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“We can do as we please when we are alone.” You sigh, stepping through the doorway. You flick on the light and Harry waits patiently to be invited inside.
He stands there in the hall in a green blazer, tight jeans, white shirt, green shoes. He is oversexed, incredibly enamored with you, and just as polite. Traits that make you want to empty out his insides if he would indulge you that far.
At the bar, he abstained, and you had three drinks. You know you would not have felt tipsy if it weren’t for Harry’s hand furtively patting your thigh when you made him laugh. He had sat beside you at a booth, rather than across from you, an instant signal that he wanted to boogie and you were his top choice for dance partner that evening. His only choice. You know there is no one else for him.
“Harry.” You had leaned your heads close to be heard over the music and to not be heard by other patrons of the bar. “If you place your hand on my thigh one more time, it will be mine for the evening. As well as the rest of your body.”
He had pulled back to look you in the eye, as though he were alarmed that his blatant physical contact had conjured arousal and intimate thoughts in you. Like it had been an accident. Like he had never stuck his hand in the spring-loaded bear trap that was your spread open lap.
“If you want sex, tell me so. Do not play around with me.” You picked up your glass, finished what was left of your drink. “I don't pretend, or play coy like this. If I do something, I mean it. If you’re unsure of what you want, you don’t want to be messing with a man like me. I won’t take it easy on you, just because you are naive.”
His expression is halfway between nausea and speechless arousal. Blood has rushed to his face, redder even more than usual.
“I just want you to know who you’re fucking with if you’re even thinking of fucking at all.”
It had to be like that. You had no clue as to his level of experience and neither did he. You are not a test drive model on the showroom floor. You want to drive fast and you aren’t afraid of the inevitable wreck, in fact, that’s what gets you hard. At least, that is what you believe about yourself. It is probably a lie. For the right man, it could be.
“Uh. Yeah.” He flattens a hand down his front. “Kim.”
Unfortunately for him, he is your type. Completely off the rails. Big. Hairy. Warm. Kissable. A man with a problem. Poetic in his dumbass-ery. He has no idea how good you are going to make him feel. And that was how you decided. His ignorance of pleasure.
It caused you to lead him from the bar to the cab home. He followed obediently behind you, up the stairs, down the hall, to your front door.
“Come in.” You close and lock the door behind him.
Lit from above like this, you feel the claustrophobic tension that has built in the journey home. You both managed to resist it in the cab, now it’s inexcusable. And now that fucking has been mentioned, he is on his very best behavior for you. Primed for anything you want, anything that will appease you and facilitate your sex with him.
Men are predictable in this way.
“Let me take off my shoes.” He bends and balances to tug off one, then the other. He puts them by the door. His sock feet bare no holes. And they are a matching pair.
Sometimes men hold surprises.
You walk away from him, turn and let your bomber jacket slip from your shoulders. The cold air in your apartment touches your bare skin, wearing only a white cotton undershirt, as you are. He follows you warily with both hands in his jean pockets. You leave the jacket on the sofa and wander through to your bedroom. He does not follow you in. He is waiting for a second invitation. He is nervous.
“Harry. Come in here.”
He materializes in the room with you. You sit on the end of your bed. Silver luna light spills through your wide pane window. You spread your legs apart, you do not ask him to kneel, it is automatic for him.
“Kim.” Is all he can say. He shuffles to rest between your legs, looking up at you. His hands are clasped together between his legs. How very humble of him.
You know this is a performance, know him to be wild and unabashed. He wants this (you) so much.
“You’re not a virgin, are you, Harry?” You smirk.
He shakes his head.
“But you have yet to even try to kiss me. You’re waiting to be told to do so, aren’t you?”
His eyes slip closed and he rests his forehead on your left thigh. His shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh. You do not want to see him cry again. You do not want his tear stains on your pilot pants.
You remove your gloves, toss them to the bedside table.
Gripping the top of his hair, you bend back his lovely head. He sees your eyes flit around his face, stays quiet, and lets you examine him in the half-light of the quiet bedroom. He trusts you. A belly-up offering to examine his face unguarded.
Your eyes at first draw to his neck, thick and greyish from stubble. A light razor-burn beneath his jaw. A wide Adam's apple. You will get a good moan from him if you kiss this throat. A sensitive place that you can later exploit.
The facial hair. Absolutely insane and animalistic. Little tobacco-shred hairs grow from his nostrils that join into his mustache and flow down into voluptuous mutton chops and sideburns. He wears his body on his face like this, an obscene and flagrant signal that this is a body of interaction. Come, scratch and tug and rub and pet this. Kept pet that he longs to be, himself. Your mind sails around the edge of abundant flavours that could hide between whiskers and skin. Test with fingers then sink in your nose and mouth to find them. Leave your own flavours here, in sensitive, sensory, silken filaments.
