Mindless

"It's ok."

"No, it's not ok." He shakes his head. "You're going to be wide eyed about this for a long time, eager to ... experiment with it. You limited yourself to girls when you were younger, but girls are harder to gain access to when you're thirteen. Now you're what, mid-twenties? A job? A car? Finding men who want to fuck you is going to be so easy. You're... beautiful. You need to be picky, and that means developing a taste, dating, fucking, failing, all the crap the breeders do but with more risk. And, having discovered this so late you don't have the luxury of innocence. Some figure it out really young, and experimentation is safer at that age; you're diving into an ocean, not a kiddy pool, and the sharks are circling."

"Some shark you turned out to be." I tease, though his expression does not lend itself to humor. He is being dead serious about all this.

"I told you I'm sorry." He is slightly curt, shrugging me off as we approach the busy pizzeria, but we fail to make it that far. He stops just short of earshot and explains, "What I did to you back there, in the club? Totally out of line."

"It's fine. I... I liked it," my voice a soft whimper. He licks his lips.

"Yeah, that's the problem. I knew you would." I can feel his want to hold my face and assuage his guilt, but our proximity is drawing a few looks. "I took advantage of you. You have got to understand something. To men like me you-you're food. I took one look at you and knew. I can smell it on you, a natural bottom. Submissive and needy. I was wrong, but other guys..."

"You intend to protect me," I whisper. He smiles at my stating of the obvious and slumps. The line at the door is agonizingly long, and the throng of paper plate wielding, slice folding, hungry masses is loud and boisterous; not the kind of place for intimate conversation.

My nerves have calmed significantly with time to digest my feelings. My rational-self calls me to order: I trust him because he has given me no reason not to, and his vibe is rich and wholesome despite his crippling seduction. The dichotomy of it is a delight.

I watch him stand there shaking his head watching the line. Gridlock.

"You know... I'm not really feeling pizza anyway," throwing his hands up in the air, his tone critically dismissive while he checks his watch. "I, uh, I can cook."

There are moments of epiphany when you realize power. It comes as a shock to the uninitiated: the decision to exercise it and by how much. This is that moment, standing here with a blushing Julian now vulnerable and unsure, having just invited me into his home. There is not a doubt in my mind he would accept a decline, and no doubt of the grave certainty I have been given a jackboot with which I can squash him into oblivion. I have come further than I had ever intended, and the question boils down to whether or not I like where this is going. Tipping the scales in his favor is the agonizing thought of going home to a morning spent masturbating to the fantasy of what if.

I nod happily and he quirks a brow with a kinky smile. I love it, and he takes out his keys and I hear the familiar chirp of keyless entry. Apparently the Lexus two spaces up belongs to him.

"A coincidence, I swear."

"You sly dog! You son of a bitch!" I cackle following him to the well-kept sedan.

"Yeah, they teach you all sorts of things in Ranger school."

"Ranger?" I ask, slipping effortlessly into the leather interior. "You're a long way from home, Soldier." Turning the ignition he gives me a curious look.

"How so?"

"Seventy Fifth Ranger Regiment? Fort Benning, Georgia? Rapid response airborne, United States Army Special Operations Command? Hard to get anywhere in the world in eighteen hours from way over here." Studying him for the moment I refuse to believe I caught him in a lie. He simply has no reason to, and with a deep breath he takes to the streets. I must have stuck a deep barb, and although unintentional the hurt is written on his clenched jaw, the expression menacing with his angular features. "Look, I didn't mean it like that." I flinch when he finally looks at me.

"Just stop," he halts me shaking his head. "It ain't your fault," his accent slipping. "First Sergeant Julian Leclerc, third Ranger battalion, Bravo company... or was. Having a boyfriend is a disciplinary issue, unless of course you're a woman. Released for Standards. RFS'd, outed, and discharged. Be smart about it, Carston. Just be smart about it." Trying to smile he instead swallows hard.

We come alone to an intersection and he reaches over to kiss me again, his lips lingering the duration of the signal. After a deep breath he smiles at last, allowing his hand to wander over my leg giving it a soft squeeze. I cannot take my eyes off him. His fingers reaching over my thighs renew the swelling in my jeans. Between his tenderness and the soft trance music filling the space between us I am at ease, and I reach for that hand, the same hand that just minutes before had said no. Now he permits my touch, tracing the outline of his fingers, the thin tug of flesh over his knuckles unexpectedly soft over the boney flanges of his fist.

