Johnny Hedonic

You sit on the bed, back against the headboard, cradled by pillows, clad only in a cozy cable knit sweater and a pair of knee socks. Your skinny legs apart, your upright erection so big and bald and handsome.

I stand next to the bed, looming over you, nude save for the black mesh stockings that rise midway up my stupendous thighs and the black nitrile gloves on my small, delicate hands.

Your eyes dart from the gloves to the items on the bedside table, then back to me, roaming over my swirls of deliberately unkempt body hair and my own uncircumcised penis, statuesquely small and beautiful.

I know you want it. Good.

NeuralNet reminds me that I'm getting low on gloves. The algorithm automatically selects a retailer with warehouses in my area and affixes it to a set of neurons in my hippocampus for later use.

I lean in, cradle your face in my gloved hands, my heavy chest and belly dangling like ripe fruit. (No, you're not allowed--not yet.) Our mouths are close; we breathe each other's breath. I don't kiss you.

I ask you, in a lilting voice, if you'd like me to fuck your little slut asshole, in a way that makes clear that it's not a question so much as a command.

Without answering, you obey. You turn over and get down on elbows and knees, facing away, ass presented to me, your cock, scrotum, and anus a delightful pink tableaux.

Feeling lecherous, and not particularly ashamed of it--never in my life, really--I lean in and inhale.

Your sweat, your spice, the stale warmth of the room, the musk of your ass, it all melds into a tantalizing scent. NeuralNet copies it from my olfactory system and automatically archives it for later retrieval.

Already I've gotten to know you so... intimately.

I take the bottle of lubricant from the table and squeeze a drop into my palm. I rub it all over my gloves, deliberately making wet, squishy noises between my hands.

NeuralNet notifies me that the silicone-based lube we've selected is suitable for anal sex. These alerts come and go, wafting through my cortex like background conversation. I don't even notice them anymore.

I inform you that I'll be finger-fucking you now. I don't ask for permission. I just wait for you to say no.

You say nothing, but your little body squirms inside your cavernous sweater. Unbidden, your pretty pink balloon knot flexes its formidable muscle; your balls tighten and loosen.

You're so fucking cute.

I want to ruin you.

The lube shines on the black nitrile, still warm from the friction of rubbing my hands together. I let it cool.

While I wait, the NeuralNet newsfeed suggests an editorial about the inherent trauma of penetration, of how altogether invasive it is for one person to put part of their body inside the body of another.

Fair enough, I think, as I touch just the pad of my index finger to your asshole. A jolt runs through you; goosebumps race across the flesh of your muscular ass and the backs of your thighs.

The vulnerability of penetration, the trust it requires, just makes it that much sweeter.

I give you a moment, just letting you sit with the feeling of my cold finger, then I trace the pretty little seam that runs from your anus down your perineum. I could follow it all the way to your frenulum.

My finger stops at the backside of your balls. I wrap my thumb and forefinger around the base of your scrotum and squeeze, a gentle strangulation, watching it turn red, watching the veins stand out.

NeuralNet flashes a warning that unimpeded circulation is critical for the transportation of oxygen to the internal organs. I release you before it can connect me to sponsored articles on the subject.

I press my fingertip against your clenched anus. It indents a little under the pressure. I suggest to you that you take a deep breathe, squeeze down, then exhale and release, but you're already doing it.

My finger slips easily inside you, already up to the second knuckle. We're both accustomed to this part by now--you, the initial tension of penetration, me, the delicate touch that the procedure requires.

You're so warm and soft inside. The ring of muscle at your entrance grips my finger like a newborn baby. I playfully push on the raised surface of your prostate, watching your penis bob in response.

I ask you how we're doing, and you whisper that we're doing great, and I ask you if you want a second finger, and you tell me yes in a way that all but demands it.

I pull out, and push again, inserting two fingertips. Again, you accept me easily, slowing me down only after the first knuckle. I drink in the sight of your anus stretched oblong across my fingers.

Briefly, I open our shared feed, letting you see the sights I see and smell the smells. In exchange, I get just a hint, an intimation of your fullness, pleasurable, slightly uncomfortable, in my own ass.

(Beforehand, when we negotiated all of this, I had asked you if you'd like to add limited public permission to our shared feed, so that our mutual acquaintances could subscribe to our session.

