[Breeder] The Now of It

[TheBreeder]

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I’m nuts-deep inside him, pounding away at his hole, sloppy hole. He’s a loud fuck. By now I’m so intimate with Spencer that I know the angle that make him yell the loudest. I like hearing him bellow, long and heartfelt and from the depths of his diaphragm. It almost sounds like I’m hurting him, though I’m not. The more volume he generates, the harder and more girthy becomes my meat.

We’ll never fuck outdoors, or with the windows open. I can guarantee that.

Then he lets out a roar of which I’ve never heard the like. It seems unending. The pitch climbs up the sexual scale in quarter-tones, half tones, whole steps, then fourths, until both it and he reach their climax at the same time. Finally the noise ebbs away, subsiding into nothing but ragged breathing and trails of tears on his face. I brace my hands on the back of his knees, pressing the caps against his shoulders as I fuck savagely into him. He doesn’t make me stop. His hole is softer and more relaxed, now that he’s come. His eyes glitter in the dark as he stares into my face.

It doesn’t take long for me to finish. His own intensity brought me close to the edge. It only takes a little friction to push me over. My eyes close. All my feelings focus on two sensations—contract and release. Contract and release. I almost feel as if I’m pumping him full of lava, so intense is the heat. My own breathing returns to normal, slowly, as I hold my dick deep inside, letting the last of my seed trickle out.

At last he reaches for my hands and links his fingers to mine. My dick slops out, followed by my sperm. He pulls me down to him and holds me tight, gluing our chests together with the pools of his cooling cum. “Oh my god,” I whisper in his ear. The words could be an exclamation of surprise. But after I utter them, instead I suspect they’re a prayer of thanksgiving.

“I haven’t taken any other dick than yours,” he says after a while. “It’s been all you. I haven’t even used my toys.” Spencer has a lot of toys, he tells me. Monster-sized dildos that some thing are for comic relief, or to gawk at in the adult novelty store. “I’m not saying it because I’m expecting to go out and pick out china patterns with you. You’ve just been . . . giving me all I need.”

“I wouldn’t think any less of you if you were taking other dicks,” I whisper in his ear. “I really wouldn’t. But damn, I am so flattered.” Even in the dark, I can tell by the catch in his chest he’s pleased that I’m pleased. I make a confession as well. “I haven’t seen anyone else since the night I met you, either. I’ve masturbated once—that week you were gone, over Thanksgiving. I’ve been saving up all my sperm for you. For your hole.”

He stares at me, trying to think of some way to respond. Finally, his lips dart for mine. Words just seem inadequate. The intimacy of that moment, and of our twin confessions, begins to make me hard again.

It’s surprising, but true. Ever since I met Spencer three and a half weeks ago, I haven’t had the urge to hunt for sex elsewhere. Part of it is the frequency with which we’ve been meeting—for the last week, he’s been over here every night. We fuck. Sometimes we go out for dinner. We watch old X-Files episodes curled up on the sofa. He’s gone out to the bar with me and my friends, once. We make out like teens and fuck some more, before he drives home at the end of the evening. “I like being your pretend boyfriend,” he’s said to me, more than once.

I haven’t been serial fucking because I haven’t needed to. The sex is mind-blowing. It’s better than I’m likely to get from some random lay. I get great pleasure saving up my loads for him. I enjoy toying with the notion in my head that resisting a quick masturbatory session now will result in a great deal of loud and sweaty sex in a not-too-distant point in the future. I think we both feel as if we’re spinning a plate on the tip of a stick, here. For how long how can we keep it rotating madly? How many days or weeks can it last?

We both know that one day it’ll fall to the floor with a clatter. I know myself well enough to be aware I’m no monogamist—physically or intellectually it’s not in my nature. Nor in his, I know. We’re both realists. Fake boyfriends or not, we don’t develop false expectations. Not for a relationship that has a built-in expiration date.

If I fuck around elsewhere, as someday I will, or if he grabs a toy or another man’s dick and shoves it up his hungry ass, the world won’t come to an end. Neither of us will think less of the other. We’ll just pick up that plate, give it a good whirl, and see how long it stays spinning a second time.

For now, though, we’re both enjoying the pleasure of each other. For him, that involves letting me dictate what his hole needs. For me, it’s about letting him exert control on where my seed goes.

And the now of it is what matters.

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