He gazes at you but your examination is not yet complete.
A desperate shimmer in the back of his mirror plate eyes. Eyes too sharp to be described as milky. Something akin to fog in the swirling jelly between retina and pupil. Congested. The undereye typically bruises purple but in Harry, these paper soft tissues ache pink. He often rubs at his eyes. Cadavers bruised post-mortem.
His mouth pulls into a flat shape that could be mistaken for a grin to those who know no better. His dark lips recede over wide teeth, dogs perform a similar non-verbal beg of mercy when scolded.
His teeth are surprisingly unchipped, unshattered, undamaged. This suggests that they are a precious key to his survival. Not just a means to chew but a tool kept clean in case of an imminent need to tear or rend. Defensively or offensively.
“You know my head dies.” He says. It has risen from his thoughts completely unrelated to anything real, besides the scrutiny of his features.
“Harry, come on, which part of us does not?” You humor him. “You take yourself far too seriously, here.” You tap his temple. “And sometimes not seriously enough.”
You adore the struggle in him. He needs you to be kind, above all else. Though he does not ask for you to be gentle. His sincerity is frightening.
Harry’s trauma is self-abuse. He has wrung all pleasures from the organ of the body until there was no sensation to otherwise feel. How do gentle touches register in such a man? How does your given pleasure stand up beside the agony-pleasure he has wrought upon himself for too long?
He takes your hand from his face and takes it down to the bulge in his trousers. It is warm and confident. His smile is now a real smile, he is bashful here and wants to be guided despite directing your touch.
The wound that hardens. Let the red out. The gash gets hard. Are these thoughts your own?
You remove your hand from his half hard-on and sink both sets of long fingers into his facial hair. You tug and scratch, use them as handholds to direct your will. Preparing him for what you have planned.
“Kiss me.”
He holds your wrists and leans up to meet you. Your mouths are experienced and you line up desire with practiced intent. His closed eyes flutter open and then back to shut when you breach your tongue into his hot mouth. He kisses with purpose. Good.
“Stick out your tongue, Harry.” You look down on him, he looks up. Pushes his tongue out of his parted lips.
You take his tongue for your own and suck on it. He shudders hard, in a way that tells you he has not much had his tongue played with. You will be more than happy to right that wrong. You do not want him to leave his body, as you so often have witnessed him do. You do your best to keep him here in his skull, with you.
You wonder if anyone has truly played with this man’s body. You want to do all erotic touches for him, all at once. Press the button hard. Yank his levers. Oil up whatever has been neglected and over-twist every screw till his threads are carved by your pinched fingers alone.
You experiment for a time. Pull back, let only the tips of your tongues touch, then dive back in to swallow him whole. Your suction is a tug, pull, release. Pulsing, releasing, pulling again. He cannot take much, his fat tongued whines warn you.
And you do not resist your urges. You uncouple your swollen lips, hold him firm in the grip you have, and brush your face into his beard.
He does not purr but his groan is delicious. Curly and soft, warm and dry, you were right. His hair is scented so wonderfully. That familiar matured man-smell of skin and sweat and long ripeness, you nudge your nose beneath his jaw and sniff there as well. The fuse of your body is well and truly lit.
You open your mouth for him a second time, use your tongue a second time. That little spot, sensitive on his vital throat. You work your tongue over and over it. The tension in your grip does not give up, you have directed his head back further and feel the jerk of his desiccated spine, flexing alive as you trigger a nerve over and over for him.
“Kim!” His grip on you falters at such dedicated pleasure, he jolts his hands around to your back, to yank at your vest.
You let him go and he comes forward, pushes into the space of your body, his lips find your collar bone and he sucks. The most basic and simple bodily mechanism, the first one we learn. To suck.
“Harry, I’ll tell you what we are going to do. So you won’t be shocked or surprised.”
“You always surprise me.” He speaks into your neck.
You wrap him in your arms. You indulge yourself, you squeeze his thick biceps on your way to the full embrace. He is much bigger than you, you are reminded by the spread of your legs to accommodate his body, the large hands that are stroking your back.
“You have given oral sex, yes? To women?” You know he has, but then again. “To men?”
“To one woman, mostly. Maybe a few women. To men? I’m not sure.”
“Did you enjoy giving this pleasure to women?”
“Oh. Very much.” There is mischief in his voice for the first time since you let him in your apartment. “I love to fuck with my mouth, Kim. I’m good at it.”
He is trying to incite you. To tempt you. You tug his hair, draw him back to your gaze. He sees you and you see him, clear and sharp through your lenses.
“Do you want to get your mouth fucked, Harry?” You go further still. “How long have you thought about having a cock in your mouth?”
“Your cock.” Harry smirks. He is really trying it with you, the little bastard.
“Can I trust you to make it good for me? How skilled is this mouth, I wonder.”
