xxx Coy’s POV xxx

We like keeping the light low in the apartment. It’s got a pretty ambient glow, just like the little old oriental lamp from my nightstand back home that now sits on Keith’s messy little desk. He’s hunched over in a kitchen hair at said desk, spine visible once again through that red t-shirt. He’s pinned his bangs back and I watch him from the couch, boney little fingers darting out ever so often to tap away on his bitty purple calculator, then they go back to writing and drawing. I scratch the back of my head, petting my toes against the arm of the couch. “Whatcha working on?”

He doesn’t look up to acknowledge me, but his butt squirms. I hear a sigh escape his lips that I can’t see. “Some kind of … ass-hattery office-wear.”

“Oh?” I turn the music that’s sifting out of the ipod dock on top of the tv lower so I can hear him. “So like, a suit?”

“Ugh. Sort of. It’s for a woman though and it keeps …” I hear ripping of paper. “… coming out …” then crumpling of paper. “… SHITTY!” and he throws his arms in the air, tossing a neatly wadded ball of paper towards the ceiling; it bounces off and lands near the radiator. I sit up because throwing things means he’s especially unhappy about whatever he’s working on. And that, in turn, means he needs some sort of calming down. And by that I mean distraction.

He’s gone back to scribbling with his right hand, left one tangled in his hair, thin white scars left on his knuckles from asphalt. “’Cause business suits are ugly to begin with, but I don’t have a helluva lot of fabric so if I want it to be at least okay, it needs a jacket but if I have a jacket there won’t be fabric for much of a skirt and she can’t look like a SLUT, plus who wa ---”

I run my fingers down his jaw, standing behind his chair. He goes silent in an instant and my other hand plucks the dull yellow pencil from his dainty little fingers with their bitten nails. My eyes stray from his hand across the pad of lined paper in front of him, covered in doodles, centermost being a soft sketch of a very spindly woman in a runway sort of pose, wearing a short skirt, a tie and a pinstriped blazer with sling-back-fuck-me shoes. It’s not bad, in fact it’s gorgeous. Classy, not at all slutty. But he’s so self-deprecating sometimes, he’ll never be satisfied with this. I hunch down and bury my face in his hair, hands now grabbing at his chest to pull him into me.

He makes a noise that’s half sigh, half groan and he tips his head back onto my shoulder, twisting his neck to look at me. “Why’re you always distracting me?” he whines, cupping his hands over mine where they’re pretending to grab at boobs that he doesn’t have. He smacks them flat against him, halting my search for any breasty business, and I giggle into his blonde rooted hair.

“Same reason you feel me up when I’m cooking you dinner.”

“… ‘Cause I’m horny and I like seeing you frustrated?”

“That’s right.” I grin.

He hums and his nose pushes against my neck, hands leaving mine to reach behind him, tangling in my hair. I kiss whatever I can get to and I make his breath hitch.

“Carry me to the bedroom.” he mumbles and without a thought I let him go, spinning on my toes in front of him, hauling him up as a squirming little bundle in my arms. He giggles in that way that I know he tries not to giggle in because he snorts when he does it. So he’s giggling and snorting and squirming with arms around my neck as I carry him to bed, leaping onto it at the foot with him still in my arms, flipping in mid air until I’m behind him.

The mattress bounces a few times underneath us, making Keith giggle-snort. His legs are against mine, toes hooked into my ankles as he rests his against my chest and hums contentedly. “Five fuckin’ years …” he whispers, looking so nostalgic and happy that I get this warm pillowy feeling knowing that it’s because of me that he’s so happy. “Can you believe it?”

I sigh and kiss the side of his head, hands covering his again. His tiny little fingers are ice cold and he seeps my warmth with gratitude. He settles back into me even more, trying to snuggle so far into me that we aren’t even two people anymore. He raises his joined hands to his mouth and kisses mine and even his own. “I can’t believe you’ve stuck with me this long. Really.” I mumble sincerely and I swear that even after this long and after everything we’ve done, I’m still awed by the feeling of having another breathing pulsing beating human in my arms. “You’re a saint.”

He gives a Keith-like giggle-snort. “A lie, but very sweet anyways.”

I pet him and nuzzle the back of his neck. “What’s made you stay?”

