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Seriously, if I could kill with my mind, my little brother Nick would drop dead of a mysterious heart attack, some time between now and whenever he decides to stop grinning like a smug prat at my complete inability to roller skate.
For some fucking reason, the little git decided his thirtieth birthday just had to be a roller disco. Probably trying to prove to everyone how gay he really is, despite dressing like a complete chav. I don’t know why he feels the need to prove that, given he’s getting dicked down on the daily.
They’ve rented out the whole roller rink, complete with disco ball and 70s music. I’m guessing Nick’s spiritually trying to relive his youth. He certainly acts like he’s 55.
He’s wearing a vest and 70s shorts with pink and blue glitter on his cheeks. It’s not just him; everyone’s gone berserk dressing up. Charlie’s got on a fucking rainbow sequin headband. Half the girls and at least one of the guys are in spangly hotpants.
Worst of all, it seems like bloody everyone but me knows how to skate. Even their mate in the wheelchair is out there doing wheelies and spins and shit. Fucking Mum, it turns out, and Auntie Di as well, are demon skaters. Mum’s casually whizzing around backwards, towing Leo, who’s doing a bang-up job – and he’s never skated before. Even Charlie’s creepy older sister, who always looks like she’s attending a friend’s coworker’s funeral, is casually crossing her fucking skates over like she’s walking to Tesco’s.
I tried to skip out on the whole stupid endeavour, but Mum called me and laid it on thicker than grease on a channel swimmer’s arse. Said it was an important birthday for Nick and that I had better show up. I probably would have ducked out of it anyway, but she threatened to pull out of house-sitting for me while I'm in Zurich, and the last guy I got overwatered my potted maple and it got root-rot.
I could have sat out on the edge with Nan, but that would have been admitting defeat and humiliation from the get-go. Fool me, I thought being a decent skier would translate. Did it? Did it fuck. The stupid fucking skates are like a pair of slippery fucking herrings tied to the bottom of my feet; all they want to do is slide out from fucking under me. Either that or the bloody things catch on the stupid rubber lump at the front, which seems like its only purpose is to trip me over.
So now I’m just kind of standing around, trying to lean against the barrier without these stupid fish-feet making a fucking break for the border, wondering how long I have to stay here before I can get the fuck out and do something more fun, like drown myself – but of course Nick’s decided to make a big deal out it.
He can skate, obviously, Little Mr Perfect that he is.
He skids up to me, stopping neatly with no apparent effort, grins like a prick and says ‘Alright?’
“Yeah, alright,” I reply, narrowly managing not to say something mean.
“Do you want a hand with skating?” he says. “I could tow you around?”
“Fuck off, dickhead,” I say. Oh well, so much for that resolution.
Mum skids up, like her fucking batlike hearing has heard me swearing at her precious baby boy.
“Having fun, boys?” she says, with that classic Mum tone that sounds warm but actually means ‘or else’.
“Best fun ever, Mum!” I give her the fakest, most ludicrous grin I’ve got.
They eventually skate off together, thank fuck, and leave me alone. I look at my watch. Fuck, has it only been twenty-five minutes? Longest fucking twenty-five minutes of my life, and that was going as slow as I could manage at the skate hire.
It takes me another full six minutes to realise this place has a bar, and I can go and get a fucking drink.
The beer in my hand makes the whole idiot parade way more bearable. I can just stand by the barrier like I’m watching all these sparkly twerps making a show of themselves. The glittery hotpants are growing on me, I have to admit; the tiny wench with the blond streaks in pink and the tall girl with the afro in white are both pretty easy on the eyes. But in the end, it’s the dark red sequined arse that I find my eyes following around and around the track.
Those ones, as it happens, are on a dude.
Like, I’m not gay, but I can appreciate a hot arse on anyone, and this one’s spectacular. It’s got perfect round cheeks, just a slice of which are peeking out every time their owner moves his legs, which he is doing a lot. He’s also wearing these stupidly hot thigh-high socks, dark red to match the hotpants and cable knitted like an Aran jumper, and his T-shirt is hacked off under the tits. Then he’s got this long, messy mop of dark hair, long enough to get in his eyes.
