A gay story: Focus, Denial and Whipped Cream Dedicated to Mandy, for being my inspiration.
*
He walks in like he owns the place—which, in a way, he does.
“You look cheerful,” I comment. “Finally figure out that stick up your ass has a vibrate function?”
He smirks, coming over to lean against the entrance to my cubicle. “I got a promotion.”
I lean back in my chair, casual, letting my eyes drift over him. I take the time to admire the way his long dark curls fall in his face, and the line of his body through his suit, eyeing him like a piece of meat. I make sure he’s aware of the way my gaze lingers on the skin at his throat where his shirt is unbuttoned, and his generous lips. Even when tilted into a smirk, there’s this grin in the left side of his mouth that he can’t lose, no matter how upset he gets. It’s terribly tempting to kiss, and it makes him hard to take seriously. By the time my gaze wanders up to meet his eyes, his cheeks are red under my scrutiny.
“Congratulations,” I say. “I’m proud to know your cocksucking skills are as good as ever. I assume you’ve been promoted to deepthroating?”
His face goes white. Does he know he’s this easy to read? It’s not, lest you might think, that he actually got the promotion on his knees. No. The promotion he got because his uncle’s the CEO. Anyone knows that. The reason his face goes white is because I really do have reason to be proud of his cocksucking skills. I taught him every one.
Tybalt. Pretty, temperamental Tybalt. Selfish, violent, pampered Tybalt. We’ve been rivals since we were in kindergarten. The cocksucking lessons occurred in the hormone-crazed days of adolescence; at a weak-long Christmas retreat at his grandmother’s. We’re second cousins by marriage. The venerable lady herself walked in on us, in her own master bedroom, as I was—successfully—coaxing Tybalt into deepthroating my cock. It was fantastic. I still get hard remembering Tybalt’s skills on his knees. The boy is truly gifted.
In more ways than one. Tybalt, the favorite, pretty, temperamental Tybalt, got out of the incident without a scrap of blame (although there was some question of his sexuality). He just told them all that I’d threatened him into it. It helped, I suppose, that I was already thought of as trouble, since no one had forgotten my prank with the holiday punch the year before.
Viagra. To a bunch of uptight elderly relations forced into holiday cheer. It was a family reunion that went down in history. Brilliant. Drunk old Uncle Micah started feeling up Granny’s priceless marble replica of Aphrodite and ended up humping Gramps’ stuffed, moth-eaten old hunting dog, Rover. I was grounded for three months.
Because of the blowjob episode, I was enrolled in the strictest Christian academy that could be found, and Tybalt got shipped off to a therapist to embroider stories about how I’d molested him. After which he had the bad luck to be enrolled in the same Christian academy that had worked such wonders for me. Unluckily for him, by this time I owned the souls of the entire student body (sometimes literally: you’d be surprised what one can win with some creative cheating in a game of poker). I ruled that school, and I made it my business to make his life hell. There’s simply no one else who’s more entertaining to torment. He hated me, and oh, was it ever sweet.
We graduated and went to the same university, where it became clear that where I was the popular, practical-joking playboy, Tybalt had a talent for bribes and pulling strings. And, declared enemies as we were, almost all of our talents were spent on making each other suffer. (I say almost all because in my case, at least, a generous portion of my talents went in the interests of sex.)
Except that once.
I snap out of my reverie. He’s glaring at me. Still working on a comeback. I can see the wheels turning with effort in his brain.
“Corner office,” he says. “With a view of the bay. And a raise. Enjoy your cubicle.”
I smirk, checking out his ass as he turns to go. “Tybalt.”
He looks back at me with a glare that expresses purest hatred. I have to grin as I deliver the next line. “Do you still make that delicious little whine when you’ve got a good mouthful?”
He punches me. I tackle him, and we fight. We fight dirty, taking any advantage we can get. He’s got a few inches on me in height, but I don’t bruise easily, and I can take more damage than he can. Either way, no one ever wins our fights. We just keep going until neither of us can move anymore, or someone pulls us apart. I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve hospitalized each other.
