It's Thursday evening. You come home late from work. The streets are cold and dark, and when you unlock the front door and enter, your house seems too empty. Like the darkness coming in through the windows has hushed every sound, every movement that might creep along the bare white walls.
Tomorrow is Friday, then the weekend, which makes tonight survival. Watching TV, going to bed, getting another day done.
You pour yourself a drink, red wine (why not?) and sit down on the couch. You let your head sink into the thick cushions and close your eyes. You think about letting yourself just fall asleep. But you don't like the dark, the feeling of nothing beyond your eyelids. You open your eyes to turn on the TV, kill the sound, and then you close them again. The white and blue light washes over you, and while it's not quite like someone else being there, it's at least something.
Sleep comes, mostly a tease--a light drifting off into nonsensical thoughts before a harsh whip-lashing back to the couch, the light dancing through your eyelids. At one point, a sound from somewhere behind you brings you back, like the hard click of the lock turning in the door. It couldn't have been the door, though; it was most likely the house creaking, or your imagination tricking itself out of sleep. You don't worry about it. You sink deeper into the cushions.
Then, footsteps. They're impossible to ignore--the creaking of the hardwood floor is more than just imagination. You're not sure how to react, and by the time you realize someone is in the house with you, it's too late. The footsteps have stopped behind the couch, and when you open your eyes, you see a tall silhouette reflected on the TV.
Then, you feel fingers in your hair. The hands are large; they easily encompass either side of your head. The fingers run down as far as your throat, stop, and trace back to the ear, running along the crook behind each lobe. Now one of the callused hands drops to the tender area between your neck and shoulder, while the other weaves itself into the hair on your scalp, kneading, pulling slightly. Breath, hot, clean breath, hits the side of your neck. You feel bristles, a beard, and in between the scratchy sharpness, two lips plant themselves on the trembling flesh of your neck. The hands are strong, aggressive, contradictory to the soft kisses and sucks that work up to your jaw, down to your throat. Then, you feel teeth. A bite on your neck, and you gasp. You realize that you're gripping the fabric of the couch, that there's a swollen feeling below your stomach. You throw your head back, ready to give yourself to this evening intruder. Ready to give yourself to me.
With both hands I take hold of your hair and pull your head even farther back. Your mouth hangs open as I dip over the couch and kiss the front of your throat, the collarbones visible above the cut of your shirt. The fabric of my jacket falls across your face, and you breath deeply. The smell of dirt and aftershave, like the smell of construction. I move up and I'm kissing your chin now, your bottom lip. You press your mouth into mine. You want to taste me. You want to taste my hot and heavy breath.
As we kiss, I tear your shirt open. Buttons bounce across the floor, and your chest rises with anticipation. I press my rough hands down your stomach, pull at your hips with hungry fingers. You rise and fall with the motion of my hands, still drinking deep kisses from my mouth, pulling on my lip with your teeth as you grow hot and wet.
I move my lips from your mouth to your ear, and you hear my voice. It sounds the way my scruff feels. "I want you to unbutton your shirt." You try and say "Okay," but only a rush of air escapes your lips. You reach down and slip out the button, taking a long time to peel down the zipper. "Now," I say, "I want you to touch yourself." You press a hand beneath the tight boundary of your jeans, but keep your fingers above the fabric of your underwear. With one finger, you trace a line up and down. You can feel yourself hot and wet through the cotton.
With two fingers I unclip your bra, and I squeeze your breasts firmly, relenting just when you think it's going to be too much. I pinch and roll your nipples, all the while kissing and biting your throat, neck, and shoulders. Each bite borders on pain, a kind of hot, dull pain that radiates down your back and into your groin. When I pull your hair again, you shiver. "Turn around," I say.
For the first time, you see my face. Long, scraggly hair hangs in my eyes. My beard is dark and cut short, accenting my strong cheek bones, the subtle jut of my jaw. I'm wearing red flannel with the sleeves rolled up, and you can see the veins in my forearms highlighted by the still-glowing television. "On your knees," I say, and you position yourself so that you're kneeling on the couch, your elbows hanging over the back edge. You're still touching yourself, but you've ventured underneath the cotton, feeling your slick, radiating heat cling to your fingertips.
When I unlatch my belt, the leather slaps against my hand. The sound makes you shudder and bite your tongue. I drop my jeans around my knees. You see my cock turned sideways, too big in its hardness to do anything but fight the fabric. There's a spot of wetness near the tip. I press your face into my abs, and you know what to do, kissing the space around my navel, running your free hand along my still-covered cock. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of the boxer briefs and pull them down. I'm hard, long, thick and straight, uncircumcised with a full mushroom tip, the end of which glistens in the dark with pre-come.
My hands run along your ears and into your hair, and I pull you forward slightly, so that the tip of my cock rests on your lips. You kiss away the wetness and open your mouth, rolling your tongue over me playfully before pulling my hips toward you. I fill your mouth with my shaft.
I press forward, slowly, gently, and you feel my cock running down your tongue, along the roof of your mouth--into your throat. I go all the way in and pull out just as slow, and when I do, you take a deep breath. You look up at me with surprise, and I pull your head forward again, going all the way in, filling you up so that you can't breathe, before releasing you once more. You feel yourself oozing beneath the hand you use to touch yourself, and now it's you pushing forward, eager to fill your throat with my large, clean clock. Each time you do you can't breath, but it's a good feeling, a heaviness in your forehead, a swelling of the veins in your neck.
As we go on, you get more comfortable. I keep my hips thrust into your for longer, back out a few inches only to press back in, and when you push me away for air, you see long, silver strings of saliva hanging between my cock and your lips. We do this until your masturbatory hand is soaking, coated in your thick juices. Finally, you pull my cock out of your mouth, gasp for air, and say "Fuck me."
