Oscar - 20. Part 20

We didn’t make it upstairs. Not right away.

First there was the hallway. The same dark, narrow passage we’d walked through from the street just over half an hour ago. But this time we came from the living room. And this time a strong hand on the end of a stronger arm pushed me from behind, up against the wall.

I hit the smooth, cold surface hard, but managed to get my hands up to brace myself just in time. My body thudded painlessly against brick and plaster and wallpaper as my shorts and briefs were dragged down to my ankles, fabric whispering over hair and muscle.

A single word left his mouth, no less than a foot from my ear. The three syllables echoing in the quiet of the house, deep and masculine and hypnotising, floating on the sticky, salty heat of our bodies.

‘Beautiful.’

I didn’t need to look behind to know what he was looking at. What he was thinking. What he wanted. Now done with my throat Mr. Price’s fingers needed a new hole to play with.

‘All yours, sir,’ I said, twisting my neck to look into his dazzling eyes; my back arching and pushing my naked arse towards him.

From that moment on, my arse was his. Every curve. Every inch of tight and soft-where-it-counts muscle. All of it. Because even though I’d maintained a strict grooming standard to ensure nothing but a smooth welcome, it had been too long since I’d had a visitor.

My ginger wannabe-boyfriend James had been great fun. And still was. My balls still twitched every time I thought about the flawless white cheeks on his face turning red as I’d pulled the ones below apart and broken his cherry. But I’d turned him into a hungry bottom. He was far too busy dealing with what I had to give to dish it back out.

Adam had been my last top. Two-and-a-half weeks ago. After getting ruthlessly pounded on all fours by the captain of the rugby team on his parents’ bed, at this point I was craving cock up my arse like an addict in rehab.

What was surprising, however, was what happened next. Not Mr. Price pinning me against the wall as his free hand traced the ridge of muscle down my back and over my bare arse cheeks. Or the sound of saliva gathering or the clap of it landing in his palm or the warm wetness of him smearing it over my hole. It’s how he did it. How he fingered me.

He was good. Very good.

I’d had guys like Mr. Price before. Recently turned or in the process of. They were often the easiest to find online. Always eager to explore the new them. Their dirty, filthy, sinful dark side raring to have its way with me, the blue-eyed, teenage twink.

But a couple, understandably, had been a little hasty. A little too rough. Too impatient. Used to a self-lubricating hole and unaccustomed to the potential of searing pain an untrimmed nail or overenthusiastic finger away.

And yes, I was prepared to be biased. Somewhat forgiving of Mr. Price. Especially after I’d dreamed and fantasised and prayed this very scene would happen. And yes, after he’d spent the evening tying me up with his trainer lace before skull fucking me to within an inch of my life, you can’t blame me for thinking the guy would be ravenous.

But as he wrapped his left arm under my armpit and around my pecs and held me into his body, his mouth and tongue lapping hungrily against my ear, his right hand was adept. Expertly capable with a blissful balance of both care and carnal desire.

His finger was slow. Steady. Well lubricated by a perfect combination of his spit and my sweat. It pushed inside of me like it belonged there. Curled and flicked like it knew the terrain as well as the back of the hand it was attached to.

Then one finger became two. Middle joined by index. I had no choice but to surrender to his strength and skill, arching my back as far as I could to let him reach deeper as my pre-cum dribbled down, staining the papered walls.

‘You’re so fucking good at this,’ I said.

‘Just you wait, boy,’ he said pushing so hard a short, sharp gasp forced itself out of my mouth and my head lulled back onto his thick shoulders.

Lifting my arms, I hung off his bicep wrapped around my chest. Dug my fingertips into the hard, tensed muscles of his forearm. Relaxed my body against his wide, well-built pecs. Turned my neck and found his lips.

We kissed fast and deep. Our tongues dancing to the rhythm of his fingers.

Then he pulled out. Spanked my arse cheek as my hole shut tight. Squeezed me even closer and reached around my torso. Found my mouth and made me clean his fingers.

Delicious.

‘Upstairs,’ he said, ten seconds later.

We still didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Next was the upstairs landing. Just your average, bog-standard rectangular-ish, first-storey landing. Carpeted with a thin layer of worn fibres. Probably once red or burgundy, now a dull brown, but clean and maintained. Three closed doors stood east, north and west at the top of the stairway. A bathroom and two bedrooms, I assumed.

Not that I got a chance to find out. My shorts and briefs in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs next to my socks and trainers, I’d taken the steps slowly. Leading the way again. Lifting my shirt, my last piece of clothing, above my head as he’d followed.

My arse, almost level with his face. My back, muscled but slender. Young and flawless. It had been too much for him. He’d pushed me again. Right at the top. Bent me over the last few stairs, exactly like I’d done to James only days ago.

For a split-second, I wondered what James was doing. All alone in that big house in the good part of town. He would definitely have texted me by now. Staring at his phone. Wondering why I hadn’t showed like I’d said I would.