He’s got a black eye and a split lip when they pull us apart. My nose is probably broken. I’m grinning. He’s scowling.
“What is this?” His uncle yells. “This is an office, not a bar room!”
“He started it,” Tybalt mutters.
“I didn’t, actually,” I reply. “But I did provoke him.”
“Pack your things and go,” he says to me. “You’re fired.”
I blow a kiss to Tybalt on my way out the door.
I don’t see him again until Thanksgiving.
I take my girlfriend to the family reunion. She’s whiny and high-maintenance, but fantastic in bed, so I put up with it. Besides, I love making Tybalt jealous. Even if we’re both too obsessed with each other to put any serious effort into our other relationships, at least I’m still getting laid. He’s not. I get a very vindictive pleasure out of this knowledge.
I corner him. “Tybalt.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me over his martini. “Mark.”
“You got me fired.”
He snorts. “You deserved it.”
I smirk. “Did you miss me?”
“Like a fucking splinter.”
“Like the one up your ass?”
“Nice girlfriend,” he says, eyeing her. “How much did you have to pay for her?”
I smirk, leaning against the wall, testing if his self-esteem is low enough today that the intimidation card will work. It does. He’s ruffled. “You know I don’t need to pay to get laid,” I tell him. “I can have anyone I want just by bending my finger.” I lean closer so that my breath is hot on his ear. “Even you.”
He shifts his posture to remind me of our height difference, but it just brings us closer together. “Doesn’t it bother you at all,” he asks, “that you’re going to die lonely and miserable?”
I smirk at him. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll answer you that if you answer one for me.”
“What?” He steps away from me, setting down his martini glass.
I take up the place on the wall he just vacated. “Whose name is on your lips when you jack yourself off?”
I see him wince, and I don’t even need the answer. Oh, that’s beautiful. Mine.
“Want another night?” I ask him. “I’ll even make you think I love you.” I take a step closer. “Let you suck my cock again.”
His eyes hit mine, and I can tell I’ve gone too far.
“Answer it,” he says. “Does it bother you that you’re going to die lonely and miserable?”
Tybalt’s the only person I respect, as much as I tear him apart. Enemies like this don’t grow on trees. I respect him too much to lie to him. “Yes.” My voice is cocky, but it’s forced. “You?”
“You already know my answer.”
He turns and walks away.
I go home that night and dream. Of him. Of that night in college.
I challenged him to a drinking contest. Knowing I’d win. I always win. I can down enough alcohol to kill a horse. I laughed at him, when he fell over, ass-drunk, and watched, smirking, as a couple of the other frat-boys shoved him around, mocking. But I get angry fast when anyone else touches him. I snapped at them and grabbed him away, taking him to my room. My bed. I left him to sleep and went back to the party, forgetting him and enjoying the alcohol.
I had the highest tolerance level in the frat, and I only ever get smashed after breakups, so I wasn’t drunk. (I have a history of bad break-ups. I’m too possessive.) But I was too restless to sleep, even after the party, so I went back to my room late, watching the dawn rise and throw red highlights on his dark curls. I don’t know what time it was before I finally fell asleep next to him, fully clothed.
Sometime during the night we’d gotten tangled up in each other, so that when he woke up and tried to slip out of my arms, I woke up, too.
“Go back to sleep,” I mumbled, pulling him closer. It was cold in the room, I’d left the window open that night, and he was warm.
“I have to piss.”
“Fine.” I let him up. “Come back.”
I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, but it didn’t work. I had a raging case of morning wood.
Then Tybalt stumbled back through the door, looking deliciously ruffled and more than a little drunk. He winced at the sunlight, tripping over a pair of my shoes. I pulled him back into my bed, kissing him.
We didn’t talk, just kissed, pawing at each other’s clothes like awkward teenagers, until I finally just pinned him down and stripped him, kissing. He was still drunk, so the kisses were sloppy and wet, but hot, hungry, desperate. I lay my body across him, rubbing our lengths together, and he mewed, writhing beneath me, murmuring my name and begging for more.
He didn’t last long—I’d bet money he’s a virgin—and he came, spattering come across our bellies. I smirked, scooping as much of it into my hand as I could. “Roll over,” I told him.
