Watching Him Back Ch. 02

It's Friday and I'm fidgety and in a bad mood. Part of it may be that I haven't had a chance to confirm with Crispin. Saving him from bullying is mostly keeping Jay and them distracted from that crowd, which means a lot of clowning and talking loudly about random shit whenever Crispin or one of his friends walk by. I can't get close to him, but I have this hyper-sensitivity to his presence. It's fucking exhausting.

I keep waiting for someone to notice the hickey in gym. I want to yell, Hey, look what I did! However, I know that would turn out worse for Crispin than for me. He doesn't look at me. Maybe Crispin thinks that I'm going to tell him that this was all one big joke, or that I'll make googly eyes at him and get us caught - whatever it is I find it frustrating. He's not the only one who's nervous.

I'm so glad when the day is over. I've been making my excuses for staying home all week. "A family thing," I repeat to anyone who asks. It has happened before, when Mom and Dad wanted me to stay home on a weekend night to play board games with them and my sisters and brother. This time it's a lie. I tell my parents that I'm expecting a friend, and that we'll just be playing video games. They let me move to the pool house after my older brother left for college, so Crispin and I will have maximum privacy for...I'm not sure what to call this. Is it a date? Is it a pre-determined booty call? Will he leave tonight or in the morning? Anticipation is turning my stomach almost inside out.

Crispin and I did exchange phone numbers when I emailed him how to get to my house. He'll probably only call if he gets lost, I tell myself as I check my hair in the mirror again. There's a fucking pimple forming on my chin. I put some cream on it and pray it doesn't take over my face before Sunday, at least. Opening the mini fridge I confirm that there are sodas and water waiting. In the cabinet is a bottle of scotch that my parents won't realize is missing. Pizza just arrived a minute ago. I made the bed, the bathroom is clean, and I have DVDs in case we take things slowly. Things will be fine. I'm fine. Everything's okay.

My phone vibrates on the bathroom counter and I nearly jump out of my skin. "H'lo?" I growl, trying to slow my pounding heart.

"I left my battering ram at home. How do I breach this fortress?" comes Crispin's amused tenor.

"Right, I'll buzz you in. Hang on a sec." I run over to the door and press the button for the front gate. "Do you want to meet my mom, or just come straight back here?"

"What, gonna introduce me as your boyfriend?" he teases. Before I can responds he adds, "My parents gave me a bottle of wine for your folks. I'll ring the doorbell like a good boy." He hangs up.

Exhaling, I toss my phone on the couch before wiping my palms down my thighs. Breathe, Aaron.

I sail in the back door just as my mom leads Crispin into the kitchen, complimenting the wine choice and telling him how thoughtful it is. God, but he looks like a fucking fairy today. He's wearing these shorts that don't come down to his knees, suspenders, a tight white button-up shirt with a damn bow tie, and fucking knee socks with saddle shoes. His hair is even in a high ballerina bun. I'm petrified that my mom will smell all the gay in the room before I can pull him back to the pool house. I do kind of want to fuck him while that bow tie is still around his neck. The bow tie, the socks, and the saddle shoes.

"Now, are you and Aaron in the same grade?" Mom is asking.

"Yes, ma'am," Crispin answers. "We're in the same P.E. class."

My mother finally notices me. "Oh, Aaron, honey, your friend Crispin just arrived."

"What's up?" I ask, macho-like. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I lean against the kitchen island.

Crispin looks confused for a moment, but then grins hugely; he's onto me. "Nothing, bro. Just hitting on your gorgeous mom."

Rather than be shocked at his forwardness, my mother is completely charmed. "Oh, you're a rascal," she chuckles. "Do you want something to drink?"

"I have sodas and stuff," I say quickly. "You and Dad home tonight?"

Mom shakes her head. "No, we're taking Lacey and Allison to Madison's sleep-over, then we're out for dinner and a late movie."

Good. Good, good, go away. I grunt something appropriate and motion Crispin out the door. He calls, "It was nice to meet you, ma'am," like he's going to take me to a fucking sock hop.

I think I exhale in relief once we got into the pool house, because Crispin bursts out laughing. "What?" I ask.

"I've never seen you so addlepated," he chuckles. "Did you think I was going to start singing show tunes? And here I was convinced that nothing ever got to you."

"No, I just..." I'm embarrassed at being so transparent, but Crispin doesn't seem offended. "Sorry. You're not the usual friend I bring over, I guess."