He sees your hand move up to his lips and he clamps his eyes to yours. You push two bare fingers past his lips. He screws his eyes shut, grips your wrist with a big hairy hand, and sucks down on you.
Wet. Warm. Curious.
He opens his eyes, keeps your gaze, tugs your fingers out, and then bends his head into the motion as he rhythmically fellates your middle and index finger. It's fairly shallow, you feel no teeth, his lips are tight, his tongue caresses your fingertips as he moves on you.
He wants to suck on you very badly.
“Harry.” You are entranced by the motion and the feeling of wetness. “I think maybe you have done this before.” Sensation shoots right down to ache in your balls, your pants are tight. Your dick would very much like to come out now.
He shrugs but does not relent. You have to tell him to stop, to give you your hand back.
“Here.” You lean back, unbutton your pants. “If you want it so badly.”
You push your pants and underwear out of the way, bring your hard cock out to greet him. You hold it in your right hand. Stroke yourself, pull back your foreskin, sort of presenting it as something not to be feared.
He does not wait for your command, your invitation, your insistence. He delves right in. No hands even, for Harry in this, it would only get in his way. He is curved over, hands behind you, twisting the sheets. He is nuzzling into your dick.
His little show on your fingers suggested he would have some finesse. Come at your sex with table manners, tease you. But it seems that Harry may be a psychotic maniac in all facets of his life.
He slurps. Sucks. Licks. And the moaning. Oh, God, the unrestrained moaning. Your legs raise, feet lift off the wooden floor, assaulted as you are by just- inescapable MOUTH. His facial hair, to top this insanity off, is tickling you without mercy. You tug his hair, he does not stop. His saliva drips down your balls as he slurps and it runs away down your perineum. You yank his jacket and still, he slobbers on you. His tongue wiggles and waggles down your shaft.
“Harry!” You are breathless in unrestrained pleasure. “Stop, stop what you are doing.”
A smack to the head gets his attention. He comes up for air, dazed, covered in drool. He licks his lips like a pig at a trough. Disgusting. Incredibly arousing.
“Harry, stop this.” You catch your breath. “Slow down.”
“Ha. Sorry. I just.” He brings a hand around now, folds his fingers around your spit-covered shaft to hold you before his eyes. He gulps, his lips still swollen from kissing, to necking, to this. “I guess there’s a little more to sucking dick than eating pussy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, I uh, when I remember back to how to pleasure a woman, I just sort of put my mouth on it and suck. And I use my fingers inside. And I don’t stop until she finishes.”
“Is that so?”
“Can I try again?”
“Life is always like this for you, isn’t it. Always a new chance, a second go at whatever it is you screwed up.”
He knows you will allow him but he looks rightly scolded.
“Second chance. Take off your clothes. All of them.”
You stand, and drawing away from his warm body is not so hard. Harry’s hands stroke your thighs as you leave him kneeling on the floor.
“Your clothes, Harry.” You remind him. You turn away to draw your undershirt up and off by the hem. You know you look good in the light from the window.
Pants down as well. You kick them away. Dressed now in just your boxer briefs and moonlight. You look back. He is naked, completely. He is even hairier than you thought. You have seen a lot of him, given his superstar costume changes, but here he is. Naked for you.
He is kneeling. His clothes are in a pile behind him. His broad shoulders and wide chest appeal to you first. He has dark, flat nipples, a round belly covered in dark hair that hides his sex between his legs in shadow. His hips are slim. His legs are long and powerful. Hair there also, on his thighs. He is top-heavy.
"You're gorgeous." Harry breathes. "Really, Kim, you are. You're so sexy."
"Shut up. I know." You smile and step into his space. "Now, have you got your shit together?"
"Yes." He grabs for you. He palms up your thighs and settles his strong hands on your backside. "Can I suck you off, Kim? I'll do better, this time."
You take a moment to consider. His expression is all hunger and admiration, directed right at the erection in your underwear.
“Through my underwear. Show me how much you want it. If you make it feel good, maybe you can take it out and suck on it. What do you think about that?”
He nods of course. You put your hands in his hair and widen your stance. He nuzzles up into the bulge you are sporting and he looks like he is in heaven. He breathes in through his nose, works his face slowly into you.
The vision he casts as you look down has a profound effect. Really, he is what you want and his desire for you makes your face hot. His eyes are closed, he is moaning at just this. His breath dampens the cotton. As does his tongue when it pushes flat against the head of your cock through fabric. You cover your blushing face with one hand.
And this is so much better. Teasing from Harry, slow and adoring, with his big hands that slide up to feel your trim waist and then back down to your behind. Your cock twitches when he works from side to side with an open mouth.
He opens his eyes, points those mirror plates at you and you shudder to hold back moans of your own.
“Good?” He asks against you. “Can I get it out, now?”
You nod. From standing, he has to look up, rather than on the bed, where he could just delve and attack with all his clumsiness.
