59. Dex

Ishudder as I clap my palms against the black lacquered cabinet hiding the fridge, and it only intensifies when he steps in behind me, right in, his chest plastered to my back and his dick rigid between my cheeks and his thighs immovable behind mine. The warmth of his body is spellbinding, and I allow my eyes to drift closed, if only to absorb through my pores all the delights I can't see.

He wraps his arms around me, one a vice around my chest, the other with fingers splayed tight across my lower stomach, and rests his chin on my shoulder, face tilted inwards so his breath skitters across my jawline as his heartbeat thumps against my shoulder blade.

‘The things I want to do to you,' he whispers, and it's more confiding than threatening. ‘Everything—I want to do everything. I don't know where to fucking start.'

‘Do it all,' I tell him. I'm not giving him permission—I'm pleading. I need him to do unto me whatever the fuck he wants, things that are so wicked, so depraved I can't even conceive of them, even while they exist as part of his vernacular.

I want him to show me, and do me, and take my hand, and walk me over the bridge, and let me see.

Let me see what I've been denying myself.

He laughs, low and musical, in my ear. ‘Brave, foolhardy boy. What if I told you I want to fuck you so hard in that tight little arse I'll split you in fucking two?'

‘I'd say,' I begin recklessly, and then recalibrate my risk profile to levels more appropriate for the future wellbeing of my digestive system, ‘I'd say, work me up to that, please.'

He laughs again, like his brand-new fuck toy has delighted him, and I laugh with him, mainly from relief that not being able to have his way with me here and now doesn't seem to be a dealbreaker for him.

‘How does the idea of my fucking you there make you feel?' he asks, the greased palm on my stomach sliding slickly down to tug lightly on my cock. It jerks in his hand.

‘Ahhh.'I let out another groan, as shuddery as it is involuntary. ‘I want it—I want it so badly.'

‘Has anyone been back there?'

‘Only a woman,' I confess shamefully, the gulf between my lived experience and Max's feeling infinite in this moment. ‘Her, uh, finger.'

‘Okay,' he says, hand burrowing beneath my cock to cup and fondle my balls, and I turn my head closer to his face, because I cannot. I cannot. ‘I can work with that. Hang on.'

He pulls away slightly, taking another two-fingered scoop of coconut oil from the jar on the counter, and I mentally remind myself to run for the hills if I ever catch him cooking with that shit. But then those two fingers find the cleft of my arse, and he's rubbing oil the entire way down my crease, all the way to my perineum, and holy fucking Christ, the sensual slide of his fingers as he rubs that place has me moaning again and arching back against him, and he laughs like I'm the most amusing plaything on the planet.

Better amusing than pathetic, I suppose.

When his body presses right up against mine, though, I stand straight, my arms braced in front of me. He adopts his previous position: arm around my chest, hand around my cock, and begins to jerk me off as his own cock lies thickly, snugly, in my cleft. I stand there and take it, drinking in every miraculous second of his ministrations, and it's only when I'm shuddering so hard I can barely stand that he pauses.

‘Step back. Bend over further.'

Jesus Christ.

I do as he says and he drags his fingertip through my crease until he finds the opening he's looking for, pressing in and breaching it as he finds my cock again with his other hand and begins to pump.

‘Holy fucking hell,' he groans. ‘You are fucking sinful, you know that? How the fuck can you be this perfect? I'm going to sodomise you every fucking way I know, make no mistake about it.'

His words roll over me like the sickest, most sacred oath I've ever, ever been privy to. The oil is making everything slick and easy and wonderful, but his finger inside me, thicker and stronger and more ruthless than Claudia's, still feels like the filthiest kind of invasion. And when he crooks it and pushes down on my prostate as he makes the strokes of my dick impossibly more vicious, I feel my balls tighten into fucking walnuts as the heat rips through my abdomen like a fire in an oxygen tank.

There's nowhere to go, no way to escape, and I'm writhing beneath his touch, my palms sweating and sliding against the front of the fridge.

‘Use your abs like a good fucking boy,' he growls. He sounds as out of control as I feel. His hand is a blur as I stare down at it, that jabbing finger is ruining me from the inside out. And then I'm soaring and cresting and emptying myself all over the immaculate black lacquer of his pretentious new kitchen as he pumps and pumps and pumps.

He catches me once he's happy I'm fully spent, hauling me upwards and spinning me around and pressing me up against the fridge so my arse cheeks meet my ejaculate. And there he captures my mouth in a frenzy of lips and teeth and tongue.

I don't hesitate. I close my eyes against the lightheadedness that comes from shooting my load and straightening up, and I wrap my hand around his beautiful, monstrous cock. The cock I couldn't look away from last week.

It shouldn't feel that different from holding mine, but it does. It's bigger. Hotter. Its latent power is more palpable. I wrap my fist around it and look down in awe at the wonderfully raw, ruddy crown, at the way it pulses when I squeeze. My hand finds a rhythm, and my fevered mind reels, and my head hits the cabinet as he leans in to pinch my jaw between his thumb and forefinger, forcing my mouth open, his tongue jabbing inside as it keeps time with his cock.

I'm pleasing him. More than pleasing him, I'm unspooling him, it seems, and pure, sweet pleasure courses anew through my body. I have no idea how, but he's as much putty in my hands as I am in his.

He comes, his tongue in my mouth, his cum painting my stomach, my dick, my thigh, branding me just as he did in the shower that night.

Only this time it's my hand around his cock as he shatters.