With some coaxing, he obeyed, rolling over and looking back at me.
“Good dog.” I patted his ass. “On your knees.”
He shifted reluctantly, presenting his ass to me. I didn’t waste time, using his own spunk to slick his hole, stretching him quickly with two fingers. He was hard again already. Good. I worked my fingers in and out of him faster, reaching in deep to hit his sweet spot, because I liked the sounds he made when I did. I spun him up, winding him tighter and tighter, until I only had to breathe and he’d shudder, pleading.
I reached for a condom, sliding it on and mounting him, pushing into him impatiently. He whimpered but didn’t complain, taking it at my pace, letting me push steadily into him until my balls tapped against his ass. He shuddered again, rolling his hips back to take me deeper. Slowly I pulled out, holding his hips firmly, relishing the way his muscles clenched around me, pulling me back in, and I pushed in deep, setting in a steady, firm pace, until he whimpered with every stroke and came around me, whispering my name. I only needed a few more good thrusts before I joined him, pressing my cheek against his back as I came, panting, and pulled out, releasing him.
He curled up against me, dozing off again.
We barely left the room that weekend, dozing idly and waking up to join again, fucking with lazy, luxurious heat. We ordered in food so that we wouldn’t have to leave, answering the door in only a rumpled pair of jeans. We talked some, joking and teasing, but we were both more interested in the sex, and none of the conversations lasted long.
Then Monday came and we parted ways to go to class. And then I messed everything up.
He found me after class. I think he must have been looking for me. I didn’t even notice him walk up. I was liplocked with my current girlfriend, feeling up her breasts.
“Friend of yours, Mark?” His voice was tense.
I broke the kiss and smirked at him. “This is my girlfriend. Laura.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And who am I?”
I shrug, careless. “Some guy.”
“Look, Laura,” he snapped. “Your boyfriend spent the weekend fucking me up the ass, so if you’d give us a moment, you can either break up with him or fuck him yourself once we’re done.”
That worked. With a few choice words, Laura slapped me and was gone.
“Some guy?” He asked me. “That’s all?”
“A cheap fuck,” I told him, holding his gaze with a smirk. “That’s all. How desperate do you have to be, to beg for your worst enemy’s cock?” I writhed, mocking him. “Oh, Mark, please, more, harder, don’t stop!”
He hit me. I deserved it. I think that was the third time we put each other in the hospital.
Needless to say, we quickly returned to being enemies. I’ve been trying to forget that weekend ever since.
After the incident at Thanksgiving, he stops coming to the family reunions. It’s more his family than mine. I’m just the second cousin by marriage. So I stop going shortly thereafter.
I see him again at a club, a year later. He brushes past me, and I break the kiss I’m in with my latest boyfriend, straddled as I am across his lap. “Tybalt.”
He glares. “Yes?”
My boyfriend, quick to jealousy, turns my head back. “Talk to your little friend later.”
“We’re not friends,” Tybalt says, as he turns away.
A few months later, my boyfriend dumps me, just before Christmas.
I wander, watching the snow fall, ignoring the cold, letting my thoughts drift.
“Who’d love a selfish whore like you?” My ex-boyfriend asked me, as he threw me out. I bounce the question around in my head. Of my scattering of lovers, who’d ever loved me? One or two of them I honestly cared for, but not a single one of them ever loved me in return. I’m probably not worth loving. I’ve figured that out by now.
I’m not quite sure how I end up on Tybalt’s doorstep.
He opens the door (I’m leaning back against it) and I fall backwards on the floor at his feet. He’s barefoot. I look up at him.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m not quite sure.”
We consider each other for a moment.
“Are you going to come in?” he asks. “You’re letting all the warm air out.”
He helps me to his feet. I follow him, when he goes into the kitchen, watching him heat a pan of milk on the stove and stir in chocolate. I sit cross-legged on the counter.
“So to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” he asks, dryly.
“Would you believe I just happened to be in the neighborhood?”
“No.”
“That I felt like seeing a familiar face?”