“What?”

“I mean, we’ve known each other since we believed in Santa and now we’re dating and like common-law married. Since when does that happen?” This speech has been a while coming; I’ve been thinking of this for the past week. “That’s even past high school sweethearts, that’s barely-out-of-diapers. It’s like there’s an anvil above us just waiting to drop and the rope’s fraying and god I don’t wanna lose you.” I press our joined hands to his chest and heave deeply into his sweet citrus hair. “I’m gonna lose you.”

He sighs, thin chest rising and falling under my touch, same little heart beating against my palm. I have to stop calling him little, he’s grown up now and he isn’t a teen and he’s over five and a half feet tall now … But he’s so tiny. And frail. And always will be.

“It’s just luck.” he says simply. “Amazing luck. We’re lucky that we’re so alike. Lucky that we lived so close for so long. Lucky that we’re both fags, no matter if either of us influenced that. And I don’t wanna sound mean, but lucky that your father died and made you move here in the first place.” He pauses and makes a shot at redeeming that little faux pas by rubbing my hands into his chest. “Anything past that is just perseverance and good sense.”

“What if there’s someone else?” I whisper. “Another boy?”

He chuckles lowly, giving a small full body wiggle. “There’s no one else I’ll wanna be with, not now, not ever.”

“Not even him?” I say quietly, immediately regretting it when he tenses up so quick and so bad I can feel his muscles shake just a little. His hands fall from mine.

“Is THAT never talking about it again?”

“Nononono, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to, it was an accident!” I try to cover my mistake but he’s so sensitive sometimes. I guess I should explain.

It must have been a month or two ago, a Wednesday, definitely. But Brandon and Jeff invited us over to play cards and get drunk. (Well, get drunk for them, get tipsy for us. Neither Keith nor I can handle our liquor and the hangovers aren’t worth it.) And I don’t know if this whole thing was a drunken mistake or pre-meditated, but Jeff suddenly suggested a … swap, I suppose you’d call it. Simply enough, trading boys for the night, no strings or commitments attached. They noted that neither of us had ever slept with someone else and I’d be lying a bit if I said I wasn’t interested from get-go.

But then JEFF started kissing me, which at first was okay cause Keith agreed with this too, but a half-minute later it dawned on me, tipping on two legs of a kitchen chair, five playing cards spread out in front of me and a blonde boy spread out in my lap, that if I was with Jeff …

Woah.

I remember that that was my very first thought. Just woah, and then nothing else.

It was Keith … and Brandon.

As in, his brother. His closest blood relative. Seven years his senior BRANDON.

I’d stopped kissing Jeff to look. He was smiling but I was just stricken, not in horror ‘cause I’m relatively open-minded. People are people regardless of gender, heritage, status or in this case, DNA. I just … woah. Blindsided like mad. They were standing, I remember that because I wasn’t sure why. They were kissing and both looked so desperate and I’ve never seen such an extreme mix of disgusted and elated expressions in my life. Like they were internally battling, shoulder angels batting wings at devils throwing pitchforks, screaming to stop and keep going all at once.

But no matter what their conscious’ final decision, they kept going.

So did Jeff and I, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the other two. Two of the most gorgeous, fuck-worthy boys in the world doing the things like they were doing was all I saw it as and it got me so horny that I could barely breathe. Or maybe that was Jeff’s doing, gripping my ankles pushed above my head, grunting and groaning as he fucked me into the couch. (Side note: in all honesty, I’ve been on the receiving end of a fucking only once before. Keith was curious about it and I apparently didn’t explain it well enough so he tried it out on me, afterwards claiming that he liked it better the other way because this one was ‘too much work.’)

I watched Keith and Brandon as well as I could, only breaking to scream at Jeff for going too hard. They were beautiful and it was so synchronized that I’d think they’d been doing this kind of thing for their whole lives. They didn’t have full-out sex (which to this day makes me feel guilty that I did) but they did every other thing imaginable, even some things that I hadn’t thought of, which is certainly saying something. They’re beautiful.

But then it got bad. The next morning Keith woke up sweaty and dirty and tangled in his brother’s arms and he screamed bloody murder up to the twelfth floor and down to the first until his throat was hoarse. He screamed until it got so bad that neighbors banged anxiously on the door, ready to call the police. I wrestled some clothes on him and dragged him home where he drew a bath and didn’t move or speak all day, not even when the water got cold.