"It's cool." Crispin steps forward like he's about to do something cute and boyfriend-y, like put his arms around my neck or kiss my cheek. Or maybe that's just what I want him to do, because I'm disappointed when he looks like he's changed his mind and strolls past me into the open room. "This feels like a different world," he comments, checking out my trophies and looking out at the blue pool. "I forget that there really are people this rich."

I shrug and sit on the couch. "I'm a blessed boy."

Crispin smiles lopsidedly. "And my dad had to drop me off in a delivery van. I made him leave before I called you."

I need something to do with my hands, so I put the pizzas on the coffee table and hand Crispin a paper plate. "What did you tell him we were doing?"

Flopping down beside me, Crispin groans. "I told him we were playing video games but he was totally not fooled. Like, he asked me if you were a nice boy, specifically if you were nice to me at school, and told me very seriously to be careful." He kicks off his shoes and folds his legs underneath him. Taking a plate from me he grabs a couple of slices of pizza and dabs at it with a paper towel. "Ugh, grease. Just looking at it makes me fat."

I snort. I couldn't have picked a more effeminate guy. It's part of his charm, though. There are other hot guys at school, but Crispin's the kind of guy who just oozes sex, even if he doesn't know it. It's in the way he walks, how he sucks on the end of his straw, and how he checks guys out from head to toe as they walk past, looking at them from under his long lashes. Crispin may talk like a girl and dress like a 1930s schoolboy, but his build and face are all male. The whole package shouts Fuck me whether he means it to or not..

The room is too silent, there's too much pressure to say something good, so I turn on the TV. There's a mixed martial arts match; I leave it on. I don't know how Crispin reacts to televised violence, but at least there are two fit, mostly naked, sweaty guys throwing each other around.

"You know," Crispin comments eventually, wiping his mouth, "the best fighters in these matches have usually trained in a particular style before moving to the mixed arts."

"Really?"

"In my opinion. It's like, always knowing what your body should do, and adjusting for the show of it and these cage matches. Brazilian jiujitsu is really useful, and the tae kwon do guys are really fast and fun to watch. They do all those tornado kicks and what have you."

I look at his body again, remembering how firm it was under my fingertips. "What do you do?"

He grins, still watching the fight. "Muay Thai and capoeira."

That is fucking hot. "Why the hell do you not bust that out when someone tries to stuff you in a locker?"

Crispin finally glances at me. "Because the moves I know could kill them." He watches my face, then laughs. "You don't believe me."

"I do, 'cause you totally weren't kidding." I have goosebumps, both from excitement and the realization that he could have kicked my ass that time in the shower. Holy shit, I am so glad he didn't punch me.

Crispin is silent for a moment. "I'm going to, er, get ready," he blurts, and runs into the bathroom.

Damn sweaty palms again. What do I do? Put on a porno? Play music? I shut the curtains but leave the lights on, just in case he freaks out and decides to go home. I'm stacking the pizza boxes when the bathroom door opens suddenly.

Crispin stares at his feet. He's completely clothed. What the fuck was "getting ready," then? I chuckle, and his big dark eyes lift to meet mine.

"Next time you tell me you're 'getting ready,' I want you to come out in a red satin robe or something," I joke.

Crispin rolls his eyes, but smiles nervously. "You'd need a huge mustache and some hot saxophone music playing." His hands come together as though he's about to wring them, then he shoves them in his pockets.

Likely he's turning over that "next time" in his mind. I didn't mean it, it just kind of slipped out. I need to say something. Anything. "So your fantasy is Burt Reynolds?"

Crispin's nervous laughter is sharp, punctuating the air. I know he's probably wondering if I can hear his heartbeat, or tell how anxious he is. I can, but only because I feel the same way. To cover my own nerves I pretend like I know what I'm doing. Turn on the stereo—Massive Attack beats pulse in the room—watch Crispin as I step around the couch and pull the blanket down the bed. Get the lube and condoms out of the nightstand. Take my shirt off and drape it over the back of the couch. I step close to Crispin, until I can feel his breath on my skin.

"I'm really nervous," he finally admits.

Me, too, more than I've ever been in my life, more than during final exams, or state championships, or all the times my family has almost caught me watching gay porn. "Then shut your eyes," I say.

