Clint woke up—in his own bed—with the feeling of pressure in his head and across his chest. And then he realized he was awake because there was pressure down further too. His cock was being fisted and slowly worked. The pressure on his chest went away when he realized it was a chocolate-brown, brawny arm that was weighing him down. He pushed it off him with a mutter of "Oh fuck." The pressure in his head, he knew, wasn't going to start going away until he got to the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. The fisting of his cock he tolerated until he got his bearings better. He was rather enjoying that particular pressure. He turned his head. The beefy black guy in bed beside him had his eyes open and turned toward him. They had a questioning look in them. Clint didn't have any difficulty deciding what the guy wanted.
Clint didn't have the foggiest notion who this guy was. He could guess, though, what he had been doing in his bed, although fuck knew how he'd gotten there.
"Has anyone ever told you you look like—?"
"Oh, fuck fuck," Clint growled, not letting that sentence finish. He rolled away from the black guy and stumbled out of bed and to his bathroom. Sun was streaming through the gauzy curtains of his bedroom window and he could hear the street noise coming up from below the window. He'd lived better than this when he'd been with Brad and he could live better than this now if he wanted to—he was a regular million-dollar-baby. But going back to the way he'd been living before he'd won, and then lost, Brad was part of his punishment of himself for being alive when so many others, including Brad, were dead. So, what he had here was a main living room with kitchen L on the third floor above a neighborhood grocery closet and a bedroom small enough that it only took him three steps to reach his bathroom.
Once in the bathroom and having turned the lock on the door, he took a quick piss, flipped the top off a Listerine bottle, poured a slug into a glass, and swished it around in his mouth to try to get rid of the sour taste. The he leaned over the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. How the black guy out there could come up with him looking like any kind of movie star in this condition was beyond Clint. He did sort of like the swarthy look of the day's growth of beard, though, and thought maybe he'd keep that for a while. It would be classier if it was darker, of course, but he was cursed with being a natural California blond.
He reached for the bottle of Tylenol—what
had
he been doing that had him hung over like this?—and then reached over and turned on the shower to let the water heat up while he brushed his teeth in another effort to get rid of whatever that taste was in his mouth. It was a slightly musky taste, and that told him maybe he didn't want to dwell on what he'd been swilling around in there.
The door rattled and there was a knock on the door.
"You takin' a shower in there?"
"That or someone turned on Niagara Falls," Clint called through the door.
"You let me in and I'll shower with you. Show you more of what I can do inside you."
"I'll bet. I'll just be a minute. Meantime maybe you can find the front door."
"Ah, come on man. You were hot for it earlier. God, you were a good fuck. And, come on, let me in. I gotta take a piss."
"I'll be just a minute." Clint groaned. He wondered how many times they'd done it without him remembering any of it. The guy was a chunk; he didn't mind doing it with him. He just would have liked to have been there for it.
And he wasn't much more than a minute. As he came out of the door, holding a towel around his waist, the black guy, standing a good foot taller than Clint and a whole lot beefier, grabbed for the towel and whipped it off the smaller man. He pulled Clint close with one arm around his waist and reached for Clint's cock and held both Clint's and his together in his fist.
"Shit, you have a body to die for," the black guy muttered. "Come on into the shower."
"I've just showered and you said you needed to piss," Clint answered, but he gave no resistance when he was pulled into the shower, the water was turned on, and he was pushed up against the back wall, facing the black hulk, with the guy pressed against him.
"I'm gonna be good to you again," the black guy growled as he palmed and spread Clint's buttocks; raised Clint's feet off the wet floor tiles, sliding Clint's back up the soapy tiles of the back wall; and settled Clint's channel on his cock. The cock was as beefy as the rest of him, and yet he slid right up into Clint as if he'd already reamed the space he needed. And, of course he had.
Good to me again, Clint thought as he sucked in his breath, lost now to the possessing cock as he always was when one slid inside him, especially when it was this thick. Wonder how many times he's already been good to me? And I don't even know who the fuck he is and what he's doing here.
He did, though, know what the black guy was doing here right at the moment. And he was doing it very well. Clint hooked his ankles around the small of the black guy's back, took the guy's head in his hands, and pressed their foreheads together, his not throbbing as much now as when he got out of the bed, thanks both to the Tylenol and the attention his body had transferred to his channel. Resigned to what came next, he established and maintained eye contact with his master. That's want Clint wanted when he got into this position—to be mastered.
"Oh, shit, yes. Fuck, fuck. Deep in. Oh, fuck, yessss."
The eye contact told Clint the guy was really, really enjoying being inside him. This was about as good as it got. The pumping stopped and the guy was trembling slightly. So was Clint. Then a long slide out. And in. And out. Clint began to pant.
"Now, dammit," he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Got chu now. You're all mine now," the black dude growled, slammed deep, and jerked twice as he filled up the head of his condom.
