Another Hotel Bar

I sat back on your pelvis and then fell onto your chest, spent. We laid there, neither of us moving, our breathing slowing. We dozed off, you covered in my cum, me laying in it.

We spent the next two days in bed, flip-flopping, eating little and sleeping less.

I rode you. You did the same to me. You reverse cowboyed me. I did the same to you. I fucked you in front of the bathroom mirror, so I could see you. You did the same to me. You fucked me missionary, my hips hanging off the edge of the bed. I did the same to you.

By the morning of day three (the night of your arrival didn't count), we stank of body odor and cum and sweat. We didn't care.

"Jesus Christ," you said early in the morning of that third day. "My ass is gaped and my dick and lips are raw. I can't take much more. My dick's a noodle." You raised the sheet and showed me your soft phallus lying exhausted against your right hip. "I mean, he looks so so sad."

He did. He looked like he may never wake up.

I was like you, gaped and raw. I was unlike you in that I also had a very sore jaw.

In my life, I had never had forty eight hours like the prior forty eight hours, from a sexual standpoint. We had been relentless, giving and taking and then giving and taking some more. We had been equal parts selfish and selfless.

"Mine's no more enthusiastic," I said, showing you that I, too, was beaten to a pulp, wrinkled and lifeless against my sack.

We were in my bed, which was a mess. The sheets were tangled and wet with fluids.

I buried my head in your armpit. I loved the smell of a man's armpit, especially when it smelled of life.

"You're a freak," you said. I marveled at the observation. I mean, of all the things I had done to you or let you do to me, smelling your armpit was what made you break and label me a freak.

"For you," I said, admitting more than I wanted and licking your pit to try to distract from what I had admitted.

You pulled me to you. I put my head on your chest and my hand on your stomach. I laid there, listening to your heart and pretending things were happening that weren't.

"When do you leave?" I asked, when we had drifted back awake, my head still on your chest.

"I don't even know what day it is," you answered.

"You arrived Thursday.... It must be, what, Sunday?" I asked.

"We have all day," you said, crawling out from under and then over me. "I don't leave until tomorrow morning. First flight out."

Ten minutes later, your "little man" -- as you called your penis -- was engorged, lubed, and sheathed in my channel, sweat dripping from your chest onto mine as you again throttled me missionary, my legs tucked in your elbows. A thought shot through my mind, and I started to laugh.

"What's funny?" you asked, stopping and staring. "Is it me?"

"No no," I answered. "You're great. This is great. I was just wondering, as you got close and were about to unload in me yet again, whether I had more of you in my ass or in my stomach."

"It's close," you said, starting back at me. "I think I'm about to put your ass in the lead, but you're a total cum dumpster right now."

"Cum dumpster?" I thought. "Who is this guy?"

When I took myself in my hand, you slapped it away. "Nope," you said. "I'm going to spray my load inside of you, then you're going to straddle me and spray yours all over me like you did the other night.... That was so fucking hot."

I could tell you were getting close. Over our weekend together, I had come to recognize your pre-O face, the set of your jaw, the way your mouth gaped open, and the way your eyes fixated on mine just before you clenched them shut, clenched your whole body still, and then swelled and shot.

You collapsed onto me. I rolled you off and scrambled over you. I jacked myself hard as you stared, your eyes fixed on what was going on directly over your chest.

For the first time ever, I came without shooting, my orgasm starting at my core and tingling out the tip of my dick dry. "Oh shit," I thought, my hand still working. "I'm going to come again." I did, about thirty seconds after the first one, this one wet and spraying your face and neck.

When I was finished, I collapsed beside you and, for the first time, noticed a pool just below your breastbone. Instinctively, I traced through it with my forefinger, realizing as I did that it was yours and that it had leaked out of me while I straddled you and wrought my first multiple orgasm ever.

We settled back together. Silence enveloped us. All I could hear were our breaths, which were soon in unison.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," you finally interjected. "But, I think I'm fucked out."

I knew exactly what you meant. But, I had thought that before I worked you back to life and you then used my work against me, railing me.

"Agreed," I answered. "Let's shower some of the sex off of us, grab something to eat, and spend a little time conversing, like adults."

