Jilling Off

He was so nervous. Conversations online were nothing like this. There had been several whiskeys at home beforehand so that in this bar now he could order a beer and pretend that this was normal, that this was every day. The conversations online – reading for a long time, dropping in the occasional comment here and there had led on to dialogs, then to stories and chats, and now to this. This bar, this everyday place, and the faintest whisper of stepping outside of what he had always thought his sexual identity was.

The man was easy to spot. He’d thought enough about him in their sessions of storytelling online, after all. So when the man walked up, and introductions were had, hands held each other a second too long in the handshake, that wasn’t too strange. Conversation was initially about the weather, because all conversations are always about the weather, and then how the days were, generic conversations about work because of course they were strictly on first name basis only, and there was a gleam in the man’s eye about their online story-telling, but he wasn’t going to bring it up first, because this was a whole new world to him. So he finished his pint and ordered another. The man’s eyes on him were so intense, the feet kicking against the bar stool the same size as his own, the sneakers were similar. Their arms emerging from t-shirts and stretching across the bar clutching pint glasses were almost identical, chunky wristwatches similarly rendered almost useless by shiny cellphones carefully removed from pockets every so often in a comforting ritual.

Conversation was heavy with things unsaid, and he was used to this with one girl, and was used to the knees ‘accidently’ knocking under the bar and then purposefully resting on each other, it had been a long time since that girl and he had parted ways so that he could instead focus on his girlfriend, the other girl fading into the background even while she acted out as much as she could to stand out. But the man was new to him, and the pressure was all too much, trying to decide if it was chemistry and anticipation, or if he was creeped out by the situation, or if it was a little from Column A and a little from Column B, so he excused himself and headed to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, and looked himself in the eye in the mirror. “Figure out what you want,” he said to himself, and the bathroom door opened. The man came in, locking the door behind him. “I know what you want,” he said, “and I’m going to give it to you”.

He was pushed against the toilet wall, a body so similar to his own pressed against him, a similar mouth on his, hard and soft and wet. Skin was so much rougher than he was used to, but the sensation of stubble wasn’t at all unwelcome, the texture new and surprising, but savoury. He felt his wrists being pinned in a strong grip, his arms raised above his head and pushed into a wall by a force stronger than his own, but these were only half thoughts as he closed his eyes and submitted to the rough kiss. As the man’s cock grew harder and pressed into his leg, he felt his own stirring, so foreign against such a hard body, though the intensity of the man’s pressure against him was a reassuring reminder that he wasn’t in control of the situation and he was happy to submit to whatever came next.

There is something immensely satisfying about having muscles that ache from having them up in the air as a boy thrusts into you, pounds his cock into you so hard that your head is pushed back off the pillows and slips between the bars of your headboard. He tells you that he wants to fuck you from behind so you get on your knees and he pushes deep, deep inside of you. He asks if you want to ride him so you can watch him looking up at you in awe. But really, what you want is him pushing down on you again, covering your body with his, filling your world, filling up your head as he fills your cunt. You haven’t been fucked this hard for a very long time and it is fantastic, to lie back, to watch him do all the work, to feel your whole body shake. The slap of his body against yours makes your vision go blurry and you run your fingernails down his back and when he speeds up, faster and faster, you twist his nipples so that he comes, groaning, moaning, so much louder and more tangible than previous partners.

And the buildup was so simple, so direct, and yet you still got tingles when his hands went around your waist. There are no complications here, if we exclude your emotional baggage, so yes, the thrill of the chase may be missing, but this might actually grow into something that’s real, something you can keep and not have to return at the end of each night. And if it doesn’t, there’s no harm done, and a damn good fucking had.

A friend and I are in the lounge trying to decide where we want to have dinner that day, and I realise that I need to ask the boy that I am living with now, the boy who who shares my bed most nights, so I head to his room at the back of the house. He’s working on his computer as normal, so when we’ve finished our discussion I put my arms around him and kiss him on the forehead like I often do. I’m still overwhelmed that he exists, that I can touch him at almost any time, so I slide one hand down to his crotch, and start stroking his crotch, lightly. So often he’d push my hand away and tell me that I was “being naughty” but today he responds, spinning around to kiss me, and seconds later I am on my knees in front of him with his cock in my mouth while his ICQ messages bing away without him responding. Groaning with pleasure he opens the drawer where he keeps the condoms, and asks me if I want him inside me. I lie back eagerly on the floor – he is yet to buy a bed – and pull off my underpants, fingering myself. He grabs my breasts under my tshirt with one hand while carefully guiding himself into me. His cock is so big we have to take it slow at first, and it feels almost as if he is splitting me in two when he starts to thrust harder. But I love this feeling, I love his weight on top of me, I love the carpet beneath me, the curve of his shoulder blades, his close-clipped hair. I love him, and so when he is fucking me I am sure that he loves me too. But then I remember my friend in the other room, and I think that I should go back to her. I half sit up, laughing through our kisses that I was only supposed to take a minute. “You’re not going anywhere” he says, and he pushes me back down to the floor. We fuck more, but the prozac he takes makes it hard for him to come, and I start hurting, so I take him in my mouth again, as he jerks himself off. He comes across my tits, wipes me clean, and goes back to work. I return to my friend, face flushed.

And we are public servants. And our footsteps echo wherever we tread. And there is a building between you and I and coffee, and it’s new, so naturally, we would walk through it.

I can’t remember whether this was before or after I had hooked up with you at your desk. All I can remember is that the building was there, that it was brand new, that it was empty and sparkling and shining white.

And of course, memories come flooding back to me. We had already hooked up. I had already established that you could make me come. And that’s why I felt the way I did, that in that giant big empty atrium, we should have fucked. Hard and fast, instantly, you thrusting into me. Me, still seeking to gain the upper hand, pushing back against you, but imagine the crowds if they knew I was listnening? Why work as a foreign army when they could still rush us and take it all?