We carry on like this, sensually silent for the short twenty minute ride into a new suburban development. His is a small home. Tucked between two identical to it, it is single story with a single garage. Inside it has all the textures and petroleum odors I would expect in a garage, and it is a man's garage: swept, clean, and meticulously organized. In one corner a lawn mower sits below a festoon of cables, neatly coiled and draped near a series of hooks upon which are hung various tools, rakes, shovels, and an electric weed eater. The other corner an array of steel shelving; the car care corner apparently. And still near the head of the garage an improvised yet effective work bench of two-by-tens held together by steel truss plates atop some cinder blocks.

Taking in my surroundings I fail to notice him get out of the car. "If you really wanted to stay in there I wouldn't blame you." I turn abruptly to see him looming over the open passenger side smiling down at me. I can feel myself flushing at my mistake and make a hasty exit, only to stand up against him, his hands on my waist again.

"Hey," his greeting is so absurd I giggle.

"Hey."

"I know my garage is a great place'n all, but I have a kitchen—a real kitchen don't you know— and a living room... and somewhere in there a warm bed I want to share with you." His voice dips to a whisper with the mention of bed.

He guides me into his home from the now dark garage and into a living room, lushly furnished in soft micro-fiber upholstery. The kitchen is just beyond and he reaches into a plain looking refrigerator and guffaws. I suppose if he ever had a moment of panic it is now, though it amounts to little more than hastily snatching a nearby remote to turn on some soft house music. I gleefully watch him pouring through his pantry, freezer, spice cabinets, and about the time I start to dance he gives up.

"I... uh... I got bacon and eggs. Umm, and beer and crackers." His dismay is heart-warming as he pauses to watch me dance. Again.

With a smile I close my eyes and once again let myself go, knitting myself through space like a mirage. I can take my time with this, the beat is slow, a walking pace. There is a moment I know he is next to me. I can see his shadow cast on my eyelids, and I wait. I slow down more, and more, lilting my hips. His breath tickles my nose and my lips rise in search of that source. Just out of reach. Such a lovely game.

On my waist again, he picks up where he left off, sweeping a warm palm around my T-shirt veiled tummy. From behind he helps me from it, over my head and onto the floor. Fingers now comb through my chest hair. I whisper something about please, I wish those to be the last words I utter this evening. Our language is now corporeal, spoken as I reach back and tug at the soft pleats in his slacks, my pants open in reply, the zipper stolen from its perch and dragged all the way down.

This is no dance floor. Here there are no observers or security to stop his advance. When our lips meet again my jeans have slouched around my knees and I sigh when he finds my cock once more. There is no bar to hide under and no need for discretion, the fact readily illustrated by my tumbling bikini briefs. Trying to kick the pile away is met with an awkward interruption: my shoes are still on, but between the giddiness of the moment and my fumbling the shoes are disposed of, and I have returned to my place before him in truly proper attire.

His touch is so soft on my shaft, kneading the skin in long deliberate strokes. I can feel my veins throbbing against his grip, the sensitivity having returned in an instant. It is the most liberating sensation, to feel this man touching me this way.

Effortlessly I give in to him, being lifted off my feet with as little exertion. I peer at him through veiled eyes, and he peers back with a singular urgency. I am carried away, literally, through Julian's home to a large room sweet with lingering incense. The fragrance of it fills out the ambiance of austerity one would expect from a soldier: A single dresser, some home gym equipment, and one nightstand at the head of a low sitting king sized bed. Notably absent is a television or any other electronic gadgetry.

The bedroom is for sleeping and fucking.

He kneels next to the bed. I think he had intended to be graceful about it, but through my own clumsiness I slip from his grasp and land unceremoniously on the unkempt sheets. Laughter is brief. Curiosity and lust speak to me from behind his fly. My eyes wander there along with my hands, and pulling myself to my knees begin inspecting this wondrous new marvel before me. I glance up at him smiling down. He nods appreciatively as I outline the length of him still trapped in abrasive cloth. I gather my courage and unbuckle his belt, a stylish brown leather braid now hanging open, under which his fly is sealed. The familiarity of it offers no comfort. I wear slacks like these, but these are not my slacks and before long I am reaching between another man's legs.