After that day, apparently some kind of grace period, he walked into the bedroom at four in the morning from where he’d slept on the bathroom rug and said the words “We’ll never speak of his again.” and crawled into bed next to me, freezing and smelling of bath beads, skin pink and rubbed raw. And as his wishes were, we never spoke of it again and we went back to almost normal, though Keith still refuses to visit Jeff and especially Brandon.

And now I’ve broken that traumatic vow of silence. I indirectly mentioned it and now I know that was bad but I just forgot that I couldn’t say anything! I expect him to scream again and wake everyone in the building or more, or I expect him to go rub his skin off in a hot bath, but I didn’t expect what he does.

He talks about it. His voice is hollow and odd, but he talks.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” he chokes out, pulling out of the loop of my arms, scootching to sit on the edge of the bed, smacking his bare feet onto the carpet. “I swear everyone knows. I swear it’s on the internet or on a billboard or something, everyone knows. I’ll die if they know, no one can know.”

“Keith, no one’s said a word, it’s just --”

“It’s not JUST!” he snaps, back still to me. “It’s not just anything. Do you know what this is like for me?”

“W-well …” God knows I have no idea. I try to relate anything. “I-I’m gay and I guess that’s sorta the same but you are too and --”

“That’s NOT the same.” he decides, voice angry and shaky. “Some people think that gays are disgusting, right?”

“I guess …”

“But there’s a community there, a group, a minority and other people like you to help. So the disgusting people triumph. But … THIS … this is … something even the disgusting people think is disgusting.” I think I hear him sob and those shoulders I’ve held so many times shudder. “There’s no community. Not a lot of like-minded people. No one fighting for rights or against oppression because it’s disgusting and deserves to be oppressed.”

“Keith, it’s not disgusting, stop it.” I try to coax him but I’m scared that he’ll hit me if I touch him. He looks at me now, visibly trying so hard not to cry. He can’t cry because if he cries I’ll cry and I can already feel tears bubbling up, making my vision swim until he’s a red smudge against grey.

“Not disgusting?” he sounds so mocking. Tears free themselves and drip onto the quilt between my crossed legs. “I got finger fucked by my own goddamn brother. That isn’t disgusting?”

“You know I’d never thin --”

“I sucked his cock more times than I can count and we share seventy-seven percent of our DNA. He’s the closest living breathing thing to myself. We came from the same woman and man, created from practically identical strands of chromosome.” He’s so angry, I’ve never seen him like this. He starts to cry but it doesn’t look like sadness, more angry ‘I-can’t-believe-I’m-crying’ crying. “We’ve got the same fucking eyes and we did stuff that you’re not supposed to do if there’s even a sliver of a chance that you’re related. And this is positive. One hundred percent flesh and blood brothers and he sucked his own come off my fingers. That isn’t disgusting?” he looks back to his feet. “Incest is a skip and a jump from fricken bestiality.”

I choke on tears and crawl behind him on the bed, burying my face in the back of his neck as I throw my arms around him.

“Get off.” he says quietly. I feel his tears drip onto my bare arms.

“It’s not disgusting.” I ignore his protests. “It isn’t gross and it’s no more wrong than being gay.” I sniff forlornly. “You’re two are beautiful people inside and out and who cares - who cares what other people think, that’s never stopped you before! You wear skirts and panties and yell and flip off bus drivers and this is no different than that, just an angsty little quirk that makes me love you even more.” I pause and breathe in deep. “It’s okay to feel this way. I mean it.”

I pour my heart out at him and wait for a response, a comeback, but he can throw anything at me and I’ll come up with a rebuttal, just try me.

“What about Jeff?”

“Huh?”

“You slept with him. Do you love him like I love Brandon?”

I rub my fingers through his hair when he starts to relax, but not back to his normal rag doll self. “How do you love Brandon?” I ask him.

His chest expands, thin ribs fighting against the second skin of his t-shirt, then he breathes out and it sinks back in, submitting to the rest of his body. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” I hold his hands, damp from rubbing tears away. His fingers lay limply in mine, not squeezing me back. "I think you love your brother very much.”