Ruefully, you admitted that you're not much of an exhibitionist, but you gave me permission to save it automatically to NeuralNet's memory cloud. Just in case you change your mind later.)

I close the shared feed so that I can concentrate on the business at hand.

Slowly, I move my fingers in and out, never quite fully withdrawing. Your asshole pooches out and in as I move, unwilling to let me go.

Your muscles relax as they warm up to my touch. With my free hand, I grab a wipe from the table and mop up the froth that forms around your anus. I dab you until you're clean, tenderly, discreetly.

NeuralNet's haptic data algorithm informs me that, at this point, you could most likely take a cock similar in shape and size to mine. Bigger than mine, if we're being honest.

I'm satisfied that you're ready.

I do my best to disregard the targeted ads for moist towelettes filling the periphery of my vision, focusing instead on taking off my gloves, disposing of them in the bin, and snapping on a fresh pair.

I grab the bottle of lube and take it around to the other side of the bed, where your downturned head awaits. You look up at me under lowered brows, your eyes big, penitent, puppylike.

I position my bare erection in front of your face and make a grand show of dribbling lube down the length of it. I set the bottle on the floor and slowly jack off, smearing the lube up and down my shaft.

You stare at my dark cock, my purple glans. Your expression is gape-mouthed. I've noticed that you open your mouth when you're impressed or surprised, and oh, the filthy things it makes me think of.

I pat you lightly on the cheek, leaving behind a smattering of the slick stuff. My prefrontal cortex fills with hyperlinks that promise all the tips and tricks of cleaning up silicone lube after sex.

I go back around to the other side of the bed and kneel on it behind you. I pull the gloves off and toss them in the bin.

I don't make a sound. You don't dare look over your shoulder.

I don't give away where my cock is, when it's coming, until it's...

There.

Just the tip of it lies against your perineum. Your back jolts from the cool, wet touch of the lube. I tip it into your loose asshole--you accept the first inch or so easily. I put my hands on your hips.

The warmth of you, the way your sphincter clenches me just below the crown of my penis, is delicious.

The sensation triggers the usual dubious public service announcement about how the government has practically eradicated all STIs, but that it's still prudent to get tested. Just in case.

Fuck it. That's good enough for us.

As I slowly push in, as I watch you widen around me, I start to feel resistance. I hold in place, letting you become accustomed to the pressure. I ask you if you're okay. You exhale slowly and tell me yes.

I push again, more slowly. Your very flesh has warped over the widest part and closed down on the base of me, in an astounding display of the pliability of the human body.

You're so hot and soft inside. Like being gripped by the only cloud in a hot summer sky. Your hard asscheeks are wonderfully tactile against my soft belly.

I start fucking you, slowly, and you start rocking backwards and forwards, meeting me in the middle, and the way I'm bumping your p-spot at this angle worries me that my orgasm is already on its way.

NeuralNet's virtual assistant automatically activates. After an excruciating load time, it offers me sports statistics, song lyrics, the balance of various upcoming bills. Annoyed, I dismiss it.

But the app is so heavy and laborious upon my brain, it distracts me enough to stave off my ejaculation. For the moment.

You seem to be suffering no such intrusion.

Even as your breathing ratchets in and out, I tell you how loose you are, how I've never seen a such a slut as dirty as you, how your greedy little asshole couldn't take my cock fast enough.

Dazed, you can only gasp your agreement.

Yes, you are loose.

Yes, you are a dirty little slut.

And oh, how you wanted my dick, how you needed it right away, how you couldn't wait.

I correct you.

You didn't need my dick.

You just needed dick.

Any old dick would do, for a cum-hungry little slut like you.

Yes, you breathe, you grunt, as our bodies clap together--soft, reverberant plop plop noises--yes, that's true.

You just needed dick.

And how fortunate, oh, how fortunate, that mine is the dick buried all the way up your little slut ass.

So fucking soft--

The tremulous quality in your voice tells me that our dirty talk is getting to you, and I can't blame you. It's getting to me too. I ask you how my cock feels, going in and out of your loose slut ass.

You ask me if I want to reopen my shared feed. No, I don't want that. I don't need to feel it for myself.

I need you tell me.

You tell me there's this pressure inside you. So much, it's almost overwhelming. Your dick is so hard, it might burst.