Sadly for him, my phone was at home. My front door key safely nestled in the zip pocket of my shorts was the only thing I’d taken with me on my run.

Then I forgot all about James. As quickly as he’d popped into my head: an instant. Two huge hands landed on my arse. A cheek each. They pulled away from each other and held me open, forcing me back to reality.

Open just long enough for him to take in the view and for a waft of cool air to tickle my wet crack. Long enough for me to smile to myself. I’d seen what was coming a mile off.

He’d been desperate to eat me out downstairs. After he’d pulled his fingers out and spanked me.

Obviously with my face to the wall, I hadn’t been able to see him, but I’d sensed him look down. I’d felt his body momentarily freeze behind me, struggling with a decision, before eventually giving it up.

A part of me had thought he’d pussied out. That maybe he hadn’t explored far enough into his dark side yet to upgrade fingers to lips and mouth and tongue. Especially after I’d been running. I’d douched, thankfully, but I was fairly sweaty.

I was also wrong: the answer simple. Downstairs in the hall there hadn’t been enough room.

At six-foot I’m not exactly the smallest of boys. And at six-foot-three and built like the rugby coach he was, it would have been a tight fit. He could have done it. Got on his knees and gone to town as I’d pushed off the wall and shoved my arse into his face.

But at that angle your neck gives out way before either of you have had your fill. And with half my body now flat on the carpet and the rest inclined down, the position couldn’t have been beaten. He would be able to grind his tongue and lips and stubble in and around my salty boy hole as much as he wanted.

And he did.

For how long I don’t know. I couldn’t think of anything else other than the sounds of him sucking and slurping and the feeling of pure submission as he pulled at my arse and buried his face and nose as deep as he could.

The smell of clean but old carpet filling my nostrils. The dull, coppery taste of my hole still tingling on my tongue from his fingers. I was on Cloud Nine.

Now and again I looked back and my whole body would shudder and tense. Pleasure and excitement would take hold and the miniscule hairs on my neck and shoulders and back would stand on end at the sight of the hunger and awe in his eyes. His shaved head never looking better than between my cheeks. His huge arms like glorious wings either side of his powerful shoulders.

‘I’ve got to take you to my bedroom,’ he said pulling his head back before pushing himself in a press-up motion up to standing.

‘What’s wrong with right here, sir?’ I said, twisting my body to find him reaching up a hand. ‘You can fuck me wherever you want.’

‘No. Not here. Come on,’ he said.

Shrugging, I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and hauled myself up. Me completely naked. Him fully dressed, three steps below. Facing each other.

My cock, long and hard and straight, poking him in the sternum.

He smiled. Raised his eyebrows. Excitement flickered across the two hazel-ringed spheres below. But a different kind of excitement. Not the kind I’d just watched.

It was like I was looking at a big kid itching to show off a new toy.

‘What?’ I said.

‘You’ll like my bedroom.’

Turning I said nothing. Didn’t have an answer. For the first time that night I had doubt instead. Not about fucking him. Not in a million years. Just what he’d said. I would “like his bedroom”.

Yeah right.

Going by the state of the rest of his house there would need to be a leather sling and a live-in, donkey-dicked houseboy carrying a golden tray of weed to make up for the serious lack of style and comfort.

Three seconds and a click of a dimmer switch later, however, he made perfect sense.

‘Wow,’ I said as more light bathed the scene in front of me.

‘Right?’

‘But, the rest of the house.’

‘Is a work in progress, I know.’

‘I was going to say shit hole.’

He laughed. Said, ‘Since she left I’ve been doing the place one room at a time. This one seemed like the obvious first choice. Too many bad memories. You like it?’

‘It’s fucking sexy.’

And it was sexy. It was dark and masculine and spacious and contemporary. Like walking into a magazine spread.

Polished oak floorboards. A ceiling, stripped back to reveal sturdy beams slicing the space above into ten narrow sections of white plaster and dark tan wood. Every item from the sturdy wardrobe to the full-length mirror, desk and leather armchair, spotless and expensive in the light from twisted bulbs inside stylish charcoal grey shades.

The bed, of course, was the main event. A huge king, covered in expensive white sheets and plush white pillows. Flanked either side by bedside tables on skinny, tapered legs supporting sophisticated lamps.

There was absolutely no doubt in my mind. I did like his bedroom.

I liked it for the obvious reasons. Soon I would be on those sheets. Rolling around like a pig in shit with the man of my dreams buried nine inches inside of me. But also because, in a fleeting, abstract way, I could relate to it. It didn’t belong here. Not in this house and not in this part of town.

Not in this town at all.

‘You alright?’ he said, now shirtless.

Looking his ball-burstingly perfect torso up and down, I smiled. Thought about him being caught by his wife in this room. And how later, piecing his life back together, he’d gutted it. Recreated it in his stunning image. I nodded my head at the bed.

‘Couldn’t be better. Let’s make some new memories.’