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Sometimes, Matt hates John.
Of course, Matt isn’t the kind of person to keep that revelation to himself, so he says, “I hate you, John.”
“I know,” John says.
Matt knows that John’s a tough guy. He also knows that John knows that Matt knows he’s a tough guy, so why should John feel like he has anything to prove?
“Hands out, Matt,” John says sharply.
“They’re out, they’re out!” Matt says.
Matt concedes that despite his frustration on the matter, it is way hot that John’s being all alpha male right now. John usually caves in to Matt’s requests (which is also hot, but in different way), but today he’s in a completely different mood and Matt still can’t decide whether this is a good or bad thing.
“Now fold your arms in,” John says. “And keep your weight forward.”
It’s like Pilates, except for the part where he’s getting fucked.
They have done it in this position before, with Matt very happily bent sandwiched between John and the edge of the bed, but today John’s adamant that Matt obey the lone rule of the day, i.e. Matt doesn’t touch himself. So that leaves Matt folding his arms around his head, John thrusting from behind, and Matt’s dick an angry neglected thing dangling in the air.
Matt had agreed to John’s terms off the bat, not knowing that he would end up being fucked at a molasses pace.
Okay, so it had been fun at first. John had kissed and touched and done a whole lot of licking, but the only touches to Matt’s dick had been to stop it from going off.
What the fucking fuck?
Matt really wants to move just a little bit forward so he can at least rub off against the mattress, but John’s not having any of that. John’s hands – so tender sometimes – are now heavy and unforgiving on Matt’s hips, keeping him right where John wants him.
“That good?” John asks.
“No,” Matt says. It’s too slow. Matt could set a clock to the John’s slow pushes and pulls that are heavy enough to be good but not fast enough to be better. Each thrust just nudges Matt a little bit further, a little bit closer, but the horizon’s moving and Matt doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to catch up.
“Okay, just keep your weight forward,” John says.
“Whatever,” Matt mutters, not-so-secretly hoping this means John’s finally going to do something nice.
The hands on Matt’s hip grip tighter, sliding a little down to beneath his thighs to take Matt’s weight, and then – well, holy shit –Matt’s feet leave the fucking floor.
“Whuh?” Matt says.
The pressure’s impossible.
Matt chokes, barely believing that he hasn’t come yet. John’s dick is in deep and it’s doing things, finding places inside that make everything go white and hot and holy fuck how is it even possible that Matt hasn’t come yet?
“Don’t move!” John hisses.
Matt can’t speak. He just tosses his head back and moans – it’s not like there’s anywhere he can go, he’s completely and utterly at John’s mercy and who the fuck does John think he is doing this to a poor unsuspecting soul whose only crime is that he really wants to come already.
John thrusts again, and Matt just knows that this is it.
“Don’t touch yourself,” John says. “Don’t even reach for it. Got it?”
Matt nods quickly.
John takes a breath, and then pushes in sharply the same time he tugs Matt’s hips up, and that’s all she wrote.
He’s coming, the orgasm finally bursting forth from where it’s been locked down, and that’s when John’s fingers are suddenly around Matt’s dick, pumping hard and rough and it’s too much – Matt’s crying out and breaking his promise of not moving because his brain’s gone white and his body’s gone mad.
Impossible.
Matt’s thrashing and whining and spasming and come on it’s supposed to stop some time soon, isn’t it, holy shit.
It eventually recedes, but Matt still shakes hard through the aftershocks, gasping for breath.
Through the fuzz in his head, it registers that John’s still inside, and still firm.
Yeah, like Matt needed to know that John’s Superman.
Wait, what, why is John pulling out?
Matt’s manhandled up on to the bed, wincing at the discomfort of being laid out to dry. He just manages to turn his head to watch John reach over to the side table.
John clicks the stopwatch. “Fifty-two minutes and eleven seconds. Hey, a personal best.”
Matt gives a weak thumbs-up, though he could’ve sworn it was longer.
Gyuh. No way. No more. He’s done. Run out. Call it in. The burn’s gonna be bad enough that Matt won’t be able to wear underwear for at least a week.
(Worth it.)
“Would you look at that,” John says, looking down at the jutting redness of his own dick. “You gonna take care of that, or are you gonna nap?”
Oh, he didn’t.
If only Matt’s tongue weren’t a lead weight in his mouth, he’d have a witty rejoinder at the ready. Instead, he can only watch John gingerly walk around to the other side of the bed and lie down on his back, arms folded behind his head.
“Lemme know when you wanna find out my personal best,” John says.
Sometimes, Matt hates John.
But once he regains use of his limbs, revenge will be sweet.