He does. I run a fingertip down his straight nose, over his lips, and around his ear while using my other hand to slip the suspenders over his shoulders. Crispin inhales when I yank his shirt free of his shorts, an adorable little gasp, and his hands flex and fist at his sides. Starting at the bottom I undo the white buttons to run my fingers up his tight abs. His skin is smooth to the point of silk, but the evidence of his martial arts background is in a raised scar here and there. I make mental notes of the little depressions where I'll dig my tongue, the ridges into which I'll sink my teeth. Crispin stands like a mannequin as I tug the collar out from under his bowtie, slip my fingers into the sleeves and push the shirt down over his arms. When I slide my hand over his chest and rest my palm over his fast-beating heart Crispin opens his dark eyes.

"Have you ever seen A Very Long Engagement?" he asks softly.

"No." I lean in to inhale the scent of his neck; he seemed to really get off on that when we were in the shower. Crispin smells like soap, light cologne, and just barely of sweat. He jumps and nearly grabs my wrists when I slip my hands into the waistband of his shorts to undo the button and zipper.

"After the hero and heroine, they're childhood friends, have sex for the the first time, the hero, he ah..." Crispin trails off when I start taking messing with his hair.

"He what?" I prod, concentrating on taking the bobby pins out of his ballerina hairdo. Damn, he must have twenty fucking pins in this bun. They clatter on the wood floor when I drop them.

Crispin inhales. "He ah, well, he falls asleep with his hand on her breast, you know, over her heart. From that day on he can feel her heartbeat in his palm."

Underneath those pins is a ponytail. I leave it, imagining how I could pull it when I ride him. The thought has me hard. "So if I fall asleep with my hand on your dick—" I reach down and caress the thickening member through the cloth of his shorts, "do you think I'll be able to feel it when you're gone?"

"Uh." His voice shakes. "You're welcome to find out."

I hook my fingers in his underwear and pull his groin to mine, watching his face the whole time. He has to be able to feel my hard-on through my jeans, just like I can feel his. Finally he tilts his head back to look in my eyes. There's worry in his brows but determination in his jaw; he's taking a big risk with me. I kiss him.

The first kiss is nothing special, just a brush of lips together. The next, though, lingers, and I can feel it all the way down my spine. Crispin's warm mouth chases mine when I pull away. He nips at my chin, at my jaw, and then yields when I push my tongue into his mouth. Grinding my hips against his elicits a soft "uhn" that fills my ears and resonates down my spine. He tastes savory; I want to find its source and lick it until there's no more to be found.

Crispin's small, trembling hands come up to rest on my arms, just above my elbows, and then slowly move up to my shoulders, to my neck, and into my hair. He pulls himself against me, meeting me, pressing me backwards until I fall onto the couch. Crispin drops his shorts quickly. He's still shy—he immediately crosses his hands over his dick—but I want to look at him. His body is so perfect, like a god in miniature. Defined muscles, a little dark curly hair on his thighs and, I imagine, covering what look to be sizable nuts. Had I really not taken the time to look when I helped him jerk off? I guess had mostly been paying attention to his dick and his ass.

"You're tiny," I comment, holding him at arm's length. At the look on his face I want to smack myself, so I add, "and fucking built."

One corner of his wide mouth turns up. "Our size difference does intrigue me."

I eye the bulge in his briefs. "We're not that different." For only the second time in my life I put my hand on another guy's penis. Crispin stands in silence as I feel him through his underwear. He holds his breath until I run my hands up the inside of his thigh to cup his balls and slip my fingers under the edge of the elastic. It's so hot, like a mini oven inside his briefs. A small gasp sounds over the pounding bass when I slide my thumb over the tip of his cock, and a small wet spot appears on his briefs. God, but I want him.

Just do it, Aaron. Take his dick out and put it in your mouth. You want to, he'll let you, so nut up and do it. With a deep breath that I hope is unnoticeable I ease Crispin's briefs down his legs and let him kick them aside.

As beautiful as Crispin is in just his briefs, he's a wet dream in the nude. I can tell he's uncomfortable with how hard I'm staring at his compact perfect form; Crispin shuffles his feet, can't figure out where to put his hands, and looks everywhere but at my face. All those places I wanted to nibble mere minutes ago are within my grasp. Hard, tingling with anticipation, I grab Crispin by the hips and pull him to stand between my thighs. I barely have the tip of his dick in my mouth when Crispin throws me back by the shoulders, yanks my jeans down, and hurls them and my boxers across the room. They hit the curtained glass doors with a muffled thump.

"Er—"

"No," he insists, shoving my knees apart and stepping between them, "I want to do it first. Consider it my thanks for, whatever—"

"This is not," I say, "a pity fuck." My voice comes out too harsh.