Guy’s a fucking great skater, too. Of course. He’s tearing it up, skating on his heels, swooping his feet around to the music, flipping around backwards like it’s no big deal and, of course, shaking those sparkling globes to KC and the Sunshine Band’s ‘Get Down Tonight’ like he’s bouncing a pair of basketballs in those shorts. It’s fucking pornographic. Like, I’m not gay, but from behind, who cares, right?
He seems a bit younger than most of Nick’s friends, although it can be hard to tell with those twinky guys. Hell, Charlie doesn’t look a day older than the first time I met him, and he’s probably fifty-three now. But then the tall guy skates up between Charlie and his sister, grabbing them both around their waists from behind, and as they come around to face me, I realise who he is: he’s Charlie’s fucking little brother.
Involuntarily I flinch; I’ve only met the kid once, and that was when I was still at uni, but fuck, he was under the table playing with tractors. Now he’s six foot if he’s an inch – taller than Charlie, and probably taller than me – and he’s slutting it up hard. Fuck, what was he then, seven? I do some quick cold-shower maths. He must be in his early twenties.
Now that I’ve worked it out, suddenly I can see the family resemblance. Charlie’s always had this weird kind of model-hotness that looks like it’s put together out of spare parts – like, one second you’re like, that dude is weird-looking, and the next second he looks like he stepped off a catwalk. This guy looks like he lives on a catwalk. Like he was born to stand on stage under six spotlights, smirking at a crowd. He’s got it all going on: the dimpled smile, the cut jawline, the big dark-lashed eyes—
Fuck. He sprang me looking at him. I hastily divert my gaze to one of the girls’ backsides, but it’s too fucking late; the little shit’s got my number. I can actually feel his shit-eating grin, even though I’m looking everywhere but at it.
He keeps skating – they’re playing ‘Oh what a night’ now – but he’s coming closer and closer to me on purpose each time he goes around, and his moves are somehow getting sluttier and sluttier. He skates towards me backwards, shaking each arse cheek like it’s an independent body part, then smoothly flips around to skate away from me, crouching down into a squat, and then rolling back up again. And then he skates close enough that I can see he’s got a gold belly chain on.
I’m not gay, okay? But what can I say, he’s got a tight little waist, eleven miles of leg and an arse to die for, and I’ve never been that obsessed with boobs that he wouldn’t look just fine if I dimmed my bedroom lights.
The song changes to KC and the Sunshine Band again - ‘Shake Your Booty’, if you can fucking believe it – and apparently he decides it’s a bit on the nose, because he skates to the barrier exit and steps out onto the carpet. He walks up to me, and I was right, he is taller than me.
“So, you gonna buy me a drink?” he says.
“There’s a bar tab,” I point out dryly.
He rolls his eyes.
“Not really the point, is it?” he says.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Aren’t you Charlie’s kid brother?” I say. Offence is the best defence.
Well, apparently not in this case, though, because he just rests his elbows on the high-top table I’m propping up, leans in and says ‘Hmmm, how many kid brothers do you know with a seven-inch cock?’
I wasn’t expecting it, so it throws me for just a fraction of a second, but aww, bless. I can’t help it, I let out a little snort.
“I didn’t know this was a dick-measuring contest,” I smirk, raising an eyebrow. “You’re cute, though, if you think seven inches is worth writing home about.”
The look on his face is fascinating. It’s like he’s kind of put out, a bit disconcerted and also going to eat me alive. His eyes drop to my crotch, but tragically for him, both the table and my chinos are in the way. He licks his lips. Fuck. He’s got a tongue piercing.
“I saw you watching me,” he says. “You can’t convince me you don’t want all of this.” He body rolls from his tits down to his crotch.
“Fuck, you gay guys are all the same,” I snort, picking up my beer to finish the last dregs. “Convinced you can turn anyone if you just slut it up hard enough.”
“I’m bisexual, actually,” he says, as if that matters. I roll my eyes.
