Page 68 of Getting It Twisted
I groan at the slight burn. “You got over your condom policy real fast.”
He slides his hand into my hair and grips it sharply. “Look into the mirror. See what you look like when you’re getting fucked.”
I already know what I look like when I’m getting fucked. In San Francisco, I hooked up with a rich guy with a ceiling mirror above his bed, and I stared up at myself while he pounded me all night long in a meth-infused frenzy.
I do what Daniel says anyway and face my reflection. It’s distorted from the diagonal crack running in the middle of the mirror, courtesy of one of my mom’s many drunken outbursts.
Daniel maneuvers my knee to the edge of the sink, and the new angle allows him to hit my prostate with ruthless precision. He knows I’ll go damn near delirious from this pretty quickly. I’ll let him do anything to me, make me say anything . . .
It’s insane how fast he’s adjusted to the way I need to get fucked. Although I’d prefer for him to hurt me more, to degrade me more, he makes up for it with how he swivels his hips and buries himself to the hilt, his possessive grip on my body, and the filthy things he growls into my ear.
But he doesn’t fuck me like he hates me, and that’s a bit of a problem. Instead of making me hate him, he makes me go soft with want, and instead of letting me give him orders, he makes me want to obey his every command.
Not that I care that much with his cock buried in my ass and his hand wrapped around my aching dick, but every time after he’s wrenched the cum from my body and his own release seeps out of my ass, I feel weird.
Like I’ve given too much of myself away.
Like I’ve exposed a part of myself that’s not meant to be exposed.
Like he’s turned me inside out and exposed my quivering, raw insides.
And that’s not a good feeling.
It’s like cutting your chest open and putting your heart on offer for him to take and examine in his hand.
But Daniel won’t treat it badly—he won’t pluck it out of my chest and drag it through the dirt . . . Right?
He buries his face in the crook of my neck as he pounds into me, and my stiff cock bobs between my legs with every thrust.
“I’m gonna plug you back up when we’re done,” he grunts, “so you can walk around that party with my cum still inside you. I want you to wear this too.” He kisses down my throat and sucks my skin into his mouth, biting and sucking slowly, tongue flicking out to taste my sweat. “Those people should know who you belong to.”
All the while, he keeps pounding me, his balls slapping against my thighs. He pulls out and slams back inside, and with a harsh grip on my hair, he urges my head to the side and covers my lips with his. I moan into his mouth.
God, I love this . . .
I love him.
Wait . . .
No. No, no, no . . .
My eyes are wide as saucers as I stare into the mirror, and my erection wanes. Luckily Daniel doesn’t seem to notice. He picks up the pace and squeezes my cock in his hand, and soon enough I’m able to relax again. When his teeth graze my skin, I shoot into his hand and all over the sink. Easy cleanup, I think distantly as the orgasm pulses through me. He follows soon after, emptying himself inside. With one swift motion, hepulls out and slides the butt plug back into my now looser hole, keeping his cum inside me.
As he pulls my pants back up, an unbidden thought creeps back into my mind. That stuff about . . . about loving him.
It didn’t mean anything. It was just my dick talking. I was about to come, and you think the weirdest, most fucked-up shit when you’re about to come. Yeah, that’s it for sure.
But the uneasy, out-of-control feeling stays, and the whole time we get ready to leave, I can barely meet his eyes.
The feeling lingers even half an hour later when we exit the car.
My veins burn with adrenaline. I feel restless and antsy, as if I’ve already spent six hours snorting cocaine. Some coke isn’t a half-bad idea; it might help with my nerves.
Even the butt plug doesn’t seem as fun of an idea as it once did. I feel it with every movement, and each time it nudges my prostate, my cock jumps in my pants. In different circumstances, being half-hard for the remainder of the night would be fun.
Music and voices boom through the thin walls of Joshua’s house. Inside, there will be people I haven’t seen in years. Old classmates, old enemies. People who teased and tormented me, whether for my poverty, my faggotry, or my ever-running foul mouth. Little did they know I was already used to dealing with far worse than school bullies.
One day in fifth grade, I had enough of their bullshit. I socked a kid right in the mouth and knocked half his teeth out. They ended up transferring me to Daniel’s school for it. If I hadn’t hit that kid, I might have never met Daniel, and then where would I have ended up? Nowhere good, that’s for sure. Best decision I ever made.