cupped each cheek.

When he’d jumped into my arms his arse had felt great. But now, no longer compressed by his body weight, it felt even better. He had the supreme combination of muscle and fat. Toned but not hard. Soft but not flabby.

Reaching my fingers to his hip I grabbed hold and pushed his cheeks apart with my thumbs, playing with the warmth of his hole now less than a centimetre and two-millimetres of flimsy fabric away.

I squeezed him. Once. Twice. Three times.

The underwear has to go.

In a single movement, I pulled his briefs down to his feet, his hard cock thudding against his stomach. Then I took hold of his hips again and buried my face. Nose first. Slowly.

Closing my eyes, I felt his smooth skin against me. His arse cheeks were cool in comparison to the heat radiating against the tip of my nose. Taking a deep breath, I savoured his smell in the silky darkness.

Sweat. Soap. Boy hole.

My favourite.

Sticking out my tongue, I licked his entire crack, bottom to top. He shuddered and moaned into the air, high pitched, but not girly, as the sweet saltiness of his hole swept over my muscle and mingled with my saliva. I swallowed.

Then I ate.

Standing, I held his cheeks open and pushed and pushed my tongue against his hole as my lips kissed around it. He was jammed shut. Tight and pink and hairless. No matter how I poked and prodded I couldn’t get inside even though his back was arched, pushing against me.

Too tense. But not for long.

Fifty aching seconds later, he finally gave in and I broke through.

The dull, hot, rust taste of blood-filled capillaries exploded over my tongue before flowing around my mouth and setting my brain on fire. I closed my lips around his wet hole and sucked. Then I pulled my head back, held his cheeks further apart and spat.

He had to hold onto the banister with one hand and push against the wall with the other to keep his balance as I enjoyed the view: my thick blob of bubbled spit dripping over his hole, down his crack and further down the inside of his skinny but toned left leg.

‘Is everything ok?’ he said, breathing heavily.

‘Clean as a whistle.’

‘Are you sure?’

I looked up. Over my hands and his arse cheeks. Up his back, still covered in his tight green t-shirt, to his craned neck and cute face. Into his wide eyes looking down at me, filled with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

I smiled. Then I let go of his cheeks and spanked his right one, not hard, but hard enough to make a loud slap echo around the empty stairway.

‘There’s only one way to find out. Go.’

Past an adjoining bathroom his room was the size of a tennis court and looked like a cross between my living room and any teenager’s bedroom.

On one side was a small L-shape sofa, a couple of beanbags, an old box TV probably passed down from Mummy and Daddy when they’d upgraded to whatever giant flat screen they now had in their personal cinema or entertainment quarter. On the other was a neat and tidy double bed with navy blue sheets, two navy blue pillows and a simple, wooden headboard against the wall. Wardrobes. Chest of drawers. Bedside table. A desk. A chair.

I hesitated. For a brief second, I was spoiled for choice. Then I remembered I didn’t have time to waste and went for the easy option.

The bed.

Putting both hands around his waist I pushed him towards it. His short legs kept up with the acceleration and jumped in time with my lengthening arms. He landed on the mattress and bounced. Flat on his stomach, legs apart. His t-shirt had ridden up his back to reveal two muscled lines running up and under the rest of the fabric.

‘Take it off,’ I said.

Without a word, he pulled his shirt up and off and threw it to the floor. Then he wiggled higher up the bed and propped himself up on his elbows, still on his stomach. His bare back was curved in all the right places, and the bunches and bulges of his lean shoulders were blissfully accentuated by his porcelain, white skin.

‘Very nice,’ I said.

Reaching over to his bedside table he slid open the top drawer. Pulled out a small blue pump-tube of lube and a condom.

Putting the foil in his mouth he tore it open and placed it on the back of his neck, directly under the sharp red line of his haircut. Then he placed the lube next to him on the bed and looked forward.

‘I’m ready,’ he said.

I was impressed: no doubt a move he’d picked up in porn. And right now, he looked like the industry’s star actor. From his slim, blemish-free back, to his pert arse. His malleable legs and flexible frame. His long, thick cock pointing at me from under his balls. He was the total package.