“Sure, whatever you kids are calling ‘gay’ these days,” I go back to checking out Pink Shorts, who is now skating hand-in-hand with a dark-haired girl. Hmmm. Two of them. Hot.
“Spoken like a man who’s never fucked a pair of F-cups,” the kid says, and I nearly spray my drink everywhere.
He laughs delightedly and grabs me by the shirt, me still coughing.
“Come on,” he says. “I’m gonna teach you to skate.”
“I can skate!” I try to protest between my lungs trying to exit my body. I should be putting up more of a fight.
“Yeah, right,” he smirks. “I saw your efforts last time.”
He pulls me out of the barrier to the dulcet strains of ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’, and the stupid skates immediately try to kill me. I grab the board just in time.
“Okay, wow,” he says. “We’ve got work to do. Don’t do anything at all. Just stand there.”
“Thanks,” I snark. “These tips are incredible. You’re such a good teacher. I’m gonna head back now.”
“Oh my god, shut up,” he says. He holds his hands out.
“I’m not holding your fucking hands,” I spit.
He rolls his eyes again. “Fuck, okay, wow, you really are uptight, aren’t you? Do you wank with mittens on because touching your own dick is gay?”
I try to turn around and leave, but the skates betray me, and this time I don’t have the barrier within reach. He offers a forearm, and I latch onto it, the shame burning in my cheeks.
He holds out his arms in fists and lets me grab his other wrist until I’m stable enough.
“Okay, now practice just standing on one skate or the other skate,” he says, ignoring my attempt to nope out like it didn’t even happen.
The skates are stable enough side to side, so with a grip on his wrists, it’s easy enough to stand on one skate. He makes me stand on one, then on the other, until I can balance without looking like a comedy banana peel pratfall.
“Now swap between them, left then right then back again,” he says.
To my horror, they start to slide forwards, but he just moves backwards with them before I can freak out and fuck it up, and suddenly we’re moving as a piece, me clumsily shifting foot to foot and him easily rolling back with me, solid as a handrail. I feel like Bambi, taking my first shaky steps. Fuck, he’s probably too young to even know that movie.
And then – after a long, slow, excruciatingly embarrassing loop around the outside of the rink which mercifully nobody seems to notice – the motion suddenly clicks in my brain. Ohhhh. Right, you just have to stand on one skate, and then sort of push off sideways with the other one, like a herringbone on skis, but you can’t throw your weight forward as much, you’ve got to keep standing over the skate like you’re stationary. I give a few little experimental pushes as I coast, and then slowly relax my grip on the wrists in front of me until I’m not holding anything, just slowly and carefully skating, a few little misjudgments but nothing I can’t save.
“You’re doing it, Bambi!” he says, beaming.
I laugh and nearly fall on my fucking face, but I latch onto his hands at the last second and he saves me from ruining all my expensive orthodontic visits.
And then the little shit speeds up to what feels like about seventy miles an hour, towing me helplessly around the track at speeds I do not know how to come back from, and then he casually takes both my hands in one of his, spins around, and puts them on his waist.
I’m about to explode and I’m not sure if it’s from rage, terror of imminent personal injury or the swiftly-rising boner from the feel of his soft skin under my hands, the sight of that peachy arse just inches from my grasp, the gold chain surprisingly warm under my fingers.
Which, of course, is when fucking Nick and Charlie skate up next to us.
Charlie waggles his finger at his brother, who pouts theatrically.
“What have we discussed about torturing straight boys?” Charlie tuts. “Couldn’t resist the white whale, could you? Leave this one alone.”
Nick side-eyes me.
“You really don’t want to go poking this particular homophobic wasp nest,” he says.
I try to muster a good cutting comeback, but it’s kind of hard when you’re, I don’t know, hurtling along at neck-breaking speeds.
“Get fucked, Nicky-poo,” I manage. The smart thing to do finally comes to my addled brain; probably, Nick’s arrival has just sent the blood flowing back into it from my crotch. I let go of that lean waist and skate straight into the barrier and throw myself half-over it, letting it take the momentum, although I still nearly go arse over tit.