We did just that, me showering first and then slapping together what I called my favorite white trash lunch -- grilled cheese and tomato soup -- while you showered. I was in grey sweats and a black tank. You were in jeans, the waist and fly open, and shirtless, beads of water still on your chest and shoulders. You'd never admit it, but you were working a look.

Over lunch, you told me about your nomadic childhood, your time at the University of Iowa, your erstwhile dream of being a veterinarian, meeting and marrying Kelly, and your three boys. I told you about my fundamentalist upbringing (my parents did not allow alcohol in our home and would not attend a wedding or any other event where alcohol was served), my time at college and then business school, my first marriage (to a woman), my second marriage (to a man), and my middle age decision to commit to stop chasing the fairy tale and commit to a life of "GF&CF" (good friends and casual fucking).

However, the feelings that stirred while we talked were inconsistent with GF&CF. I broached them.

"Do you think you'll ever date a guy?" I asked.

"Nah," you answered immediately. "I'm straight. I mean, I like playing with guys, obviously. But, I have no desire to date one. I'm just not cut from that cloth."

"You don't think you're bi?" I probed.

"No. I've thought a lot about it. I think hat, if I were bi, I'd be interested in dating either gender. I'm not. Like I said, I like playing with guys, but that's it. There's no emotion or feelings involved. Not even the hint of them."

My hopes -- as faint as they were -- were dashed. Surprisingly, I was a bit crestfallen.

"Tell me something about you that you haven't told anybody else," I urged, trying to pick myself up.

"Why would I do that?" you asked. "I mean, we barely know each other, really."

"Maybe," I answered, "because you have for the past sixty hours or so used me as you, what was it, 'cum dumpster'"?

You paused and considered my rationale. "Alright," you finally surrendered. "But, it's pretty fucked up."

"Oooh," I chirped. "I like fucked up."

"I fantasize about having a three-way with my ex, Kelly, and Marcus," you admitted, sheepishly.

"You filthy whore," I diagnosed. "That is fucked up."

"I can't help it. He's hot and hung. Before I got fucked, I fantasized about fucking him while he was fucking Kelly. Now, I'd like to know what it's like to be fucked by him while I'm fucking Kelly. I'd still like to grudge fuck him to exact just a hint of revenge for the cuckolding, but only after he fucked me."

"I'd like to see either or both of those," I admitted. "How do you know Marcus is hung?"

"It was evident in everything he wore," you said. "There was just nowhere to hide it. it's probably what intrigued Kelly in the first place. I mean, his bulge was always just so... I don't know... prominent? Anyway, what about you, tell me something about you that you haven't told anyone else."

"Me?" I asked pulling back and feigning innocence.

"Yes, you," you insisted. "I suspect based on very solid evidence that there's some filthy whore in there somewhere."

"Alright," I retreated, as fast as the French. "I'm an Irish twin. My parents eschewed birth control, so my brother Austin is only elevent months older than me. Growing up, we shared a room. My first crush wasn't a celebrity. It was Austin. When I hit puberty, I was all Austin all the time. I wanted him so badly it kept me awake at night."

"Did you ever get him?" you asked.

"No," I answered, dejection in my voice. "He's the apple that didn't fall from the tree at all. He's more fundamentalist than my parents. When I came out, he went years without speaking to me. We've made peace since, but it's a fragile peace. We keep it by being as superficial as we can be with each other. He doesn't ask about my life, and I don't ask about his."

"Does he know you wanted him?" you asked, reaching your hand to my arm and hold my forearm.

"In retrospect, he must," I said. "I think that was part of his issue when I came out. I think he revisited our teen years and, in hindsight, was like, 'Oh my, I bet Jacks was into me, not just the doting little brother I thought he was'."

"It would have made for one helluva story, if you had gotten him," you said, glee on your face. "Can you imagine? Your parents on their knees in one room praying the devil away and their boys down the hall letting him in?"

"I think the story would have been abridged," I answered. "We'd have been one and done and then he'd have beaten me to a pulp or had me committed to a conversion camp.... That's probably why I got married in the first place. I was convinced that I couldn't be what I was. If I had given in to it sooner, I'd have been interned to 'pray the gay away'. I knew kids who were."

"We should discuss happier things," you deflected, a wry smile on your face. "I put my plug back in, after my shower."

