Emma has to work late, and then she will get groceries.
Dance does his usual two hours of afternoon practice, drilling through the latest changes that are driving him and the rest of the section insane.
Then he goes for a run that is briefer than normal, returning early to the house.
He washes his hands in the kitchen, sets out the thawed chicken to marinate in a bowl in the fridge, preps vegetables and puts them back in the fridge.
He has precisely–he sets the alarm on the kitchen clock–two hours. He takes a thoughtful, exploratory shower, dries his hair carelessly, and and then takes himself off to bed, closing the bedroom door to keep the cat out. He sets out the little sample bottle of lube and the condoms and spreads out towels on the bed. Then he lays down on the towels and looks at the ceiling, feeling stupid. The erection standing rigid just off his thigh seems foolish, but it isn’t going away, either. It isn’t going to go away, two hours hence, when Emma gets home, unless he does something about it.
It didn’t seem like such a silly idea when he was standing in the elevator with Drin, listening to the man laugh, feeling one of those big hands touch him–it’s not a smack, like Emma’s. It’s a flat-palmed deliberate touch, no mistake about it, a touch that sweeps up Dance’s shoulderblade and drags along his neck and over onto his collarbone, feeling him. Looking down at Dance, smiling, with that hand touching him.
Dance has, by now, seen the shirt pulled away out of the man’s pants, carelessly. The freckles go down the man’s broad pale back into his pants. They must certainly go all the way up Drin’s legs. They do go up onto the back of his neck, Dance couldn’t help noticing that. The man is spotted all in all sizes and types of coppery markings, spotted like a leopard, and Dance wants desperately to see all of them. Does he have freckles on his belly? On his inner thighs too? On his balls? Oh, he will certainly have that scent of man, too, in all that gingery curly hair. That maddening trace of musky cock, that –yes.
Dance gives a little sigh, and pulls back the foreskin on his impatient penis, and rolls onto his side. He reaches into a nearby drawer, and rolls a condom onto the first and only sex toy he’s ever bought. It wasn’t cheap, and he couldn’t really afford it. He couldn’t really afford the time to take the busses across town to the soft-spoken, matter-of-fact little place he learned about on the Internet, to look at their merchandise and ask questions he’d never thought he would need to ask anyone, and to buy this lump of heavy, cool, silicone. He knew not to get the biggest, not for his first one. Gloves from the nearby drawer, too, as they taught him, for his hands. He doesn’t want to damage his player’s calluses, and he might as well get used to it anyway, sheathing his rough hands for the sake of anybody else he may one day hold in his arms. Lube on the fingers, then twisting around, pulling one knee forward.
God, his butt is huge, it’s a blob of muscle that takes a job to reach around and get at his ass properly. More lube, and then he’s got two fingers sliding in. It’s very slick and warm and easy–ridiculously easy, relaxed, lucky him not to have hemorrhoids to worry about just now, when his ass is demanding this kind of treatment. What is all the fuss about, anyway? It’s just an ass, apparently it likes getting rubbed too, just like any other part of his skin.
He grunts, pulls himself into a tighter curl, and then shifts his other hand down between his thighs, switching hands for the job. It gets better leverage, and it feels nice, but he’s still thinking that a good pull on his balls would get him off sooner than this. He’s not finding the prostate, if he even has one that notices if you poke it.
They gave him diagrams. He curls the tips of his fingers forward, groping inside himself, angling the touch toward his navel, and he tries to be careful about it so his nails don’t poke holes in the latex gloves.
One of his knuckles hits the tip of his backbone, from the inside. He arches his back, gasping, until his arm is straining down his belly, with little white shivers of ice trickling down his back and his legs. He’s not sure he likes that. And it’s not what they were talking about in the shop. Carefully, he shifts his hand so he won’t hit that again.
He strokes down the upper side, reaching deeper, feeling a tickle startling.
Ahhhh! and his eyes fly open.
It’s there. It’s just deeper than he thought it was, he’s going to have to work harder for it. He’s not going to get serviced up that way, as they say, by men of short tools.
He gasps for a few moments, hair falling in his eyes. Then he rolls onto his belly, gets the dildo, gets his arm back there, and pushes himself up into the cone of the tool. It stretches his anus more than his fingers did, and he flashes on a powerful desire to feel heat, sweat, weight coming onto him, to feel the other man’s presence there, to hear him talking, feel him give wet hot kisses on his back and his neck, not just cool air, while the cone of the man’s dick is penetrating him. Feel strong arms wrap around his chest.
Sex is about fantasy, they told him gently. Sex is about the organ between your ears. Sex, he thinks, irritably, is about looking totally and utterly, wildly, absurd. He could imagine what Drin would say, if he ever made such a remark to the man. He can hear it, vividly, like a tickle in his head. And the laugh.
Well then, let’s get stupid.
I am telling myself that the freckled guy with the belly laugh wants to put his cock up my ass, and I really–really–want him to do me. Up against a wall, take me from behind with my ass in the air, look him right in the face while he’s fucking me on my back with my knees spread out like a girl– I want to feel his beard brushing down me, all over my chest–
And what does this cock look like?
What does it feel like?
Feel this coming in on you, fucking you?
It’s not the same. Already he’s certain that the whole experience is nothing like this. It’s just more like… a reminder, what it might be like.
The tool slides in and out easily, and it comes out of his body feeling hot.
“Ahh,” he pants into the towel, and pushes it into himself, angling the tip of it forward. “There, do me there,” he hears himself moan, as if anybody else could hear him. He’s never needed to do this before.
What the hell is the matter with him now?
Wake up hard as rock in the morning, quick jerkoff in the shower, get on with the job. Maybe a finger penetrating now and then. He’s never even gone hunting for some anonymous blowjob. Why would he bother?
Nothing like this pitiful craving to have that–yes, that, right there–fucking him.
He’s hissing and jerking in place, struggling to get it to hit him in the right spot, when he is finally able to slide his other messy hand down and rub his cock properly, stroke himself to climax into the towel.
“Aaaghh,” he groans, and the shudders hold him for a long time, longer than hand jobs ever do. It almost hurts, down in his belly muscles, to pull the dildo out of himself.
His shoulders ache a bit as he starts moving around to get cleaned up. Open the window, let the room air out, so he doesn’t wipe out the whole place with the odor of semen. Wash the dildo in hot soapy water, dry it, put it away.
Another shower, asking himself if it’s worth the aches. His anus feels tender, as if he got a little rough on himself toward the end.
Put the towels in the washer with plenty of other laundry, so nobody has to be embarrassed. Think about looking Drin in the face, next day, with so rude a secret in his mind.
Yeah, he admits, tiredly. Worth it.
Not for every day, certainly. But to keep the wild thing from getting completely out of hand with the guy who has freckles on his freckles?
He probably needs to order another bottle of lube, online.
He’s going to go through this one pretty quick.
*big grin* Poor Dance. It makes me wonder if Drin does indeed have freckles on his wobbly bits. *blushes*
Inquiring minds want to know! I don’t think Dance told us, either. Clearly, more pr0n is in order–he never got a good chance to check it all out the way he wants to, it’s all been happening so fast.
Also, on the wistful thing here, Dance just accepts this is how things are. He’d like more, but this is already more than he’s ever had before, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have anything more. You see that with folks who’ve had a tough life, there’s a flatness of affect about it that just becomes incredibly painful.