"No, no, I didn't mean like that, I meant, um," Crispin bites his lip. "You already got me off once this week, or helped, so I figured it was my turn, right? Like, I want to."

I lean back and fold my arms behind my head. "Well, in that case, be my honored guest."

Crispin wipes his palms on his naked thighs (nice to know I'm not the only one) and kneels between my legs. That is fucking sexy. With a determined look he puts one and high on my inner thigh and the other on the base of my erection. My skin tingles under his touch.

"I've only done this, like, one time," he warns me, "so don't expect porn-worthy results."

"A Machiavellian blowjob is better than none at all," I reply.

Crispin laughs. "A smart, attractive football player. I won the gay lottery."

"Ha ha, I'm not like - oh shit," whatever I was going to say is lost when Crispin's mouth meets my cock. His lips are soft, but he purses them to create an incredible pressure around my shaft. Crispin only bobs a couple of times before he pulls off to lick around the head. His big eyes meet mine and I grin at him.

"So far so good?" he questions.

"Are you kidding me?" I laugh as Crispin nibbles around my shaft. "Never stop, ever."

He chuckles and goes back to sucking on the head. It feels too good; I don't know how I've managed not to explode in his mouth already. Crispin's small hand grasps my balls gently and rolls them between his fingers. His other hand wraps tightly around the base of my cock and jerks me to the rhythm of his mouth.

It's too much. "Pull off now if you don't want cum in your mouth," I warn, and Crispin only has time to look surprised before exactly that. God, it's better than I had imagined, better than anything I've ever felt—Crispin's mouth is warm and his tongue sweeps each spurt away, still sucking hard. My body is trembling with the sheer force of release, and my exclamation is ringing in my ears.

The shaking slows, and I eye Crispin's raging hard-on. I want that thing in my mouth.

"No," he stops me quickly, and I look up at him in surprise. "I want to come with you inside me." The last part comes out in a shy mumble.

I'm thrown - who the hell says no to head? - but I pull Crispin into my lap. We're both breathing hard, so when our lips meet we mostly end up blowing air into each other's mouth. I can taste myself on his tongue. With a laugh I tell him, "I don't get it, but if you're determined then whatever."

Crispin nods, oddly shy for someone who just had my dick in his mouth. He lets me lead him onto the bed but immediately gets nervous when I go for his cock.

"Wait, I said—"

"Relax, I'm not going to suck you off," I assure him. I just want to touch it, at least. Crispin is all tense—I don't know what he thinks I'm reallygoing to do—so at first I settle for exploring his torso like I had wanted to earlier. Crispin relaxes a little while I trace around the muscles on his chest and stomach. "Do you need a Band-Aid?" I ask, "because you are—"

"Don't even finish" Crispin interrupts with a laugh. His teeth are so white, and not the kind of fake white that ends at the incisors, like when the cheerleaders use those whitening strips.

"You have amazing teeth," I tell him, pulling his lower lip down to inspect.

Crispin bites at my fingers. Probably he's uncomfortable with being complimented. For some reason, that just makes me want to do it more.

"And your skin is really, really smooth." I brush my fingertips over his shoulder, down his chest. Crispin grabs my hand just before I get to his cock. "What?"

"You can't...touch me and look at me and talk to me like that," he says softly. "It, just, pick only one." Crispins looks away, his black lashes brushing his cheek.

Although I get what he means, I've waited two weeks to get my hands on him again. "I'll stop when you tell me to," I assure him, "just let me feel you for a little bit."

Crispin huffs and falls back on a pillow, his long hair spread out beside him. "You're embarrassing me," he mumbles.

I don't care. His body has me drunk and single-minded. Finally I can put my lips on his brown skin, lick him, bite him, bruise him if I want. Crispin winces when I press the spot where I marked him earlier. It's blue and purple now.

"Did anybody notice this?" I ask, resting my chin on his stomach.

Crispin's smile is smug. "Everyone thinks it's from sparring."

"Dammit." If I give him one on his neck again it'll be more obvious.

"I still owe you one," he reminds me as I trail my tongue down to his bellybutton.

His dick is so close I can smell the precum. "Leave it anywhere you like," I reply. The head is smooth and shiny, so much darker than my own. It isn't fellatio if I just run my tongue in the pool of slippery liquid, between Crispin's stomach and the flared cap that curves to touch it. Mm, mm, mm.