"You are a filthy whore," I said, knowing why you had done what you had done. Even if only once more, you wanted to get fucked again before we called it. I agreed, but with a twist.

"Show me," I added.

You turned and slowly slid your jeans over your peach. When your jeans were behind your knees, you bent over and touched your toes, the glass base clearly visible between your globes.

"Step out of those and come with me," I directed.

You did as you were told. I made a nest on my deep, leather sofa. I stripped, pulling my black tank over my head and my grey sweats over my surprising erection.

I climbed in and held the blanket so you could climb in, too, your back to my chest. When you were settled, I found the base of the plug and twisted it back and forth and then slid it in and out before sliding it out altogether.

"I'm going to plug you, Clayton," I whispered as I slowly entered you. "You don't need toys when you have me."

You answered me with a deep, chesty moan and a slight wiggle that freed me and allowed me to enter you fully, all the way to my base. We spent the better part of the afternoon watching Fleabag with me buried inside you, our own version of "Netflix and Chill." Each time I started to flag, I whispered Clayton, and you worked me hard again from the inside. It was a pro move for someone who still had cherry juice in him.

At some point, you got the giggles. Each time you tried to suppress them, they came back stronger.

When I insisted on knowing what was so funny, you squeaked out something about a year ago and "now I've been lying here for over an hour with a dick in my ass, a hard dick no less."

"A soft dick would have slipped out," I helped, which only made you laugh harder. I could feel your laughter around my erection, and it revved my engine. I placed my right hand on your right hip and slowly fucked you, the way I like to fuck. Your laughter turned to feathery gasps.

"Go faster, Jacks," you urged.

"No, Clay," I answered. "This may be my last time fucking you, for awhile if not forever. I'm doing it my way."

Slowly doesn't mean softly. I went in hard at the count of one and withdrew at the count of three.

My orgasm started in my core and then slowly radiated out. By the time I released it into you, my entire body was tingling with pleasure and sweat.

"I came," I said, not knowing if you knew.

"I know," you answered. "I could feel it, first the swelling, then the releasing. I think I felt it more because you went so slowly."

I softened and, as I had foretold, slipped out. I played with your chest hair and your navel before taking hold of your erection, not working it, just holding it. I hid my face in your hair. I whispered your name.

I shouldn't have fucked you like I had. It was the way I normally made love, and I couldn't be making love to you. This wasn't that, couldn't be that.

I got angry with myself. I needed to change the mood.

"Get up," I said, shoving you a bit.

"Why?" you asked. "This is so comfortable."

You were right. It was comfortable. Too comfortable. If I stayed behind you like that, my face in your hair, my hand on your body, my breath matching yours, it was going to make your leaving more and more difficult.

When you left, you couldn't take any of me with you. I had to make sure of that.

"Get up," I reiterated, again shoving you, this time a little more than a bit.

"I want you to fuck me like you want to fuck Marcus, a 'grudger' I think you called it." I wanted you to fuck the feelings out of me.

We started with me on my back on the edge of my bed. I couldn't hear anything but your groaning and your skin slapping against my ass. "Harder," I demanded.

You flipped me over and pressed my face into the comforter, my ass still high. You steadied my hips with your hands. You railed me. It wasn't enough. "Harder," I demanded.

You moved me to my feet. You pushed me hard against the wall, unwittingly giving me a little of what, for the first time even, I craved. You rammed back into me and pounded into me, recklessly. I couldn't resist. My head banged against the wall, my arms not enough to keep me free of it.

"Come on, Clayton," I pleaded. "Give it to me. Give it to me as fast and as hard as you can. Grudge fuck me, Motherfucker."

You shoved me to the floor. I landed hard. You gripped my shoulders and re-entered me. You put your weight on my shoulder blades through your hands. You pounded into me, over and over, like a jackhammer.

Your weight on me hurt. Your pounding hurt worse. I loved the hurt. It cleansed me and reminded me at the same time. This thing, what we were doing, was carnality and lust, physical, and that's all. No emotions. No feelings.

My ass ached when you finally released into it with a final, savage thrust. My body ached when you dropped onto me, your body spent from the exertion I had demanded.

"Jacks?" you asked, rolling off of me. "Are you alright?"

"I'm alright," I answered.

But, I didn't move. I had been fucked to a pulp.

