half-inside me, a look of shock on his face. "God that feels... Don't move, Jamie. Don't do anything or I'll fucking blow."
I smiled and freed a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. He looked a little wild. "Nice?"
"Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker. You feel like magic. Like the best thing we've ever done."
I grinned and rocked my hips just a little.
"Shit." He moaned. "Gonna come, Jamie."
"Then fuck me," I whispered. "Fuck me hard. I'm ready too. Want to feel you inside me when you come."
Toller groaned and then grunted, snapping his hips down. He ploughed me hard and fast, all instinct and no technique. I took him, adjusted, pushing up with my feet. And then he was sliding over my prostate on every gasping thrust. I held on and held on until he cried out and jolted against me. And then I let go of my dick and watched his face as I creamed against his flat pale belly and all over my own skin.
He fell on me, gasping, and slid out of my ass. I gathered him in, for once soft and unresisting in my arms as I held him tight. My cum coated us, wet and sticky between my stomach and his. He breathed in little pants against my cheek. After a long time he stirred, and squirmed into a more comfortable position.
"Wow." His voice was soft and wondering. "Wow. Never came that hard in my life. That was awesome. Are you okay?"
I chuckled. "Can't you feel the spunk gluing us together? I'm a lot better than okay."
After another long pause he said in a cooler voice. "I didn't realize it would be like that. You can almost see why he would do that to me."
"No!" I slid aside enough to find his eyes with mine. "Toller, sweetie, there is a big difference between loving, joyful, mutual anal sex and rape. I wanted you, needed you as much as you needed me. And I enjoyed it just as much. This, what we did, made us both happy. What that son-of-a-bitch did to you, it may have gotten him off, but happiness had nothing to do with it. This was voluntary sex between consenting adults. It was hot and sweet, and you about blew my mind. And if you'll give an old guy a little more recovery time I'm going to beg you to do it again. And that bastard doesn't belong anywhere in this bed with the two of us."
"Couch."
"Nit-picker."
"You're sure you're okay?"
"I'm just about melted down into a total happy puddle. But I think I can manage hard again in a half hour or so."
"Good idea. Old man." And the nudge of his hips against mine told me that an eighteen-year-old had a really short refractory period. I kissed his hair, and didn't say that I loved him.
He never managed to bottom for me. Several times he asked to try it, but no matter how slowly we went, the touch of even one finger against his entrance made him jerk away in panic. I persuaded him not to push through it. There was no need. He was gaining skill as a top, and some guys never bottomed. What counted was that he was finally relaxing, enjoying sex to the hilt, so to speak. He was losing his freak-out over hands in his hair, as long as I had my mouth on his before I touched him. He even began to initiate blow jobs on me and not just licking, although I gave him plenty of warning so I never came in his mouth. He was healing.
He told me bits and pieces. What cut almost deeper than his step father's abuse was the indifference of the people around him. "I told them," he said, more than once. "I told them what he was doing to me, and they sent me back. He lied and my mother, before she died, lied for him, and the social workers kept sending me back. They told me how ungrateful I was for a nice home and all my stuff, and they sent me back. Jesus, I hate them almost more than I hate him. And my mother. She knew. She had to know--sometimes I was screaming. Why would she take his side? Why would they all do that to me?"
And I would hold him and silently curse them all and tell him people do the best they can, believe what they want to hear. He was out. He was safe. No one would ever do that to him
I smiled and freed a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. He looked a little wild. "Nice?"
"Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker. You feel like magic. Like the best thing we've ever done."
I grinned and rocked my hips just a little.
"Shit." He moaned. "Gonna come, Jamie."
"Then fuck me," I whispered. "Fuck me hard. I'm ready too. Want to feel you inside me when you come."
Toller groaned and then grunted, snapping his hips down. He ploughed me hard and fast, all instinct and no technique. I took him, adjusted, pushing up with my feet. And then he was sliding over my prostate on every gasping thrust. I held on and held on until he cried out and jolted against me. And then I let go of my dick and watched his face as I creamed against his flat pale belly and all over my own skin.
He fell on me, gasping, and slid out of my ass. I gathered him in, for once soft and unresisting in my arms as I held him tight. My cum coated us, wet and sticky between my stomach and his. He breathed in little pants against my cheek. After a long time he stirred, and squirmed into a more comfortable position.
"Wow." His voice was soft and wondering. "Wow. Never came that hard in my life. That was awesome. Are you okay?"
I chuckled. "Can't you feel the spunk gluing us together? I'm a lot better than okay."
After another long pause he said in a cooler voice. "I didn't realize it would be like that. You can almost see why he would do that to me."
"No!" I slid aside enough to find his eyes with mine. "Toller, sweetie, there is a big difference between loving, joyful, mutual anal sex and rape. I wanted you, needed you as much as you needed me. And I enjoyed it just as much. This, what we did, made us both happy. What that son-of-a-bitch did to you, it may have gotten him off, but happiness had nothing to do with it. This was voluntary sex between consenting adults. It was hot and sweet, and you about blew my mind. And if you'll give an old guy a little more recovery time I'm going to beg you to do it again. And that bastard doesn't belong anywhere in this bed with the two of us."
"Couch."
"Nit-picker."
"You're sure you're okay?"
"I'm just about melted down into a total happy puddle. But I think I can manage hard again in a half hour or so."
"Good idea. Old man." And the nudge of his hips against mine told me that an eighteen-year-old had a really short refractory period. I kissed his hair, and didn't say that I loved him.
He never managed to bottom for me. Several times he asked to try it, but no matter how slowly we went, the touch of even one finger against his entrance made him jerk away in panic. I persuaded him not to push through it. There was no need. He was gaining skill as a top, and some guys never bottomed. What counted was that he was finally relaxing, enjoying sex to the hilt, so to speak. He was losing his freak-out over hands in his hair, as long as I had my mouth on his before I touched him. He even began to initiate blow jobs on me and not just licking, although I gave him plenty of warning so I never came in his mouth. He was healing.
He told me bits and pieces. What cut almost deeper than his step father's abuse was the indifference of the people around him. "I told them," he said, more than once. "I told them what he was doing to me, and they sent me back. He lied and my mother, before she died, lied for him, and the social workers kept sending me back. They told me how ungrateful I was for a nice home and all my stuff, and they sent me back. Jesus, I hate them almost more than I hate him. And my mother. She knew. She had to know--sometimes I was screaming. Why would she take his side? Why would they all do that to me?"
And I would hold him and silently curse them all and tell him people do the best they can, believe what they want to hear. He was out. He was safe. No one would ever do that to him
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