I gasp.

He is much larger than me. I had watched my fair share of pornography, had seen large cocks before, but to touch one. I can feel him kicking off his shoes just as I let his slacks drop around his ankles followed by his shirt; I did not notice him unbutton it, and then I am greeted by Julian's rigid uncut penis. I reach for it tentatively having again seen but never touched, never held, stroked, kissed or licked, and I am rewarded by a blissful sigh from above. He is cleanly groomed, the flesh of his shaft soft and velvety in my grasp. Left to hang his mass dangles in a soft curve unlike my shorter, straight-as-a-telephone-pole, mushroom capped dick.

His tip is shrouded from me, tucked away inside skin stolen from me as an infant. I pull it away and there it is, reddened and sensitive, exposed to my lips. He tastes like flesh, slightly savory and satisfying. His tip rolls around my tongue. It glistens with my affection slipping easily into the mouth. He shudders appreciatively as I test how deep I can take him, which is not very far at all. I can feel his foreskin slipping past my tongue as I let it go and to that he offers a broken moan, cut short when I peel it away. My first blow job all over again, and I am too curious and happy to be concerned about my performance. I am thoroughly enjoying Julian's cock and I imagine perhaps that is his greatest source of pleasure.

There is more to be had of him, the heavy laden sack of his manhood. My free hand takes them up ever so carefully, treating them like pitted grapes. A slight squeeze and his knees shake. In my attention I had closed my eyes. I look back up at him just in time to be pulled up so quickly my tongue still hangs when his charges in. My lips alight with his needy moans and I find myself on my back, his cock seated squarely against mine.

He fumbles for my wrists pinning them above my head in his firm grasp. Am I a prisoner? I want to be. I squeak in the suddenness of his assault and playfully try to get away, biting my lip as he descends my chin and neck. He has me, and even if I did want to be free he knows this is good for me. Consent is meaningless now. He knows my mind. He knows what I want. He knows even if I were to say no I still want him.

As his lips find their way to my squirming hips he steadies them and looks up at me. I realize my wrists are no longer pinned but I do not move them. I cannot move them. I am bound by his presence, being reprogrammed with his every kiss. If there was ever a doubt of his lordship over me it is quickly swept away when he consumes my cock all at once, the warmth of his tongue reaching all the way to my balls. I scream. I am answered with his grip forcefully opening my thighs and exposing my quivering rosebud for his inspection. He is watching my every twitch, my eyes locked to his with magnetic persuasion, my cock hanging loosely between his lips. His spit drips down my shaft. It tickles my balls all the way to a waiting fingertip. I have been sticking things there for a long time, but nothing could have prepared me for the slow slippery circles tracing around my tightly clenched ass.

I can feel myself flushing, and as if he senses my impending shame he swallows me again, moaning deeply along my length. Bit by bit he is pushing me open. A constant flow of lubricant escaping from his lips.

Pushing past my last resistance his index finger plunges into my depths and my cock surges in his mouth. I have never been so hard that I can recall. I am surely dripping on his tongue, my suspicion confirmed when he swallows. I can feel him searching inside me, studying the small differences in our anatomy, until he finds it. My prostate. He gives it a light squeeze and watches my hips roll against him. Before long he is milking me, long strokes felt against my gland and I can feel myself emptying for him, lips holding it all for his pleasure.

I can hear whimpering and moaning, pitched sounds of ecstasy. I think it may be me but I cannot tell. I am detached from my mind. My consciousness is sinking toward my crotch and the sensations of his fellatio. He pushes a second finger inside me, a second, and between the two massages the lobes of my prostate in varying patterns: in tandem, alternating, switching, and circles. Just when I think my body has nothing more to give it begins. The slow tension winding inside that I fail to notice immediately. His fingers hold it at bay, masking it from me. My prostate swells against his touch, filling and tightening. It will not be until the last moment I realize it, when my hips come off the bed and my head thrown back in elation.

"Oh fuck! I'm cumming!"

My insides erupt in satisfying spasms, muscular contractions assisted by his fingers. He is riding my orgasm. My shaft throbbing and twitching with each spurt, which he claims for himself. All of me. Claimed for himself. I can feel him sucking it from me, and yet my wrists have remained. I have remained obedient to an unspoken command. After I am empty he joins me in a kiss, fingers locked tightly my still rhythmically twitching ass.