I’ve still got to make it back to the gap, but thanks to Hotpants McSlutsalot there, I manage to sort of skate my way instead of clomp-limping. Meanwhile, he’s being firmly dragged away by Mills and Boon: Homo Edition, no doubt with tales of how I hurt Nicky’s feelings one time. Doesn’t matter. I’ve served my time in this stupid purgatory, and then some. I’m out of here.
Famous last fucking words. I get back from returning my skates and grabbing my coat to find the tall drink of Capri-Sun talking intently to my mum, who turns and spots me.
“Ah! David! There you are!” she says. Oh, god. That’s her I’m about to demand a ‘favour’ that is not optional voice. “Olly here isn’t feeling too well – do you think you might be able to run him home? It shouldn’t be too far out of your way!”
“I’m not a bloody Uber, Mum,” I say, but I know it’s hopeless, and so does he, from the reappearance of the Dimpled Shit-Eating Grin when Mum’s back is turned.
“Don’t be difficult, David,” Mum says. “It’d be a lovely favour for you to do.”
“Thank you so much for this, David,” the six-foot jezebel – Olly, apparently – says. “It came on really suddenly. I must have had something with lactose in it. I just want to get home. You wouldn’t believe what that stuff does to my guts.”
I eye the hot little slut in something that’s 60% defeat, 40% boner. I might be pissed, but I’m sure as fuck going to do something to his guts.
“Get your shit, I’m leaving now,” I say. It comes out gravellier than I’d intended.
“Thank you, David,” Mum beams. “It’s much appreciated.”
She has no clue she’s just been played.
“I’ll just go say goodbye,” he says with a theatrical stomach clutch, and Mum shoos him the other way.
“I’ll tell the boys,” she says. “Now you go home immediately.”
Miraculously, Olly’s stomach issues clear up the instant we hit the car park. He’s still on his skates – apparently they’re not hire ones – and he literally skates circles around me, the fucking menace, until we get to the far side of my car, where I literally grab him and push him up against the back door with one hand.
“You’re going to regret that little stunt,” I growl.
“You know, I don’t think I am,” he says, licking his lips again just to show off that silver ball on his tongue.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I tell him. “I’m gonna take you back to my house. You’re going to make good on all your teasing and suck my cock. Then I’m going to fuck the living daylights out of you. And after that, you take yourself home, and neither of us will ever speak of this again, because I am not gay. Sound good?”
He nods at me.
“Uh-uh,” I click my tongue. I’m not having anyone say I pushed this little barely-legal turbo-slut into anything. “Verbal response.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he says. He’s staring at me as though I’m the second coming. Not that I can go two rounds that easily any more, these days. “Yep. Sounds great. A-star. Super. Sign me the fuck up.”
“Get in, then,” I order him, unlocking the car. “And take those fucking skates off.”
I’m not saying I haven’t had more excruciating car trips, but it’s at least top 10. The guy – Olly – spends most of it either giving me shit or saying the filthiest stuff imaginable. He embarks on a long tale of the previous night’s exploits – apparently he banged two girls at once, which, like, haven’t we all done that in Ibiza? But I’m getting uncomfortably hard in my trousers listening to him sing the praises of the one girl’s blowjob skills and the other one’s majestic boobs – and then before I know what’s going on, he’s suddenly switched to asking me how much I wanted to touch him while we were skating.
“But of course, you’re not gay,” he adds.
“A tight arse is a tight arse,” I tell him.
“Oooh, are you saying I’ve got a tight arse?” he purrs.
“For me, every arse is a tight arse,” I say. “Comes with the territory.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve already made my purchase, you don’t have to keep overselling the merchandise,” he says.
I give a little silent snort of laughter.
“Let’s hope you really are the town bike you make yourself out to be,” I say. “Otherwise you’re not gonna be sitting straight for a fortnight.”
He gives me a narrow look, like he’s trying to work out if I’m big-noting myself. I don’t need to big anything myself. I’m plenty big enough already.