You tell me you feel full. So full.

I start fucking you faster, harder--the faint glimmer of orgasm is back, and it's urging me on--and the algorithm gives me the usual crap about the risk of anal tearing, as though I were some amateur.

You ask me, your voice eager, if I'm going to come, and I say yes, and before I can ask where you want it, you demand that I fill you up inside, and I can only agree, yes, that's perfect.

My flesh wobbles. My hips are feeling exhausted. The lovely funk of you is in the air as our bodies repeatedly collide. The core of me radiates an urgent itch, giving me incredible stamina.

Then the feeling peaks and my balls and my asshole clench, and I push your sweater midway up your back and grip you by your slim waist and push myself as far inside you as my heavy abdomen will allow--

--NeuralNet helpfully informs me that it's taken a tactile snapshot, accessible by gallery--

--Oh, that squeezing feeling, that exquisite release, like exhaling a deeply held breath. Waves of raw, mindless pleasure spread in my balls, my belly, my ass, my legs, reaching my feet and my fingers.

You cry out, a breathy, hitching gasp, and I can understand why. Your body is being held in my death grip; your rectum, already alive with sensation, is filled by my cock to my deepest length.

I'm squeezing out rope after rope, my balls clenching and unclenching, heedlessly, wantonly filling you deep inside with my cum. My belly, pressed tightly between us, grows damp with the sweat from your ass.

I cling to you for a long time. My breathing evens out, the heat fades, my output slows to a dribble, then nothing. My body stops clenching itself.

Then, only then, just for now, am I satisfied.

I release your waist and gingerly remove my cock from you--we're both at high sensitivity, and you, especially, are struggling to maintain your composure as I inch my way out of your delicate anus.

Finally, I'm out, and I snag another wipe to catch the errant drops of our sexual byproduct as they roll off the bottom of my half-erect cock.

I bid you to stay still while I give myself a quick once-over. First, I clear my cock of the stray lube and shit and semen, then I dispose of the wipe and grab a fresh one for you.

I spend more time with you, daubing your tender asshole and expending multiple wipes until you look as clean and fresh as though you'd just stepped out of the shower.

I grab one more, wrap it around my fingertip, and insert it, not far enough to sting your sensitive inner walls--just enough to wipe out your inner rim. You're loose and elastic. You admit me easily.

I toss the wipe in the bin. NeuralNet starts running an automated seach for landfill statistics, and I almost tell it to fuck off under my breath, except that I'm feeling both too euphoric and too torpid.

Your ass is still pointed up at me. Pleased in this moment with my life choices, I give your anus a gentle caress with my thumb. It makes you jolt. I grip your dangling hard-on and stroke it affectionately.

I hear a pleasant mmmm from the back of your throat, and I think to myself, you've been so good to me so far. It's time for me to be good to you.

I tell you to kneel on the bed, facing me. You do as you're told. I slide your sweater off--you don't try to stop me--unshrouding your narrow, compact musculature, neatly shaved of all its body hair.

I bunch the pillows for you. At my bidding, you slouch against them, head propped up by the headboard, knees up and apart, your balls and asshole on presentation, your big dick looming over your hard tummy.

I get on the bed and face you on my hands and knees, supine between your feet, as though in worship of your beautiful genitals. Despite my submissive stance, I dominate your personal space with my bulk.

I lean forward, as though to kiss you, and you almost respond in kind, but you miss as I divert to your neck, kissing you below the soft corner of your jawbone--first a peck, then a lewd, wet suction.

I spend some time at your collarbone, then your small, hard pectoral, first kissing, then sucking, licking, biting. My hand automatically finds its way up your leg, then your balls, brushing, kneading.

Your head lolls back, your mouth open. Occasionally, a high-pitched vocalization escapes your throat. Save for that, I hear only your slow, steady breathing. The more you squirm, the more time I spend.

I jerk your cock slowly, loosely, all up and down the length of it, brushing your glans with the ring of my thumb and forefinger at the apex of each stroke. A little shiver travels through you every time.

I suckle your tiny nipple. I pull it deep into my mouth, stretching your flesh, circling it in there with my tongue, so hot and soft and sloppy, periodically letting it pop loose to blow cold air on it.

Then I suck it in, one more time, and I don't let go. I hold it in my mouth, letting you groan, letting you tremble, feeling your nipple palpably harden against my tongue.

