A Synonym for Acquiesce

He told me no.

He only said it once, just once, and it didn't really hold much significance to me. There wasn't enough feeling in his voice to make me consider taking the request seriously. Just a sharp whisper, a frightened tug on my wrist, and then he stopped. His hands fell lifeless to the mattress and he was still, his frantically heaving chest the only thing giving away the fact that he was still alive. And those eyes... the way they seemed to melt when tears welled around them, and the way he wouldn't look directly at me... It made me forget that he had ever told me no.

Because no one tells me no.

The thought that maybe I should stop never came up in my head. I pushed my hands under his shirt and felt the skin there. It was hot, not sweaty, but hot as a furnace, and I felt his heart hammering wildly against my fingers. Our pulses mingled together, and I let them for what seemed like an eternity. I let them until he began to squirm beneath me, and I knew he was unsure of what I was doing. Even though he'd said no, he knew he didn't want me to stop anymore. I could tell. If I would have gotten off the bed and tried to go home, he would have stopped me. It was written all over his face.

His chest was smooth, and his nipples tightened when I rolled them between my fingers. He had to have liked it, because he shifted his hips again. That action drew my attention downward, and I became more curious than ever. I'd never seen him before, not even without his shirt. He'd always kept himself so private, withheld his emotions so well... I almost felt like I was cracking a nutshell with him. Somewhere, deep down, there was a person under all his layers, and I knew that if I tried hard enough, I could find it. All I had at the moment was a nervous wreck of a boy who was so set on believing that he was not gay that he was hardly enjoying what I was doing to him. It would change soon, though. He'd come around.

Downward... I undid his khaki shorts and he spread open his legs for me. He even raised his hips so I could slide them off. With every passing second, he convinced me more and more of what I'd known all along: he wanted me. I'd known; it had just taken some gentle coaxing to get him to come to terms with it.

I told him to take his shirt off. I wanted to see all of him. He was being made uncomfortable by the light that was still on, but I couldn't care, because I had to see. I never understood the appeal of fooling around in the dark; I wanted to see. And what I saw made me wonder how I had controlled my immoral urges for such a long time.

He was naturally lean. It wasn't so bad that I could count his ribs, or anything, but there were no excessive rolls of fat on him, either. Wiry muscles rippled under my appreciating gaze, and when I looked at his face, he was chewing his bottom lip. That made me smile, because he only chewed his lip when he was extremely nervous. I was loving that I was getting a reaction from the once-seemingly unshakable boy. I'd thought of him as untouchable for so long, but I was practically sculpting him in my hands. He was mine at that moment--all mine, no one to interrupt or distract us--and my ego swelled with every second that passed.

His boxers were the only piece of clothing he still had on. I sat between his legs, my hands resting on his knees, savoring the moment. He was restless, the bulge in his boxers growing stiffer even as I brought my eyes from his face to look at it. The way I felt at that second--it was like the zero-gravity feeling experienced before the ninety degree plunge off a cliff. Adrenaline surged through me and I pinched his thigh to make his eyes lock with mine.

I stripped out of my own clothes, loving the way he watched me. The lamplight didn't reflect in his eyes, and they were like two pools of the blackest, purest oil. I touched him through the material of his boxers, gently, just feeling him, and his face contorted with unwilling desire. He still wasn't happy with how he felt, was still denying what he knew he wanted.

He told me to stop.

This he said twice, but with no more conviction than when he'd told me no. The plea didn't relay to his arousal, which was fully enjoying my petting. I let my hand slip in through the hole in his boxers and wrap around the length of flesh. It was so hot, and it throbbed harder when I tightened my hand around it. His chest was still heaving, but his eyes were shut tight. Now it was denial. I couldn't have denial, either, and pulled my hand away.

His hips moved up, seeking the contact I had severed. It didn't surprise me, but I wouldn't do anything until he opened his eyes. He was stubborn and still refused, so in an effort to get his attention, I yanked him by the ankles until his head was off the pillows and supported on the mattress alone. I draped my body over his, purposely rubbing our arousals together. His mouth fell open in a silent cry, and I took the opportunity to press my lips to his.

I'd always admired his lips. Always. They were, by far, his most fantastic attribute. He fought me momentarily, his hands clutching at my shoulders, trying to push me away, but I ground my hips down against his again, and that put an end to his futile struggling. He could have bitten my tongue easily, but he didn't, even as I wound it with his own and sucked at the muscle. He whimpered brokenly, and I could have laughed in triumph at the victory I felt I'd accomplished as his hips pushed up against me.

I played in his hair while we kissed, because I was only wasting time until the rest of his body caught up with his dick. His mind wasn't quite there yet. His chestnut brown curls were thick and sticky with the amount of gel he used on them, and I picked my way through the clumps of gel while I continued my gentle raping of his mouth. It didn't take long--maybe a minute, or so--for his lips to start working against my own. Submission was such a beautiful thing, and his was even greater because I'd wanted it for so long.

There was silence.

There never was a greater synonym for acquiesce than silence. Silence let it be known that he had given up, and it was truly beautiful. I rocked my hips against him, and his hands left my shoulders to run along my back. We were both still in our boxers, but I was too far gone with pleasure to care about removing them. Two pairs of ruined boxers was nothing compared to the fulfillment of what was sure to come.

His fingers dug into my back, and though he bit his nails, it still hurt. The pain only spurred the ever-building pressure in my groin, and a shudder wracked through me. I pulled away from his mouth to breathe, gasping in air while he did the same. We moved together until we were both covered in a sheen of sweat, and I couldn't stop myself from latching my lips onto his neck and sucking at the salt of his skin. He pulled me down harder onto him and I finally reached between our yearning bodies and stroked him roughly through his boxers.

He cried out for me, for me, and I kissed him again on his mouth, muffling all other sounds. It almost surprised me when I felt his hand wrap around me, but that was just enough stimulation to make me teeter there, right on the edge of the greatest pleasure known to man. We stroked each other in time, until I could almost count the seconds before...

Our bodies stiffened and I buried my face in his neck again as I shot off in my boxers. He gasped harshly and melted in my hand. I felt the moisture seeping through the material of his boxers and dampening my hand, and I continued to lightly stroke him until he weakly pushed at my chest. I rolled off him and lay, staring up at the ceiling, so content and full of myself that I could hardly stand it. I wanted to gloat to someone, but had only myself, and didn't want to further crush him. I did want to ask if he'd liked it, demand that he admit he'd wanted it since we'd met, but I didn't do that either.

Then I left. I didn't feel bad, because he'd had ample opportunity to stop me if he'd truly wanted. He just should have picked his words better.