“Like how a little brother is supposed to love his older brother?” he says and I think I detect sarcasm.

“Yes … and no.” I hesitate. Normal brothers certainly don’t do the kind of things that these two do, but they still have that brotherly worrisome love in there. “I think that this is something you’ve always had, maybe even a long time coming, and that night was just twenty-two years worth.”

He doesn’t argue or agree. He worms his way out of my arms and pads out of the room; I hear nothing but the click of things as he turns off lamps, the TV, and the stereo. He comes back in, looking rather hollow and a bit lost, and he takes his pants off and crawls into his side of the bed. I sigh but say nothing else, following his lead by getting under the covers. I pull the quilt under my arm and look at him. He’s facing me, eyes red and cried out, thin lips turned down. He rolls over and I’m faced with his back and that thin track of spinal cord.

I don’t fall asleep right away but his deep, even breaths tell me that he has. Then about a half hour later, he speaks. “The worst thing is …” he makes a noise between a huff and a sigh. “… I’ll be fine tomorrow. I won’t think about this and I’ll be normal. You just wait.”

He’s right but I don’t know why. “What are we going to do about Cam and Phil?”

He answers quickly; maybe he’s thought about this. “Drive ‘till they forget everything.”


xxx Keith’s POV xxx

I roll over, sheets tangled in my feet. I look up the ceiling with my hair disheveled and my stomach bare, shirt involuntarily bunched up. I blink a few times and spread my arms out over the empty bed, listening to Coy in the kitchen, singing along to a song on the radio that’s perched on top of the fridge.

“‘Dames’” I quote inside my head. “‘Sometimes all they gotta do is let it out and a few buckets later, there’s no way you’d know.’” From where I’m lying, I can crane my neck to see the teetering stack of DVDs next to the television in the living room, all my favorites and I’ve seen them more times than I can count. Bored? Pop in a movie. Silent? Pop in a movie. I know lines off by heart, especially that one.

I see Coy’s hair before I see the rest of him, fluffy and thick and red, pulled back into a ponytail. He sticks his head in the bedroom door, black painted nails gripping the doorframe.

“You up?”

“Nnngh. Yeah.” I smile at prop myself up on my elbows, looking at him with my head cocked to the side, inquisitive.

“What?” he laughs, noticing my curious stare.

“You keep getting more and more gorgeous.” I grin and he blushes delicately, never the best at taking compliments. “Every day I wake up, I notice something else that’s beautiful.”

“Oh?” he saunters in, pulling the tie from his hair, shaking it until it lies nicely on his shoulders. He pets my hair, standing next to the bed. “What have you noticed this morning?”

I look him over from his pale skin down to the low boat neck of his shirt to his bright white belt, then legs hidden behind the mattress. Then back to his face.

“Your nose.” I say simply.

He wails and covers his nose with both hands. “I hate my nose.” he grumbles. “It’s so big.”

“A little bit.” I sit up. “But it’s cute and it looks like Mickey Rourke’s nose with a slope like that.”

He wails even louder and throws himself onto the bed, hands now covering his whole face. “MICKEY ROURKE? I HAVE MARV’S NOSE?!”

“Nonono,” I giggle. “I like it, I said. It’s today’s beautiful thing! I was complimenting you!” I crawl over the bunched up quilt and straddle his thin hips, trying to pry his hands off that beautiful face of his. I get them off and hold them down, watching a blush spread over his sloped nose. I didn’t lie, yeah, it’s big, but I LIKE big noses, especially his. “C’mon, I’m being nice here.”

He pouts and squirms beneath me.

“I made pancakes.” he finally tells me, submissive and quiet. I grin; I should have known, his hair was in a ponytail. I bend down and kiss him, that gorgeous nose and the face it’s on are now unbearably close and he’s letting me touch him. I take every kiss with thanks because I think of this as him letting me kiss him. It’s not a right, it’s a privilege and I love it.

“Are they done?” I ask breathlessly, still lingering in close, referring to the pancakes.

“Four of them are. I’ve got one on the pan now, but I think it’s probably burnt …”

“OHGOD!” I leap off him and roll off the bed, landing with a thump on the floor. I dash into the kitchen and see a pancake in the frying pan on the stove, uncooked batter bubbling away. I dive in with a spatula in my inexperienced hand and I flip it over, revealing a severely browned but not quite burnt pancake.