“Go on then, I’ll bite,” he says.
“Any biting and you’re straight out the door again, dickhead,” I affirm, before I take advantage of a traffic light to hold up my hands.
He laughs. He thinks I’m joking. But then he quietens down when I don’t react.
“Are you serious?” he whispers.
“Serious as a heart attack, mate,” I say.
“Holy shit,” he says, a grin starting in one dimple and working its way across his face like a sunrise. “Holy shit.”
I pull into the car park under my building and navigate to my parking spot.
“Fancy building,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I’m in finance,” I tell him. “It’s an investment.”
In the lift on the way up, he puts a hand on my chest. I take it off again, pointedly.
“This is a public place,” I tell him. “Keep that shit in check.”
We make it up to my floor without him making me look like a pervert in front of my neighbours. I usher him in.
He takes in my apartment with a single sweep of his eyes.
“Mmmm,” he says, widening them dramatically. “Cataloguey.”
“Like you’ve ever hooked up with anyone with a place this nice,” I scoff.
“Probably not. Well, apart from that Saudi prince,” he says, in a voice that is absolutely speaking no word of a lie.
Okay, I need to get this back under control. I hang up my coat, kick off my shoes and pour us a couple of whiskeys. Not my top-shelf stuff. I don’t even bother with the whiskey ice, just throw in a handful of crap from the dispenser. Olly, who’s been walking around poking my stuff, takes the drink and knocks it back.
“Yum,” he says sarcastically. “Tastes like licking the bench in woodworking class.”
I can’t help snorting.
“Do that a lot, did you?” I ask.
“Well, you’ve got to try everything once, haven’t you?” he smirks. He’s flirting again, the little shit. I’m done flirting. I want lips on my cock.
“Why don’t you get your little slut arse over here and lick something else?” I suggest, leaning back against the kitchen island and sipping my drink.
Seconds later, he crashes into me, his whole body pressed against mine, his brown eyes fucking inches from my face. He’s hot and tight – does he work out, I wonder? – and I can feel his dick clearly through the sparkly shorts. He goes in for a kiss and I grab the hair at the back of his neck to stop him.
“This isn’t a love story,” I remind him, gripping his hair hard and pulling down until he has to drop to his knees. “We’re not riding off into the sunset. You’re gonna blow me, and then I’m gonna fuck you, and that’s it. So get to it, pretty boy. I wanna feel those girly lips of yours stretched around my cock.”
“Yes, daddy,” he breathes, shivering. I roll my eyes. Fuck, gay guys go on with some stupid shit sometimes. But whatever gets his engine going, none of my business.
“Unbuckle me and take me out,” I order him unnecessarily. He’s already fiddling with the belt, and from the way he’s looking at the bulge in my trousers, he’s finally realised I wasn’t even the slightest bit kidding about my dick.
“Holy shit,” he says, as he gets my zip undone and a tent large enough for six people springs up in my pants. He runs his hands up and down me through the fabric. “Holy shit.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” I tell him smugly. “This is your once-only Nelson fuck coupon redemption.”
He pulls me out of my Calvins like he’s getting the world’s best birthday present, and then he’s fucking on me.
Ohhhhh, fuuuuuuck. Why does it always feel so amazing to get a pair of hot, wet lips around my cock? A lot of women can’t even manage to open their mouths wide enough. This little slut’s taking me like a fucking champ though. He pulls off for a second and I almost use the hand that’s still in his hair to force him back on, but he’s just spitting on his hands and then he’s back on, jerking off the expanse of my shaft he can’t fit in his mouth.
I lean back on one elbow, running my hand idly through his hair. God, he’s almost as pretty as a girl, and fuck if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. I sip my drink and that’s pretty fucking amazing, too – getting serviced while I enjoy a beverage.
He’s working me hard, sliding his mouth up and down, and I think he’s expecting more of a reaction, but this isn’t my first blowjob. One of the perks of aging: I’ve got stamina now. I lazily slow him down with my hand. He tries to retaliate by going at my underside with that tongue piercing of his, but I just make a satisfied noise and stir my dick in his mouth. I could really fucking get used to this.