It would not be the last time.

My hips are pleading with him, grinding and twisting. My wrists are pinned again, a precautionary measure I am sure, as my orgasm has done nothing to ebb my desire for sex. I can only guess what I look like right now. Sweaty, breathy, heady, and agape. His is mirthful satisfaction. Watching me squirm. Watching me descend into madness. And this is madness: here with Julian, a man I have not known for more than a few hours, and he has me. He figured me out. Oh, if there is a God in heaven, Julian figured me out.

"Shhh..." I have no idea what he is shushing me over. Oh right, I haven't stopped moaning since he got my clothes off.

He begins to reach deep, fingers straining to open me. My knees relax at my sides and I arch, collapsing as he looms. My eyes wander over him at last appreciating every nook and cranny of him, and there are so many. The club's lighting did his skin little justice. Mildly tanned, yet still fair and beautiful flesh over exquisitely cut musculature. He waxes, I think, and I realize I have never had a more urgent need to lick something than I do his pert nipples right now. I can only hope he feels the same way I do. I came just for sex, but I should have known it is never just sex. With each stroke of his fingers, with each kiss, every time I look into those patient and sympathetic hazel eyes I lose more of myself. Soon he will supplant everything I am, if he has not already.

I am being finger fucked. Slow at first, but before long his palm is patting my balls and I can feel my muscles relaxing, accepting him. My erection never went away. He bounces it playfully from within watching me twitch and jerk. I know he intends to fuck me, and as I writhe blissfully I open my eyes just long enough to peak at him guiding his cock toward the vertex of my open thighs. "Will it hurt?" I ask, whispering.

"Never."

Liar.

The low growl of his voice makes me feel so small. His arms sweep under me lifting my hips, bending himself at the waist to give me a reassuring kiss. My cock is smothered between us, even as his presses against the wetness of my needy butt. In that brief instant, as he seeks to enter me, my legs hooked tightly around his thighs, he holds my head on either side ensuring I can see nothing but his eyes. There is insecurity there, self-doubt I had never seen before, washed away as his lips part and I am filled in one slow, deliberate stroke.

And it does not hurt. Not with him. Alone with my fingers and toys it always hurts at first, and not only does he not hurt but he seems to go on forever, his every bump and vein slipping past my hyper-sensitive closure, swelling against my prostate with a deep moan. It feels so good having him there, so good my cock is dripping again. There is no more time for play, no desire for subtlety. He tries to go slow, God love him, he tries so hard but his want for me is too great, and my need too urgent.

With every thrust my insides push against him, his hands carelessly smearing slippery precum over my tummy. Is this what I have been wanting all along? Coiled under my lover, whomever that may be, feeling his pleasure deep within? As he rears himself up, clutching my legs around his waist, the answer is unequivocally yes. The extra leverage permits harder penetration and I can feel myself heaving and coiling around him. For an instant I think I am having a bowel movement, but it never comes. Instead a steady stream of thick semen is pouring from me, spilling between us even as he rubs it all over my twitching erection, so warm in his hand, so slippery.

It dawns on me I am having an orgasm. A new kind of orgasm I had yet to achieve on my own, one completely independent of my beloved penis. I cannot localize it. It is not happening between my legs or even in my bowel as he seizes up and prepares to cum. It is simply everywhere. It is in the curled toes of my feet dangling in the air, his merciless grip holding my knees high. It is on my skin, flushed and sensitive. It is on my tongue mingling with his. It is lubricating his hand, stroking my shaft. It is in the air, my whispered pleas carried on the fragrance of sex.

Julian shudders, his climax felt as a subtle tugging within me, followed immediately by the completely alien but no less amazing sensation of ejaculate flooding my insides. I have never felt closer to anyone than I do this man, enveloped in conjoined existence, now still as he empties himself fully. He licks his lips looking down at me with satisfaction, and I stare up at him in blissful wonderment. Cool sweat rains upon me from his nose and chin with that corner-tugging smile of his I could grow so fond of. Still buried inside me he arches down to brush my lips with his own, before carefully extracting himself from my twitching body to venture off to the bathroom. He returns with a towel.