"You thought about this."
Ray's breath tickles my wet foreskin, where his mouth was suckling only seconds ago. I want to thrust up...
"Mm?" I don't feel like conversing; I want him to return to what he was just doing.
"You thought about me doing this to you," he clarifies, bending to lick a line down the underside of my erection.
I swallow a sigh.
He is right, of course. This very image has been my late-night torment, more times than I can count.
But it seems wrong to admit it, somehow. Before three days ago, the desire between us was unspoken. And though we're delirious with the discovery of each others' bodies now, there seems something shameful about admitting that I used his image in my mind that way. That I fantasized about taking his sweet mouth until I spilled in my own hands, on my own sheets.
"No, I—" I gasp as he slides his mouth back down, one hand beginning to fondle my testicles. "I never imagined—"
"Hm," he says, around his mouthful of me, and the vibration makes me groan. He doesn't sound like he quite believes me, but in another few seconds I am too far gone to remember, or to care.
The way Ray licks a circle around my earlobe gives me ideas; in short order I have tugged his trousers and underwear away and spread him on his belly on the bed. I run a finger between his cheeks and he clenches for an instant before sighing and visibly relaxing his body. The trust undoes me. I bend to place the most private kiss I know.
His groan is rich and low, as though he hardly believes the pleasure. I know precisely how good this feels, and that awareness ratchets my own arousal higher.
"Oh God," he mutters. "Oh God. Oh, Ben—"
The name nobody else calls me now, in his huskiest voice no one else hears.
I push my tongue inside until he is very nearly sobbing. I paint a line following the vein on the back of his scrotum and he pushes up to meet me, his penis hanging heavy and hard beneath him. I amuse myself with little licks and nips, loving his hoarse pleas.
"I--wanted this. A lot," he manages, as though every word takes effort. I raise my head and marvel at the sheen of sweat along his back, the taut beauty of his body before me.
"Every time you licked something weird, I thought I wish he was licking me." Ray sounds wistful and delirious and hungry; his words kindle a blaze of want in me. The thought of him desiring this—perhaps lying abed, licking his own hand to simulate the flat of my tongue—
"Did you think about this?"
I cannot answer. I use my tongue to wrest away his power of speech, instead, until he is keening wordlessly in climax.
We have experimented enough with fingers. I know the impossible heat (both literal and metaphoric) inside him, the astonishing eroticism of making him come with both hands, one within and one without. I know the startling pleasure of that invasion, of his fingers making my breathing hitch and my heart gallop. Tonight I want more.
"Please, Ray," I whisper in his ear. "Fuck me." I have practised the word in the shower, learned to traverse its fricatives without stuttering over the obscenity of it, and it pays off: he flushes, swallows hard, and marches me to the bedroom.
I strip faster than I can ever remember having done, and climb onto my hands and knees, waiting. I am nervous. I want him to do this, now.
Instead he takes his time biting and kissing my neck, shoulderblades, hip. "Ray, I—"
I can hear his grin. "Just getting you going."
I'm about to say something snide, but think better of it when his hand strokes purposefully between my cheeks. Thank God: the time is now.
I hear him uncap the bottle of lubricant, hear the squirt, but I still gasp when his fingers penetrate me. I let my head fall forward.
He toys with me, rubbing circles around my perineum. I whine, and he rewards the sound by driving his fingers in, fast and hard. He chuckles.
"Did you think about this?"
Ridiculous, that in the heat of what we are doing—his fingers pushing inside me, in order that his penis may follow—I find my arousal, and embarrassment, heightened by this question. I press my lips together; I will not answer.
He leans over me, chest against my back. His voice is low behind my ear. "Did you think about me doing this to you?"
"Ray, please." Needy.
He withdraws his fingers and I bite back a whimper of regret. And then I bite back a whimper of pleasure when something thicker and blunter presses forward.
He stops mid-thrust. My penis throbs in sympathy with his.
"Did you think about me fucking you?"
A split second, and then he pushes all the way in. I moan, unsteady, as he finds a rhythm.
And then one slick hand reaches under me and fumbles for my erection. I bite my lip to keep from climax, but the combined stimuli are almost too much. I'm trying to think of something unerotic, anything--
He loosens his grip so I slide within the circle of his fingers, and I can't help stuttering an "oh!"
"Oh. Yeah." He sounds close to the edge himself.
Oh, God, this is good. This is so good.
"Because I--thought about—" he gasps, "making love to--you like this."
Something in me breaks. "God, yes, I thought about it, I thought about this all the time, about touching you, about your mouth, about feeling you inside me—"
Ray stiffens behind me just as I climax in the warm clasp of his hand, our loving so much better than I imagined--
(1000 words)
The End