I hear you whimper something--I think you're saying please, and NeuralNet's voice transcription confirms this is 98% likely.

I don't release you. I don't do anything. My hand releases your cock. I look up innocently below lowered brows, meeting your gauzy eyes.

God, I'm hard again already.

I almost want to abandon the task at hand, fuck you in the ass all over again, empty more of my semen into you--or grab a vibrator and splatter my cum all over your flat little chest--but no. Not yet.

I release your nipple with a wet slurp. The rim of your purpled areola is connected by a strand of spittle to my thick lower lip.

I ask you, please what?

You don't say anything.

I offer, please do this?

I flick your nipple with the pad of my finger, and you cry out. I do it again, and keep doing it, and I think you're saying oh god, and NeuralNet tells me that's definitely what you're saying.

I do the same thing to your other nipple. I take even more time, getting it good and waterlogged, and once I've released it and flicked to my heart's content, I see the ring of bruises forming around it.

I start jerking you off again, delighting in the little uhns and unfs that escape your pretty little mouth, and again, I'm kissing you and suckling your flesh, my lips feeling the firm ridges of your belly.

Once I'm below your navel, I slow down. I kiss your pubis, your hip bones, your inner thighs--you smell so sweaty, so spicy--I go anywhere but the place that will relieve the fiery tension building inside you.

As you shiver, as you wriggle, as you cry out in little quiet outbursts, I ask you what you need, and you tell me you need it, and I playfully slap the underside of your cock and tell you to be specific.

You tell me you need to come.

I ask you, in all my innocence, what can I do to help?

You ask me nicely if I'll suck your cock, and the last syllable is partway out of your mouth when I dive for it, enveloping the upper half of you in my mouth, as hot and wet and soft as I can make it.

Your legs and your belly go hard. Your core is holding so much tension that I have to release you for a moment and remind you to relax. After a second, you do. You lie helpless before me.

I return to your cock, gripping the base loosely and guiding it with my hand. I put my mouth on the end of you and slowly overtake you, my lips meeting my loosely wrapped fist midway down.

You're so hard, so unyielding, yet soft, a velvety exterior, ridged with veins and tipped with a plump, spongy dickhead that I can't stop pushing my tongue into, just for the sheer tactile pleasure of it.

Oh, I hear you say. Oh, oh. You sound like you might cry. You writhe and shiver, the melding of pleasure and discomfort--I can tell it's almost too much, and all it means to me is that I have to keep going.

Back out again, until just that spongy, wonderful head of yours is in--I suckle gently before I move down again. No frills, no theatrics, just the single-minded pursuit of the pleasure you desire.

The tension is returning. I know what that means.

Down there, in your lap, on elbow and knees, my head bobbing, I adore you with tongue and spit. With short, focused movements, I coax that tension in you, until your body clenches and you begin to ejaculate.

I hear your choked-down outcries as inner muscles wring strand after strand of thick semen into the back of my throat, hitting me there gently, playfully. I keep you inside, holding all of it on my tongue.

I swirl your crown and brush your urethra, catching the last of your cum as it dribbles out of you, then, and only then, do I swallow. I purr with pleasure as I feel it sliding egglike down my throat.

It's a good feeling. For maybe the first time, I wonder what's in it.

Out of curiosity, I formulate the question as a query in my central executive system. NeuralNet promptly advises me that semen is mostly fructose. I like that.

Sweets from the sweet.

I climb up on you, lying on top of you, enveloping your limp, hot little body in my abundance, crushing your wet cock in the softness of my belly, and, for the first time, I kiss your pretty mouth.

My tongue invades, you accept. It's all you can do, in your post-orgasmic daze, to passively reciprocate as I take you into my loving possession. You swallow my saliva, flavored with your DNA.

I tell you to stick your tongue out. You obey. I suck on it, then envelop your mouth with mine, then whisper against your lips that I'm going to fuck your asshole again. You can only nod.

I raise my hips and reach down between our legs. I feel around for your asshole, and my hand comes away wet and sticky. I hold it up between our faces. Strands of cum stretch between the V of my fingers.

I wipe it on your cheek and whisper it in my ear.

Your beautiful slut asshole squeezed my cum out when your muscles were contracting. You gorgeous little shit. You absolute whore.