I mean, with a girl. I could get used to this with a girl.
God, he’s deep-throating me now. Apparently he doesn’t have a gag reflex. It’s so good. I find myself putting down the glass and sending my other hand to join the first one in his hair, and then I’m starting to fuck his mouth. He gags a little, then looks up at me like he’s got an A on his essay.
“You like fucking my mouth?” he says.
“Less talking, more dick-sucking,” I remind him.
He’s palming himself through the little glittery short-shorts, which is, like, fine, he can do whatever. I’m sure as fuck not going to give him a reach-around. But I can’t help watching it; it’s right in front of me.
“You like having my dick in your mouth, don’t you, you little cocksleeve?” I purr, and he nods around my meat. He’s unzipped the shorts now and apparently he wasn’t lying about the seven inches either. Uncut, and fairly thick with it. It’s a good-looking cock, objectively speaking, and if he wants to stroke it, I’m not gonna stop him. Besides, it’s kinda hot that he’s that desperate for my cock.
I’m fucking his mouth faster now, I have to be careful of his teeth – a lot of people can’t do much about that with me – and it’s warm wet bliss. Every bit of drool that drips out of those pretty lips is getting caught up as lube. But I don’t wanna come in his mouth. I wanna come buried in that tight little arse of his. I wonder if I could fuck him with the booty shorts still on.
“Alright, time for you to get undressed,” I say, pulling my dick out and slapping it a little on his cheeks. “But you can leave the socks on.”
I go over to the little drawer in the sideboard I keep for fucking girls on the shag rug in front of the fireplace and pull out lube and condoms and a flannel. Olly’s still on his knees, but the shorts are off. I shouldn’t have worried; the arse is even more spectacular out of the shorts. He’s still got on the hacked-off midriff T-shirt, too.
“Do you need to… like…” I hand him the lube and wave my hand at his arse. “Do anything to get ready?”
“What, you’re not gonna do the gentlemanly thing and open me up first?” he says, mock scandalised, taking the lube and flicking the cap.
“If you’re asking me to put my fingers up your arse, the answer is absolutely not,” I say.
He rolls his eyes, squeezing lube on his fingers. It’s always fascinating to watch. One finger slides into that tight little pucker between those juicy globes, and I want to get my hands on that ass now, so fuck it, why wait?
“Back up over here,” I tell him, sitting down in an armchair.
“You want a show, Daddy?” he smirks. “I can do that.”
He kneels in front of me, facing away, and fuuuuuuuck, that is one glorious little bubble arse. I grab it with both hands as he fucks his own hole with his fingers. He’s moaning up a storm now. I spank one cheek, then the other, and he gasps.
“Yes, Daddy, spank me, please spank me, I’ve been so bad,” he moans.
“Jesus christ, way to kill the vibe,” I complain, but I’m only half-serious. I slap that arse and it jiggles like a blancmange. It’s fucking beautiful. I mean, it could probably do with a wax, but beggars can’t be choosers, right? I slap it a few more times until it’s pretty and pink, and he’s all ‘Oh, oh, yeah, yes, yes daddy’ with every one.
He’s going at himself with three fingers now, and fuck, can he fucking hurry up already? I’m stroking myself to stay warm but I wanna be in him, soonest. I think about getting undressed but for some reason, I decide to keep my clothes on; I just hook my boxer briefs under my balls and let the weight of my belt keep my unzipped chinos out of the way.
I pick up the lube bottle from the floor and rip the condom open, taking as long as I can to roll it on and lube myself up. Then I drizzle a bit more lube down his crack. Nobody can say I’m not a considerate lover. I watch him fuck it into himself while I work my dick and fuck I’ve got to have him.
“You done yet?” I demand. “My dick’s getting cold.”
He somehow shrugs with three fingers jammed up his arse. “I suppose I’m as done as I’m gonna get,” he says.
“Get up then,” I tell him, climbing to my feet. “I’m gonna fuck you over the bench.”