“And you were that desperate? Did something take a blow to your ego, that you wanted to come bully your old favorite punching bag?” He drops a scoop of whipped cream into each mug and hands me one.
“Do you have the little marshmallows?” I ask.
“Probably,” he says. “Somewhere.” He digs through a cupboard and hands me a bag full of them.
“So how long have you known you were in love with me?” I ask, conversationally, like it’s a comment on the weather.
He laughs, like it’s a joke. “I’m not in love with you. I never was.”
“Bullshit.”
He shrugs. “It’s the truth.”
It is, and I know it. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I smirk at him as I hop down. “Admit it, you always secretly liked me.”
“I didn’t, dolt.”
“Dolt?” I follow him into the living room.
“It suits you. Dolt.” We sit down on the couch. I put my feet up on his lap.
“Did you at least miss me?”
He snorts. “Why would I?”
I roll my eyes. “Forget it.”
His eyes snap over to mine. “I’m curious. Tell me.”
I take a sip of my hot chocolate, licking whipped cream off my lips. “You’re not worth it.”
He scowls. “Tell me, damn it.”
“Why do you care?”
“Just tell me.”
“Forget it.”
“I don’t want to. Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re not interested.” I take a sip of my hot chocolate, trying to hide my grin.
“I am. Now tell me.”
I look up at him, feigning disbelief. “You’re interested in me? I don’t believe you. You don’t like me, remember?”
I can see that he’s starting to grin, too. “I thought you’d be bright enough to figure out when someone’s bluffing. Apparently not.”
There’s no hope of hiding my grin now. “I knew. I just wanted to make sure I called that bluff.”
“Are you going to tell me or not?”
“Tell you what?” I swipe out a streak of whipped cream with my finger and drag my tongue along it, sucking suggestively while grinning at him. “Why you missed me? You answered that yourself.”
There’s a long silence between us. He looks down into his empty cup before setting it aside. “So why are you here?”
“To apologize.” I set my mug down next to his.
“For what?” His voice is quiet.
“I lied, when I said you were a cheap fuck.”
The silence this time is longer. I stand up to go. “I just wanted you to know that. See you around.”
He looks up, pissed. “What?”
I just have to kiss him. He’s too cute when he’s angry. “See you around,” I repeat, against his lips, and turn to go.
He grabs me. “You’re not leaving. Not this time.”
“No?” I look into his eyes. I can feel my heart beating, and it aches.
“You’re mine,” he says, and kisses me.
We fall back into the couch cushions, kissing, and it feels strange, because I’ve never had a kiss like this, where every movement of his lips and tongue says so much more than words, and I wonder why I didn’t figure it out earlier.
“You got me fired, you asshole,” I tell him, and he starts to laugh, kissing me again.
“You deserved it.”
“Did you know I’ve been dreaming of your mouth for years?”
“My mouth?” He looks confused.
“You give unforgettable blowjobs,” I confess.
He pulls me close, entangling his arms and legs with mine, and we laugh, squirming around each other before we get comfortable and settle down to cuddle.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” he says. “You know that?”
“Is it?”
“I hope you got all your shopping done.”
I pull him closer, nibbling at his ear. “I’ve got everything I want.”
He turns on a movie, and we fall asleep there on the couch, cuddling close.
I sleep that night and dream. Of him. Of pretty Tybalt wrapping his pretty lips around my cock, bobbing his head along my length, my hands in his hair coaxing him to take it harder, deeper, and he hums. Just for me, he hums.
I wake to the sound of someone humming.
Humming with a mouthful of my cock.
If I’m still dreaming, this is a damn good dream.
He grins, seeing me awake, and winks, keeping his eyes on mine as he glides the flat of his tongue over my glans. My head falls back with a sound that’s almost a moan. “Nng. Tybalt.”
“Mm?” He asks sweetly, perfectly aware of the buzz it sends down my cock. He bobs his head again, humming.
I prop myself up on my elbows, enjoying the view. “What are you humming?”
He lifts his head up long enough to answer, licking his lips once. “I Wanna Sex You Up.”