“Yesssss!!” I cheer, holding the plastic spatula over my head in triumph. “Another life saved!”

“Oh please,” Coy stumbles into the room, rubbing his head. “It’s hillbilly cake flipping, not brain surgery.”

“It is SO brain surgery, that young woman could have DIED, sir.” I paste a dramatic look on my face and jab an accusing finger at the pancake.

“I’ll remember to call you ‘doctor’ then.” he rolls his eyes, traipsing off to set the table. Each plate has a card suit on it, today I got spades, Coy gets diamonds and the serving plate gets clubs. We trade off because I’m lousy at flipping pancakes and would rather set the table instead.

“Are you sure you don’t want something else?” he comments from his watchdog stance at the stove, hair dutifully pulled back into a neat knot at the crown of his head. “I can make you an omelette or waffles if you want, even hash browns. Pancakes are so simple.”

I smile and stand up straight from where I’d been reaching across the table to throw a fork down at Coy’s place mat. “Nope!” I say cheerily. “Pancakes are fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” I slink up behind him, clasping my hands over his stomach. “You make better pancakes than Ihop.”

He laughs. “Sure, you might like pancakes and cakes and fattening stuff like that, but only because you can eat like a horse and not gain a pound!” he flips a pancake then leans away to toss it into the oven, inadvertently pushing back into me. “But whatever you eat, I eat, and I’ve actually had to start exercising.”

“What?” I didn’t know he did anything. I assumed he was naturally skinny like me. “You exercise?”

“Meh,” he shrugs. “Just sit-ups to keep my stomach from getting fatty.”

“Turn around!”

He sighs but I know he doesn’t mind, he listens and turns around, back to the stove. He’s just wearing a thin white tank top I made for him with a few bands of blue across the chest. I snatch the hem and push it up, ignoring his half-hearted ‘heeey!’ of protest. He’s right and I don’t know why I didn’t notice sooner. His stomach was just like mine, thin but soft, but now, I realize as I press my fingertips against his bare skin, it’s harder. Stronger. You can see thin outlines of developing muscle along with the sharp jut of his pelvic bone disappearing into the hem of pinstriped boxer shorts. I let my fingers move a little, traveling downward to the waistband of his shorts.

He smacks my hand away. “Don’t go down there unless you want to skip breakfast to finish what you start.”

The idea of missing breakfast terrifies me, so my hand goes back upwards. “God this is hot.” I mutter truthfully. Most people would rightfully say that it’s not much tone, but when all you’ve had is nothing … god. It’s like a thanksgiving dinner to an African child.

Coy blushes to the roots. “T-thank you. It’s nothing, I just go to that dinky little gym downtown while you’re at school …”

My left hand pushes his shirt up under his arms, baring the rest of his chest as my right one ghosts along carefully, pressing just hard enough to feel his muscles tense beneath the pads of my fingers.

“I’m serious,” I go on. “This is fantastic. You’re fantastic. Why didn’t I notice this before?”

He smiles and gives a little half-shrug. “You don’t pay attention to me anymore, twitter-boy.”

I open my mouth to call him a botard but I snap it quickly shut. “If I wasn’t so turned on, I’d probably kick you for that.” I end up telling him.

“What?! This is turning you on?” he says ‘this’ like him and his body aren’t better than god.

I don’t answer. Well, not a verbal answer. I shyly touch my lips to the center of his chest, just between his ribcages. Said chest moves when he draws a sharp breath in.

“I think you’re getting in too deep …” he says hoarsely, and I think I smell charcoal. “You just lost a patient.”

“For this piece of work, I’d lose a batch full of patients.” and I close my mouth around one of his nipples. He jerks forward and I hear a loud snapping ‘click’ as he turns the stove off. I open my mouth wide and just suck, hands spread on his back to bring him closer. His whole body is still so damn responsive, you’d think I hadn’t done this a thousand times. Even after five years he still seems like such a virgin sometimes … but then he'll start doing some veeeery not-virgin things and I change my mind.