He shivers, and then hops to his haunches, then booty rolls up to his feet just like he did on the skates, except now his arse is fucking mine and I grab it in both hands.
“Fuck, watching you slut it up on that dance floor, you little pervert,” I grind through my teeth. “You’re just permanently on the pull, aren’t you? Just constantly looking for someone to stuff this tight little body like a Christmas turkey.”
“That’s not true!” he protests, then sniggers. “Sometimes I’m looking for someone to stuff like a Christmas turkey.”
I grab the lube and flannel and push him chest-down on the bench. He still hasn’t taken the cut-off shirt off, and for some reason, it’s doing it for me. Maybe because if I can’t see he’s got no tits, my mind can fill in the blanks.
I kick his legs apart – fuck, those thigh-high socks are so filthy – and spread those fat little handfuls, and then I guide the tip of my dick to the little pucker and start slowly pushing in.
He starts out moaning low, and then they get higher and higher-pitched until he yelps and throws a hand between us to slow me down. It’s not my first rodeo, and actually, he’s doing better than most people. I take the opportunity to pour more lube on us both. I pull his cheeks apart wider and keep up a slow, steady pressure.
It takes a few goes of me moving then stopping, and even pulling back a hair at one point, but finally, finally, my head slips past his ring and I’m in him. Just the tip, but fuuuuuuuck it feels good. He’s panting and gasping and almost crying, and it’s all I can do to hold off pushing harder, but if I do that I’ll probably just blow my load instantly anyway, so I guess we’re taking our time. I can’t complain too much; the view of my dick spreading open that tight little arse, just above those cute femboy stockings and below that pretty waist, is fucking beyond hot.
He relaxes the hand that’s on my abs and I resume the slow slide.
“Can you fuck me? Just a tiny bit?” he gasps.
“Like this?” I say. I pull back just a few millimetres, then push back in again.
“Oh, fucking christ on a pogo stick,” he says, apparently involuntarily. “Oh my fucking god.”
I smirk. My dick has that effect on people. Well, when they can fit it in at all. I let my thrusts advance me a little bit each time, and it’s amazing; his walls are constricting around me as I invade further and further, until eventually I hit some kind of limit.
“Yes,” he’s murmuring. “Fuck. Yes. Yes. Daddy. Please. Yes. Give it to me. I want it.”
Well, who am I to turn down a request like that?
I pull almost all the way back to my tip and then push all the way back in again, and fuck if I don’t nearly come on the spot. Olly actually screams in pure pleasure, his back arching up, hands flailing at nothing until they manage to latch onto the other side of the island. I do it again, with even better results, and I can feel him relaxing around me. Fuck. Fuck. I can speed up a bit now, and I’m already having to keep a pretty firm hold of myself.
Eventually I get a grip and find my stride; this cocky shit deserves the absolute railing of a lifetime after the fucking crap he pulled today, and if I have anything to say about it, he’ll be utterly ruined for any other cock by the time I’m done with him. I smooth my hand down his spine, under the shirt, and his skin is as soft as a girl’s. I push him into the bench hard as I keep nailing his guts, earning a helpless groan. Fuck, that gives me tingles.
I get a good rhythm going and just relax into absolutely pounding him. God, he’s a pleasure to fuck, too; all moans and responsiveness, and he understands how to take a big dick without flopping all over the place.
I could do this all evening, and maybe I will.
After a while, he starts wriggling more and more; high pitched little moans are floating out of his mouth with every stroke.
Then, suddenly, something happens that I swear to god has never happened to me before.
As I’m shoving into him as hard as I can, he suddenly gives way somehow – like, something relaxes – and I slide into him right up to the fucking balls. Fuck, it feels amazing. He screams and I can feel him start to come underneath me, and fuck if my self-control doesn’t go right out the window, because every part of his body is strangling my dick like a pocket pussy and I’m railing him as hard as I fucking can, all the way to the hilt and he screams ‘Fuck yes, Daddy, come in me!’ and I’m finished. I blow my load harder than I’ve ever blown it in my life. It seems to just go on and on and on, until I feel like I must have come my own brains out. Every twitch pulls another spurt of jizz out of me, and then he constricts around me again and it’s like we’re stuck in an infinite load-shoot together.