I stare at him, watching the way his curls bounce as he deepthroats, pushing farther and farther past his gag reflex each time. “Why are you humming cheesy eighties music?”
“I like cheesy eighties music. Do you want me to stop humming?”
“Don’t stop humming,” I say, glad when he goes down again instead of replying, and hums again, grinning at me. I start to laugh. I’m still laughing when I hit orgasm.
“Only you would hum cheesy eighties music while giving head,” I comment, panting. He’s still got a mouthful and doesn’t reply, sucking the last drops of come from me.
“Good morning to you, too,” he says, crawling up to cuddle me.
“Mm,” I reply, pulling him close to fondle his ass. “I got my Christmas wish.”
“What did you wish for?”
“Your mouth.” I grin. “So I thought I’d give you my ass, in return.” I roll over, presenting it to him.
He pinches. “It’s a very nice ass. All mine?”
“All yours. So what are you waiting for?”
“Umm. Condoms. And lube. And it might be nice to move to the bedroom and off the couch.”
I get up, pulling off my shirt and kicking away my pants. I’ve never believed in wearing underwear. Tybalt eyes me approvingly. I grin at him, completely shameless about my own nudity. “We can use lotion or cooking oil, if you haven’t got lube. And I’d rather not use condoms, if you don’t mind.”
He stands, wrapping his arms around my waist. “How come?”
I take his lips. “I want you to claim me.”
He returns the kiss, grinning, and then pulls me to the bedroom. “I can’t argue with that.”
We tumble onto his bed, kissing, rolling over with him on top.
“You need to be not clothed,” I tell him, stripping his shirt over his head and nuzzling his chest. His skin is sweet under my mouth, salty with a sheen of sweat. I run my fingers over the light down of hairs on his chest, grinning. “Do you have any more of that whipped cream?”
He kisses me again then moves to his knees, unbuttoning his jeans. “I thought this was about your ass.”
I lean over to help. “Are you in some kind of hurry? We’ll get there. We can use whipped cream as lube.”
He blinks. “There’s something deeply wrong with that.”
I push him down on his back and yank off his pants. “Mm, briefs.”
“I don’t like the look in your eyes.”
“What?” I grin, kissing him. “My Tybalt’s cute little tighty-whities?” I pull back the elastic of said article of clothing and snap it.
He yelps, smacking me. “Hey!”
I laugh and take another kiss, drawing his underdrawers from him and stroking my hand up his length, admiring him.
“Yeah, we need whipped cream,” I say, getting up suddenly.
He’s cut off mid-moan. “What?” He chases me into the kitchen. “You’re a horrible tease.”
I dig through the refrigerator, pulling out a large glass bowl of whipped cream and setting it on the counter. “We can go back in there and I’ll give you wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sex, if you’d prefer.”
His face darkens a bit. “I’ll take the teasing. That wasn’t funny.”
I hesitate, knowing an apology is in order but not liking it. “It was just a joke.”
“Wham-bam-cheap-fuck-sex, you meant?”
I trail a finger through the whipped cream, avoidant. “Not cheap fuck,” I growl, and then look up, meeting his eyes and daring him to challenge it. “Boyfriend. Mine.”
His lips are on mine again. I pull him close, smearing whipped cream across his shoulder, and this kiss is like our entire acquaintance: rough, hot, tense. His tongue darts into my mouth, dueling me for dominance. We fight with our tongues, griding our hips together roughly, pressed painfully close so that the kiss is bruising with frantic, passionate need. We break the kiss and just hold each other, clinging, so tight it hurts.
“Damn you,” he whispers.
We kiss again, briefly, making up for the bruises, making up for years of verbal and physical abuse we’d lashed on each other. When it breaks off, I nuzzle the side of his nose, grinning. “Whipped cream?”
He looks over his shoulder. “I think you got some on me.”
“Yes.” I lean around him, licking the cream off of his shoulder blade. “Mm. Tasty. Tybalt-flavored.”
He smirks, leaning on the counter by the bowl and dipping his finger into the cream, holding it up for me. “Tybalt-flavored?”