Then he shifted his legs wider and I saw his hole. Red and tight and tiny.

I had no choice but to take my position over him, my knees pushing into the dark blue either side of his white thighs. My muscled legs, bigger than ever next to him, framed his arse in a V of smooth, young skin. The head of my cock rested against the dip of his cheeks.

Picking up the lube, I pumped it twice into my left hand. Then I threw the tube on the bed beside me and covered the translucent gel over my right index and middle fingers. Whatever remained I smeared between his legs and over his hole and around my cock.

‘Chilly,’ he said with a giggle, moving his arse from side to side.

I said nothing. I was thinking.

We had forty minutes, max, before his parents returned with his brother, and I was in no rush to play happy upper-middle-class families. Take away ten for clean-up and getting dressed and five to fill him in about Adam left us with twenty-five. Twenty-five short minutes.

He took the first finger nicely.

Index. Smaller and thinner than the middle but still nice and thick. He winced and sucked in sharp breaths through his teeth as his slippery, soft inner tissue wrapped around me like a latex glove. But his hands stayed grasping at the bed sheets by his head. They didn’t try to stop me.

I kept going, pushing until I felt the warm, gooey skin of his gooch against my knuckle and the hard but soft lump of his prostate against my fingertip. I curled my finger against it gently.

His hole clenched tighter and his body tensed as a wave of intensity rolled through him. I heard the squeak of fabric in his mouth and saw the miniscule hairs on his neck stand on end. He began to whimper, fast and loud through closed teeth, as I flicked at him from the inside.

‘Breathe,’ I said, as I pulled my finger out to the tip and slid it all the way back. ‘Breathe.’

Like I said, he was a fast learner.

After a few minutes, his hold on the sheets relaxed and he lifted himself up slightly with his knees, his chest still flat on the bed. He began to rock his arse back and forth in time with my hand.

Reaching my free arm up I pulled his face towards me. His chest lifted and back arched, his arse pushing deeper onto my finger. The open condom fell to the bed next to him and I kissed him. Filled his mouth with my tongue. Then, still kissing, I pulled out my finger and pushed two back in.

His animal reactions kicked in and he tried to squirm away. I held him close, forcing him open from both ends. I knew he wanted it. His hungry mouth against mine was all the proof I needed.

He soon stopped wriggling, pushing through the pain until his breath warmed my face slower and slower and pleasure turned his whimpers into satisfied moans.

‘That’s it,’ I said, resuming my position behind him and easing my fingers in and out. Slowly. Taking in every detail. ‘Relax your hole. Concentrate on your breathing. Good boy.’

‘It burns,’ he said, half of his face pushing into the bed.

‘It won’t for much longer. Just relax,’ I said.

Biting his lip, he closed his eyes and winced. Said, ‘I’m trying.’

‘Think about all the times you’ve laid awake in this bed. Fantasising about this.’

He closed his eyes and began to moan again.

‘Think about all the times you’ve jerked off, dreaming about someone doing this to you,’ I said.

‘You. I’ve wanted you to do this to me.’

‘So enjoy it. This isn’t a dream.’

He nodded wildly and pushed his arse against my hand. I pushed as deep as I could in response and twisted my fingers gently. Crying in pain he writhed his arse away; my fingers flashing cold in the still air of his bedroom.

‘Fuck that hurts,’ he said, bundled into the foetal position; his white-knuckled hands gripping bedsheets.

I nodded and smiled at his flushed face, looking back at me through the right angle of his elbow propping up his hunched back.

‘I know your pain. Trust me,’ I said.

Eventually he smiled, nodded and resumed his position, flat on his stomach. Lowering myself onto his back, my abs rolling down pair by pair against lean, teen muscles, I kissed his neck. Just like I’d done all those weeks ago in the library toilets, fingering him against the cubicle wall. But in his parents’ home our uniforms weren’t in the way. My cock slid between his naked arse cheeks and rested a fraction of an inch from his hole.

Turning his neck, he looked at me through one eye: his other cheek against the bed. Reached back and grabbed my cock. Then, holding me in his hand, he repeated the three words I’d wanted to hear again ever since we’d first met:

‘Please. Fuck me.’