But for now he’s squirming and half-whimpering like a little girl, though chances are good that he’ll switch over in a couple minutes. Quickies before breakfast are arguably the best sort of sex because you get to eat afterwards, and you might say that sex before lunch or dinner might be good too, but breakfast is the best because breakfast food is the best.

Those sharp hips of his nudge into mine and his fingers grip the metal edge of the stove when a shiver cascades beneath his skin, right under my lips. He makes another one of his tiny noises in the back of his throat when I tug one of his nipples between my teeth. One of the biggest rewards of cheating death and making it to twenty-two years of age is the height. The gorgeous, gorgeous height of five-foot-eight, less than a half-foot between Coy and I now, which means when he rubs his dick against me, it’s on my hip, not my stomach. He’s hard already? Hot damn. Either he’s getting easier or I’m getting better. Are twenty-somethings supposed to be this horny?

He gives a little moan and shifts and squirms even more. “Are you fucking seriously? Putting off breakfast for me?”

I let my hands slide around his back to grab his ass, pulling him into me. Sure, I’m smaller, but now that we aren’t so different in height, I can certainly get him going.

“You cared enough to tone this gorgeous body of yours …” I lean back and ghost my fingers over his stomach again, leaving our hips touching. He shivers once more, chewing the inside of his cheek. “So the least I can do is be cooperative and let you screw me.”

“No, the least you could do is kick me in the baby and run off to Idaho.” he pauses when I give him a weird look. “But seriously. Now?” he blushes. He likes somewhat ‘normal’ sex, surprises catch him off guard. “… Bedroom? Or …”

When I kiss him, I barely have to stretch to do it. There’s no sweet wind up on this one, I attack him open mouthed, hands squeezing his ass to grind his dick languidly into mine. He breathes in deep, sucking the air out of my lugs, leaving me dizzy and clinging to him. Our bodies are plastered against one another, his thighs warm under thin boxers lining my own bare ones in a wide stance. He’s eager and so horny; I chew on his tongue and I take a step back, my hold on him makes him follow obediently. I feel my bare feet cross from linoleum to carpet and my ass bumps against the couch.

With a heavy exhale, I let my hands roam from his backside up his spine and around his neck, smoothing one of my thumbs against his hot-to-the-touch pulse point. We’re so close and his breath smells like pancake batter. “Not in the bedroom …” I press the pad of my index finger against his bottom lip, giving his lip ring a little tug. “Right here.” I decide. “You’re going to bend me over this couch …” I pat the arm of the couch behind me for emphasis. “… and fuck me.” I hiss, leaning in close.

He makes one of his shocked exhale noises and switches over from virgin to decidedly NOT virgin. How he acts depends on how I act, when I’m passive, he’s not. I think he files his teeth down ‘cause they’re so fucking sharp; he tilts his head and bites at my throat, my adam’s apple between his teeth, his nose smushed against my skin. My breath hitches in my throat and wisps back out again as a groan.

Coy can be so impatient, but I think it might be because he doesn’t want his pancakes to go to waste. The tight bun he’s twined his hair into is starting to come undone, half of it curling around his jaw. Any form of ponytail he makes never stays long, his hair’s far too layered. But now the tie slips out completely when he whispers my name and grabs my noodle-armed excuse for biceps, spinning me around before I can comply. His hands and hips keep me pinned, bent over the arm of the couch, facing the window strung with lights. My hands dig into the cushion and my hard-on’s trapped between my stomach and the upholstery which ends up not being too bad of a thing when I get to rub it into the couch for friction.

I close my eyes because I trust him; his hair drapes across my shoulders as he kisses a sweet path down my spine, blessing each vertebrae with his lips. The last visible one gets a wet lick before it disappears into my ass, which doesn’t stop his descent. He runs his tongue down my ass crack and bites the inside of my thigh. He knows me too well.

He moves back up with one of his hands on my ass, helping me to grind into the couch with added pressure, making me pant out my teeth. He mumbles something I don’t quite catch through his hair and spit-slicked mouth, but then he pulls my underwear down around my thighs and smacks me to get me to spread my legs. My nails make a women scraping noise when I squirm and widen my stance, bare feet slipping to find purchase on the cheap carpet. Coy leans over me to reach towards the coffee table, flicking books and magazines out of his way until he finds a small bottle of lube that we threw there only god knows when.

