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Steve can come multiple times in a single session, something that had surprised even him, a purported veteran of bottoming. Although Danny suspects he wasn’t fucking a lot of people who he trusted well enough to make that happen. A tragedy, because the way Steve looks when Danny’s coaxing his third orgasm out of him, lips chewed red, all that golden skin covered in sweat, with a flush that extends all the way down to the grooves in his abs, and that shocked pleading expression on his face? The hottest thing Danny has ever seen, hands down.
Danny just doesn’t see how it could possibly be like that for him if the roles were reversed. He likes pressure on his prostate, but the in and out thrusting motion that sex kinda requires—it just feels too much like the other thing that opening is used for…
Steve laughs, says something about training, but also that Danny doesn’t ever have to do it if he doesn’t want to, and Danny knows that’s true, because they’d manage to get along just fine when Steve can come like that just from Danny’s fingers. But the stumbling point is that he’s into the idea. On the one hand his brain is saying, ‘nope, wrong, discomfort, do not want’ and on the other he gets off so hard to just the mere idea of it when he’s jerking off in the shower, that he thinks it bears closer scrutiny.
He likes Steve’s cock, it feels good to touch and suck, and he finds himself oddly fascinated with it, unable to stop stroking along Steve’s groin, and feeling him up when they’re in private, which also makes Steve laugh.
“I like your cock, sue me,” Danny says, after reaching down and giving it a firm squeeze for no other reason than Steve is just out of the water and the fabric of his boardies is plastered against it, giving anybody who might see a pretty good impression of what Steve’s working with.
Steve shudders, eyes going hazy, and for all the new ways he’s figured out to blow Steve’s mind, praising his cock had simultaneously been the most and the least obvious route. After all it’s not the size that matters, it’s the motion of the ocean they always say, but apparently no man can escape that base side of themselves that wants to be told their cock is excellent, not even super SEALs.
And Danny thinks, god, this is probably a bad idea, but he likes to think he has a try anything once kind of attitude about sex, and well, even though Steve had proposed a fairly slim toy the last time it came up, Danny wants…
That one thing, Steve between his thighs, bearing him down, moving inside him. He wants to know. He has to know. He thinks maybe he wants it so much that even if it hurts or it feels too much like—he’ll want to do it again anyway. Which is such a weird teenage feeling.
So he asks. Over dinner. “Maybe it’s like Everest, I just have to know.”
And he expects Steve to come up with some crazy plan complete with timetables for exactly how he’d like it to get done. But all he does is wipe off his mouth with a napkin, take a swallow of water, and then he tugs Danny down into his lap, which always makes Danny squirm, because he doesn’t need to be reminded of their relative size difference, except for maybe how he kinda does.
“My dick is your Everest, I think that’s the greatest compliment I’ve ever received,” Steve says.
“Is that what I said? I don’t think that’s what I said. You need to get your ears—” Steve cuts him off with a kiss.
“You good now?” Steve asks.
“Now, now?” Danny asks.
Steve shrugs, and then reaches down to grip Danny’s thighs and deliberately grinds his cock against his ass to show him how he feels about the idea. Although Danny appreciates that his expression is carefully neutral, just patient. Steve likes to fuck, and what Danny’s suggesting is just one of a thousand different ways he’s probably got stored up in that perverse brain of his.
Danny swallows, because that one thrust got him so blindingly hard he’s dizzy with it. “Yeah, now is good.”
*
The few times he’s been fingered, he’s always needed Steve to keep his fingers still, just a steady constant pressure. He likes heavy direct stimulation on his prostate, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to get that, unless Steve’s willing to stay completely still, which seems kind of counter to the whole getting fucked point.
But he should’ve known by now: always bet on Steve. He shoves in tight, keeps his thighs and his core engaged, and once Danny gets the hang of the feeling of a too large object in a too tight space, he thinks, okay, okay, he can manage this. The unrelenting pressure on his prostate is pretty great. He’s not gonna come from this, but if Steve lifts up a little so he can jerk off, that will feel aces.
But then Steve says, “Hey, I’m gonna try something, okay? And if you don’t like it, you say chicken salad, and we end it.”
And then he pulls back and thrusts all the way in with a precise overwhelming snap of his hips, and Danny jerks underneath him.
Not.
Not because it feels bad, but because it feels so good.
He finds himself flexing back against Steve, because it’s almost like his body knows this, what it needed before his brain caught on, and all Danny can do is hang on for the ride,
“I didn’t know,” he says, because he feels almost ripped off. A finger or two back there while getting blown? When he coulda had…
“Hey I got you,” Steve says, and then he’s pressing Dannys knees to his chest, gripping the backs tight and drilling him.
Each stroke feels like too much, startling in a weird way, but it’s like riding a roller coaster and then running right back to the line to get on again. It’s scary and it feels good, and fucking Steve would be a roller coaster.
“C’mon, babe,” Steve says, “relax, relax.”
And Danny doesn’t even know what that means, because it doesn’t hurt, he doesn’t think he’s tensing up.
“Just let yourself feel it, lemme do the work. I got this,” and so Danny lets himself go limp under him, feels himself opening up around Steve in more ways than one.
And it feels like maybe he now gets why people are into fisting. He doesn’t want to try that, christ almighty, the size of Steve’s hand? He’d never be the same again. But if Steve could get more of himself into Danny right now, Danny wouldn’t stop him.
And that’s how he comes, wordlessly moaning, with Steve fucking him so hard the neighbors might hear the sound of the headboard colliding with the wall.
And when his orgasm hits, it feels both completely inevitable and a total shock. And he asks Steve to stay put, shimmies himself down on that cock, and just lets himself feel it, because he’s a hedonist, he likes the finer things, and sometimes the finer things is getting your hot as fuck partner to stay really really still and let you screw yourself on him, even though he’s still waiting to get off, and you’ve already come and couldn’t possibly come again.
“Tryna hold onto it?” Steve teases. And this cock is his. This cock belongs to no one else.
“I think it’s already mine, no?”
And Steve groans, dropping his forehead to Danny’s shoulder, and Danny can’t go again, but he wants to feel it.
“Get a move on,” he grouses, drawing his thighs tight, he tacks on a ‘please’ as a complete afterthought.
So Steve draws back, slicks back up, and fucks in, and this time he does it slowly and carefully, like he's trying to show Danny something, building it into something more. Something blinding. An orgasm that’s better than an orgasm.
Danny realizes he’s crying. This cathartic release. Because he so desperately wanted this thing, and didn’t know how to name it or interact with it or make it real.
So that’s what multiples are.