"I'm so sorry," you said. "I think I got carried away. That was... I don't know... It seemed almost violent."

You were right. We had been on the edge, almost brutal.

"You didn't get carried away," I said. "You did what I wanted... what I needed."

I knew we were finished. I dragged myself to the shower. I sat in the middle of it, pushing whatever of you that in me back out. I struggled up and washed my hair and then my body. I was exhausted.

You were packing when I exited the shower.

"It's yours if you want it," I said, my towel around my waist.

"Thanks," you said. "I'll finish up here, shower, and then we can go grab something to eat, if you're up for it."

We did just that. At dinner, you asked what had happened and whether I was okay.

I was candid with you. I told you that I was starting to feel for you, that my questions about dating a guy were self-interested, that you dashed me, that I didn't take the dashing, and that I was making love to you on the sofa.

"Then what happened next makes no sense to me," you said.

"It did to me," I answered. "I basically had you fuck those feelings out of me."

"Jesus, Jacks," you responded, your voice flat.

"I know," I acknowledged.

"Thank you for your honesty," you said. "This just isn't that. Sometimes, I wish it was, as it seems so simple with you. But, it isn't. I felt the same when you were behind me. 'This is too intimate,' I thought. But, it was so good, I didn't want to stop it. I should have. I knew I needed to."

You reached your hand to mine. "I don't know if I will ever see you again. But, if I do, it can't ever be like it was the last time. It just can't. It was out of control. I could have hurt you."

"I agree," I answered. "I felt the same way. I was out of control. I think I might have wanted you to hurt me."

"Jesus, Jacks," you said, your voice again flat.

I didn't have an answer.

We paid and left. We drove back to my home in silence.

"I think I should sleep in here," you said, stopping at the second bedroom. I was not surprised.

I stripped and climbed into my bed. I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I awoke in the middle of the night to you climbing into my bed. "I hope this is okay," you whispered, as you sidled toward me, slipped your arm over me, and pulled me back into your body.

"It's more than okay," I whispered back.

We spent the rest of the night with you wrapped around me. At some point in the darkness, you told me you wanted to fuck me one more time before you left, "to wash the stain away."

By the time the alarm went off, I was on my back and you were over me, your erection sliding in and out of me while my hands gripped you, trying to pull you deeper than you could go. Every once in awhile, you'd stop sliding and lean down and kiss me. I'd grab your face and pull your tongue into my mouth.

"You feel so good," you said, your words catching in my mouth.

"YOU feel so good," I answered.

We didn't stop the alarm. Instead, we used it, your pace matching the beep beep beep of the alarm. If I hadn't been as turned on as I was, I'd have laughed at the absurdity of it.

"Grab your dick, Jacks," you directed. "I'm getting close. I want you to come with me.... I want us to come together.... I want to feel you come when I'm coming."

I did as I was directed. I jerked my dick in pace with the alarm and with you.

"Oh fuck!" I said, as the heat built inside of me and started radiating out. "I'm gonna cum, Clay. I'm gonna cum."

Before you could answer, I arched my back and ripped an orgasm. My dick felt like it was on fire as volley after volley of scalding cum hit my neck and chest.

I didn't realize it, but you had stopped when I had yelled that I was going to cum. You had wanted to feel my orgasm around your dick and watch it escape me.

When I was finished, you leaned down and kissed me. "That was so hot," you said, your words again caught in my mouth.

"Do you have any energy left?" you asked. "If you do, I'd like to switch places and watch you ride me out."

"You didn't come?" I asked.

"No," you answered. "I was close... am close."

I didn't answer your question about my energy. I just rolled you, your erection never leaving me as we traded places. I rode you like I had ridden you that first time, the smack smack smacking of me against you matching the beep beep beeping of the alarm that seemed to have no end.

You signaled your approach to the finish line. "Oh fuck... Oh fuck... Oh Jacks... I'm there, Jacks, I'm there... Here it comes... Oh fuck... Oh fuck... Oh fuck."

When I felt you swell, I stop riding and sat flat on your pelvis, using my channel to squeeze your orgasm out of you. As you came, you raised up off the bed, your eyes clenched shut, your mouth open and a growl emanating from it. "Fuck... fuck... fuck" you said as I tried to strangle your dick with the walls of my channel.