It’s not until I finally stop coming that I realise he hasn’t even touched his dick. Fuck yeah. I mentally high five myself. Chalk one up to David fucking Nelson. I’ve got the magic, baby.
When I get my shit together, I realise I’ve pretty much collapsed over his back, my lips on the back of his neck, those dark curls tickling my face. Fuck, I apparently put my hand under his chest, too. Must’ve forgotten he wasn’t a girl and gone for the tit. I hastily extract my hand and grab the condom to pull out. He whines and strangles me one last time.
I have to pull out almost as slowly as I went in, his body twitching and jerking, but finally my head pops free – a whimper from Olly – and we’re done. I sort out the condom – thankfully not too crusty, I’ve had worse – and wipe off with the flannel. Then I magnanimously run the flannel down his crack to mop up the lube, and give that arse one last spank for the road. I mean, it is a spectacular arse, even if I’m not gay. You don’t see an arse like this every day of the week.
“You want a Gatorade or something?” I offer courteously, going round to the fridge to pull one out for myself.
He’s still just lying over the bench, but he manages to raise an eye. “Yeah, fuck it, why not, give me a bottle of your weird performative salty corporate flat Lucozade,” he slurs. When I turn back, he’s doing a slightly more thorough clean-up job than I did, and then slipping back into those filthy little shorts.
He goes to slide onto one of my bar stools, then thinks better of it, deciding to stand. I hand him the bottle.
“Well, you weren’t lying about the traffic cone in your pants, were you? Such a pity you’re straight,” he says. “You’d be so popular at parties.”
“Yeah, well, I’m all partied out for tonight,” I say, taking a swig of my drink. “I’ve had a lifetime’s worth of fucking KC and the Sunshine Band.”
“You know they’re probably going to hire the place again for Charlie’s 30th in a year and a half, right?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “That’s what tends to happen when your sister shacks up with an Olympic skater who’s also a flaming pansexual who adores teaching other people to skate.”
I feel my hand trying to come up and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Guess I’ll have to move to Dubai by then, won’t I?”
“I’m sure you’ll be a better skater by then,” he says. He’s leaning down to tie his shoes now; thank fuck. I’m about all pillow-talked out.
Wait a second.
He didn’t have any shoes.
The little shit stands back up, and suddenly he’s a good three inches taller.
“After all,” he says, “what’s the point of having a floor like this and an apartment this size if it’s not for skating in?”
“You little shit,” I spit, ducking as fast as I can around the kitchen island to grab him. “This is fucking hardwood flooring, and if you leave so much as a scratch on it—”
I’m too slow. The little turd pushes off effortlessly out of my reach, giggling like a toddler holding Grandma’s porcelain shepherdess, and proceeds to lead a fucking chase through my fucking living room like it’s the funniest joke ever. Every attempt to grab him misses, until I finally hook an arm around his waist and haul him against me.
I grab a fistful of his hair and he gasps.
“Don’t you ever pull a stunt like this again,” I hiss into his ear. “Or I’ll tan that arse for you until it’s throbbing.”
“I don’t think that’s the disincentive you think it is, Daddy,” he whispers, and I realise I’ve got his body pressed up against mine, and that – fuck’s sake – I’m chubbing up again. I hastily let him go.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like you’re ever going to get the chance again, is it?” I roll my eyes.
“I don’t know, David,” he says. “Seems to me like you could maybe use a rollerskating instructor. Someone who could teach you some skills, away from judging eyes, in the privacy of your own home.”
He turns and skates in one fluid motion to the front door, where he pulls his coat and bag off the peg. He grabs a pen off my side table, and then the cheeky fucking shit writes his phone number on my wall. Before I can even finish my outraged shout, he’s got the front door open.
“And if you think I look good rollerskating in these shorts, just think how I’m gonna look doing it naked,” he says, skating out into the corridor and twinkling his fingers as he goes.
Well, shit.