I love watching Michael play basketball at the Y. It’s the Hollywood Y — yes, act impressed now. This is a place for guys who are too cool to sign up for the expensive look-at-me gym. That doesn’t mean they don’t have the money. It means they’re serious about playing rough. They like gyms without too many mirrors and too many posers. They like gyms that have that locker-room smell you remember from high school. You will find no incense burning near the showers here, and there are no fruit smoothies at the snack bar, because there ain’t no snackbar.
But the guys on his team are all actors. Or wanna-be actors. Or bartenders and waiters so handsome they should be actors. They could be posers if they wanted to. They’re pretty enough. Michael fits right in, a writer, not an actor, but handsome as all the others on his team. I watch him make his famous three-point shot, and I squeal as the ball bounces off the rim and slips silently into the basket.
Maybe that winning shot is why I have rimming on my mind when we get home.
“I’m sweaty,” he grins, pushing me away when I stalk towards him. “Let me shower, baby. Then you can have your way with me.”
“I want my way with you now,” I insist, my hands already pulling his slippery blue shorts down his muscular thighs, tripping him as he tries to kick his sneakers off first. He’s bigger than me, and much, much stronger, but he lets me take charge, because he knows he’ll get pleasure that way. I have him on his back on the bed in no time, but he still tries to get me to let him bathe.
“Come on, kid,” he says, and the lines around his green eyes crinkle at me. God, is he gorgeous. “Ever hear about a post-workout shower? I could use a little soap and water first.”
“Nah,” I shake my head, and my long hair falls free from its loose auburn ponytail. I’m crawling up his long body as he pushes back on the bed. His shoes are off in two quick kicks, and a second after his shorts lay tangled on the floor, but his sweaty shirt still sticks to him, and I press my face against it and revel in his scent.
“You don’t want me clean?” There’s an evil glint in his eyes now as he asks the question. He knows precisely what I want. We’ve been here before.
“Nah,” I say again, pushing at him, butting at him to turn him over. I have his elastic waistband in my hands and I tear his BVDs down his thighs, let him kick them off. I am between the cheeks of his ass before he knows what’s happening. Before he can say no or wait or stop. Not that he’d say any those things. But he doesn’t even have a chance.
In a second, I am licking in a line up his crack while he lies as still as possible. This isn’t something I do all the time, but when I get the urge, I can’t stop myself. I am insatiable. I have to taste him, to cleave myself to him, to press my face against this part of his body and devour him. I want to be as close as I possibly can to him, would crawl up inside of him if I could.
He makes no noise at all while I lick up and down, but when I start to slowly circle his asshole with the pointy tip of my tongue, he groans. I know that his fists are clenched tightly at his sides, know that if I were to stop what I’m doing and get a look at his face, I’d see an expression of half-surrender, half-pain. His dark green eyes are closed, I’m certain of it. His chiseled jaw is clenched tight. I’m not hurting him, far from it, but I understand that giving up like this causes him some degree of discomfort. Usually, I’m the one stripped bare in the center of the bed. I’m the one with my fists clenched tight and my bottom lip bitten nearly to blood. Now, he’s starring in the role as the subservient one. he’s getting eaten, and he never knows precisely how to process this fact.
I don’t want him to process anything.
I want him to lie there and take it. I want him to lie there and want it. When he groans again, I know that he does.
Now, I spread his cheeks wide apart with my small hands so I can see what I’m doing. The gesture opens him up, exposes him to the air in the room, to my intense gaze, and his breathing goes ragged and rough, like when he’s running up the court after the ball. I slide my tongue into his asshole, gently at first, and he shudders all over. I am literally fucking him now, fucking him with my tongue, and he has accepted this. I can tell. He’s letting go, letting me take him exactly how I need to. When I realize he’s ready, I plunge forward and thrust my tongue inside him. I fuck him firmly with my tongue, and he starts to buck against the bed. This is my cue to reach under him and cup his balls, then gradually start to jack his cock. And like a good player, I never let my teammate down. I move my hand in the exact rhythm with my tongue, and I feel him tense and relax, tense tighter and hold, waiting for the explosion of release, waiting for utter surrender, waiting for the shot to hit the rim, reverberate for several long seconds, and slide silently home.
* * * * * * * *
Ayre Riley has written for Down & Dirty (Pretty Things Press), Naughty Stories from A to Z, volume 3 (Pretty Things Press) and Taboo (Cleis).