“My favorite.” I suck his finger into my mouth, licking it clean. After which I stop, blinking, and have to try the whipped cream off my own finger. “No, it’s not just you. This is really good.”
“It’s not just me?”
I try another fingerful. “I thought it might just taste that good because it was on you. Where did you get this stuff?”
“I made it.” He laughs, holding up another finger for me. “Can we focus?”
“You can make whipped cream?”
“Heavy cream, a blender, and sweetener. I use maple syrup.” He drags the finger down his chest, leaving a dripping white trail. “Focus?”
“Focusing,” I grin, pressing my lips to his chest and licking him clean. He repeats the process, dabbing cream onto each of his nipples and grinning at me expectantly. I wrap an arm around his waist, sucking the cream off, dragging the flat of my tongue over the tender pink nubs. He whimpers, tangling his fingers into my hair, and I extract another whimper by grazing my teeth across one of them.
“Mark,” he pants.
I look up at him with a questioning grin. He dips two fingers into the cream and smears it in a ring around the head of his cock, then licks his own fingers clean. I watch the movement of his tongue and lips on his fingers for a moment before imitating the action with my own lips and tongue, slowly working him farther in until I can deepthroat the whole thing, reaching under him to roll his balls gently across my fingers. He groans. “Oh, fuck, Mark, that’s good.”
I pull back, teasingly nuzzling the side of his prick, licking my way back up to the head. I play my tongue just along the underside, until he mews and pulls me away. I grin at him. “Yes?”
“Bend over the table,” he says, panting. “That ass is mine.”
That gets me off my knees fast. I kiss him quickly before bending over the table, curling my fingers over the edge to hold on and grinning back at him.
He laughs, picking up the bowl of cream and setting it down next to me. “Eager, much?”
“Yes, please, Tybaltcock, please.”
He leans over to kiss my cheek, laughing. “My turn to play.”
Scooping up some of the cream, he lets it drip down my spine, forming a little puddle in the small of my back. He leans over me, humping his erection into the crease of my ass lazily as he laps up the cream. A few melting droplets he lets escape, to glide around the curve of my ribs so that it tickles, and I fight the urge to squirm as he licks them away.
When he’s tortured there long enough, he takes another scoop, dropping this at the top of my ass and letting it drool slowly into my crack.
“Mm!” I twitch, holding tighter to the table, struggling to stay still. I hear him laugh, guiding it down and using it to glide a finger inside me, wiggling it around. I push back against him. “Do it.”
“You sure?” he asks, stretching me with a quick scissoring of his fingers.
“Would ‘oh please fuck me Tybs I need it need you want it hard’ be more convincing? Do it.”
“It might.” He guides his member to my entrance, pressing inwards. I squirm back against him so that the head pops inside, making us both gasp. “Like that?” He leans over me to drive it deeper, working it in patiently so I can adjust. I don’t have that kind of patience for my ass, so I push back, taking him to the hilt. I hear my name pass his lips. He seems to have gotten the message by now, that I don’t need him to be gentle. He pulls out and sinks back in with long, deep thrusts.
“Harder,” I beg, and he gives it to me.
I reach one of my hands down, quickly yanking myself off as he sinks himself into me again and again. I can tell he’s not going to last long at this. He gives a cry, sheathing himself in me as he comes, filling me deep, and I’m glad I’ve never done this without a condom before, because I’m glad I can give this to him, glad that it’s Tybalt alone who can fill me this intimately, the way I want to be claimed. He falls across me, while his cock is still spasming inside me, whispering roughly in my ear one word: “Mine.”
I cry out and come with that one word, milking the end of his orgasm with mine. He starts to laugh, softly, when we’re both done, and I laugh with him, happy, turning my head to kiss him.
“Shower?” he asks, clear that said shower is more for extended play than it is to get clean.
“Can we bring the whipped cream?” I ask.
“No.” He’s laughing, getting off me and taking the bowl. “Whipped cream in the shower?”
“It could work. Maybe.”
“We’ll save it for later.”
I stretch, watching his ass as he bends over the refrigerator to put it away.
“See you in the shower,” I say, spanking his ass once as I go by.
He doesn’t need to be told twice.