I close my eyes to prepare myself mentally, taking a few deep breaths as I hear his boxers slip off and land on the carpet around his ankles. After a few more seconds of him doing something or other, he kisses my spine again, then nothing torturously slow. He all but slams his cock into me and I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my teeth, squirming and arching as he laughs breathlessly against my shoulder before straightening up.

“You aren’t bored of me, are you?” he whispers and I think he smiles. He isn’t really moving yet, just rubbing his torso into me.

“Why would you - think that?” I manage to choke out, pushing back on him and down into the couch, anything to get rid of that fucking tension. He has to doubt himself now?

“We’ve done this before, if you recall. Right here with you bent over the arm of this very couch.” he continues, yanking my hips to his slowly moving ones, creating the beginnings of that odd pace of his. “You don’t mind?”

“Faster …!” I gasp out, ignoring him completely, though that’s an answer in itself. What he’s doing right now isn’t gonna get me off and I’m sweating buckets as it is, gnashing my teeth to keep from babbling at him.

He just chuckles, hands running down my sides. “As you wish.”

His fingers and especially his thumbs dig into my fleshy hips and he finally finally finally starts pounding my ass into the couch like I’d been half-thinking of since I woke up. His hands never leave my thighs and he pushes and pulls me however he sees fit, timing everything so nicely that I get all breathless and twisty, mouth falling open in a hoarse whine, begging him to go faster.

“Oh god …” I start to pant as my glasses begin to slip off my nose, clacking off and bouncing on the couch cushion after they fall. Sweat beads at the back of my neck, under my arms and the back of my thighs where Coy’s are hitting against mine. I get louder and louder, shouting more gibbering orders and listening to the dirty cuss he spits back.

That familiar feeling starts in the toes on my right foot and crawls up my leg straight to my balls and it fucking boils there and I find myself screaming and begging him to finish me off. I dig my toes into the carpet and hump into the couch, swallowing and moaning. I’m so damn close but I feel his body go rigid and his grip gets painful. I grimace and moan at the same time when I feel his come spurt inside me coupled with his forever held-back shout; he’s never been loud, not as loud as me, he’s so polite.

I feel his dick start to shrink inside me and I start to beg again. “Oh lord, fuck -- Coy, don’t stop, I’m so close, god I’m close, just … fuck!”

But he pulls his cock out and I know he’s done for the time being. But this is Coy Russel and he’s beautiful and better than fucking Jesus eating birthday cake. He gets on his knees, keeping me where I am by wrapping hands around my sweaty thighs, moving in for the kill. He sticks his tongue in my goddamn ass. That’s all it takes, that’s how close I was when he stopped. With him working some fucking magic along with a few carefully placed thrusts into the couch, the feeling in the back of my balls skyrockets through my dick and I come.

My jaw’s trembling and my knees go completely useless; I slump off the couch and land on Coy, legs tangled and spread. He laughs as he always does after I come and his hand crawls down my chest and wipes jizz off my stomach and chest, making me shiver and sigh. He drops me to the side like a sack of potatoes and kneels to suck at the stain I’ve left on the couch.

I roll my eyes and put my disgust aside, pulling my shirt down from where it was bunched under my arms due to couch-grinding. Sweat stains plague the neckline and armpits so I pull it over my head just in time to catch Coy staring at me, apparently done.

“What?” I snap.

He grins and evil grin if I’ve ever seen one and I know he’s being a pervert somehow. “I’m still not used to seeing any blonde hair on you.” he giggles, wagging his index finger at my armpit. I haven’t shaved for a while. I scowl and blush.

“You see my crotch all the time, you can’t get used to blonde?”

“Used to that blonde …” he looks around, trailing off. “But I’d rather not sit here and talk about your pubic hair.” he stands and smiles, yanking his underwear back up.

“Oh don’t lie, everyone wants to sit here and talk about my pubic hair.” I pull myself up on the couch, knees still weak as I shimmy my damp panties back up, snapping the waistband. “No use in denying it, hun.”

“Sorry, your majesty.” he rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean to offend you by deciding to eat pancakes instead of chatting about your triumphant leap into puberty.”

I laugh as he sits down at the table, not bothering to wash his hands.





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