The thick fingers of his left hand pull the elastic out and down to reveal you again. Your dick jerks at his intense scrutiny, like a physical touch. He lets your boxers cling around your thighs, more obscene than removing them totally.
Your palm makes a little slapping sound as you push on his forehead before he has a chance to lean up and take it into his mouth. Your hands flow down his hair, his face, to settle back into his mutton chops.
“Watch your teeth.” You warn him. “Hands by your sides, or on your lap if you prefer.”
He lights up. Starts his engine. He wants to go go go. But you will have it your way. His hands fall to his lap. You use one hand to guide yourself to his lips. He looks fizzy and light like he could vibrate himself off the earth if it were not for your tight grip.
“Open for me.” His face is slack in pleasure, and he parts his lips to take you.
You trace the head of your cock around his lips, so he can get another taste. He lets you do this to him. His eyebrows rise and his eyes flutter. So you let go of your cock and use both hands in his facial hair to guide him.
You stay shallow for him, his mouth is wet and eager and patient.
“Good, Harry.” An inch at a time, you pull back and push forward. He jerks when you push up into his soft palate, coughing but not so much that he starts to panic, or push away. “Do you like this?”
“Nnhm.” He slurps a sound for you in the affirmative.
“You want a little more? Can you take it?” You are going to do it regardless. He only gives a strange grunt around your cock anyway. He is clearly enjoying the motion of your hips, slow but purposeful, as you feed him the end of your dick. “Said you wanted to get your mouth fucked. Is this what you had in your mind, Harry?”
His hands come up from his lap to grip your wrists. His nodding puts tension on the point at which you hold him on both sides. You are careful not to scratch or pull at his face too hard. You want him to feel your hands in his beard but you do not want to damage him.
You pause and draw out, then push back in deeper. He takes it. He even adds some suction for you. His tongue had remained flat, covering his bottom row of teeth as a courtesy. You appreciate it, and it is obvious he does not know how to give a blowjob. He is laying down his defenses as a means to let this continue.
That pathetic sort of submission that is neither a performance nor a manipulation, really gets you going. Harry is great at this, in his life and here, on his knees, giving it up to you for whatever you like.
He trusts you. With his mouth. With his naked body.
And he is shivering. His face is hot against your fingers. He is keyed up just as much as you are from letting you do this to him. You pick up the pace and his lips are wet, his jaw is slack, he is accommodating to a point that has you gasping.
The rhythm of your hips brings on your orgasm. As much as you want to push into his throat, cum in his mouth, and make him take it, this is Harry. You care about Harry. You do not want to push your luck with this. You are in control and he can count on you in this way, even in the throes of ecstasy.
Though he might just like the rougher treatment. He revs for you, moaning so that the slide of your dick is accompanied by a delicious buzz. He is not completely clueless.
You take in the whole vision once more, before it ends. His lips stretched over you, swollen and pink-red. He does look filthy. The facial hair really frames the picture quite nicely. Obscene and vulgar in his animal enjoyment of a nice fat cock in his mouth.
You pull out, one hand goes to tug at the back of his hair, to pull his face back. You look at that gorgeous mouth again.
“Yes. Kim. Go for it.” He has a wicked grin, lazy and used and vital. He sparkles like this. And he sticks out his tongue for you, loving it, wanting you to cum on him. He shows no disgust or apprehension.
It is a sweet little noise that he makes, that has you. With his tongue out, a tiny hum. A little moan. It could be a whimper. It hits you as a sound of petulance. You reward him for that with a shot of hot spunk across his eye. Over his nose. Across the pink lips. You wring your fist down your shaft, squeezing out what you have for him into his left mutton chop.
He looks up to you, sucks some cum from his mustache with his tongue, and looks off to the side, evaluating. You let him go. You sag forward, lean over him, gripping his shoulders and lock your arms to catch your breath.
“It’s not bad. It’s kind of interesting. I wouldn’t say it tastes good but, it’s something.” He continues to talk. “Kim. You’re blushing!” He elates, one eye shut, grinning up at you.
“Shush.” You chide him.
He reaches away, smothers his face in his discarded shirt, gets most of the cum off his face and eye. He scrubs his facial hair.
He swallows and you see lights spiral from his head, dashing around the room, rotating on the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. It rivals the light of the moon. You hear pulsing music.
“Are you nice and hard for me?” You place one hand on his shoulder. You raise a foot and push at the vague hard-cock shape that hides between his legs. “Oh, you are. Hm, I could tell you were a cocksucker when I met you, Harry. But getting off on having your mouth used by a younger man. You are incapable of shame.”
You see sweat spring from his temple. He is wild and ready for whatever you like. And he will gladly do whatever you want. He defers to you. He trusts you fully. With his mouth. With his body. With his life.
How dangerous that is. How intoxicating. How very fucking disco.