He is leading us at the moment, dodging a few bold hands who dare to invite us to play. We do play with others, on occasion, but we always make the offer; it's obvious the owners of those hands don't know the score. If I was of a mind to lower myself to touch them, I'd slap and kick. Tonight, though, my hands will be filled with him and nothing else; I won't risk sullying him by touching another. Although no one has actually made physical contact yet, I can feel dozens of eyes gazing upon us, their touches alternating between satin and oil. Slick and soft and I can't decide whether to squirm in discomfort due to the slickness or the constraint. In a very short while I won't even notice them anymore, no matter how hard they stare. Not that I don't like the attention; I do. I like to have them staring at my body, my cock, the boy that they can't have and I can. I want them to watch, to see, to gape in disbelieving awe. Awe at the beauty that both of us have individually and the synergistic glory that is us together. Watch in fascination, aroused jealousy and a hint of disappointment as we do so easily what they could never even attempt no matter how hard they dream. I want them to lay awake for days afterward, their cocks hard and their teeth gnashing as they try and fail to get themselves off, stuck in a mobius loop of blue balls and almost-coming. The very thought almost makes me come in my pants.

We're well into the backroom by now and it's obvious that he is heading for one of the secluded alcoves he favors. That's not what I want tonight; if I wanted privacy, I'd have just taken him by the hand and driven us home. The skin-to-skin contact made as I grab his wrist and stop him makes both of us swallow hard and he turns to look up at me. We're stopped in front of a garishly upholstered sofa, currently occupied by several men receiving what look to be depressingly average blow jobs. I restrain myself from instructing the men on their knees in proper blow job form and technique; no doubt he would not appreciate the interruption in our interlude. Indeed, neither of us would; we came here to fuck and my mouth wants something inside it. It's craving something warm, something wet and slick and exactly that.

I'll never tire of this, of his tongue alongside mine, fighting and caressing, stroking the roof of my mouth and curling around my teeth. He is a spice-box, redolent of cinnamon and bourbon. Even the slightest contact stings, inciting me, stirring me to dominate, to attack, to push him out of me and pull me into him. We move from my mouth to his, lips dragging roughly together and apart, protesting the pressure and friction, daring us to draw blood. I've got him pressed against the back of the sofa, pinned so he can't move, can't dart away from me, a glimmering bird caught in my predator's claws. All it takes is the force of my groin against his and my hands gently cupping his hips and he's trapped, where I want him. Always where I want him.

We're moaning, the sound soft enough to pass between us unnoticed by others. The faint vibrations nevertheless settle like a vice grip around my cock, squeezing out drop after drop of slick fluid and I want to be inside him so fucking badly. So badly I think I might actually start shaking, hands and lips quivering in withdrawal, in pure goddamned need. Breaking away from those hypnotic lips, I lean down to bite my favorite spot at the crux of his neck. He arches into me as my teeth worry his skin, pressing just hard enough to leave two rows of angry red welts. His breath cracks hotly across my ear, wordlessly pleading the same words his cock is whispering to mine. Our pulses thrum together, connected everywhere we're touching--through skin, clothes and bone. The need is growing, clawing its way out of my throat, poised at the base of my cock.

I take a step back, keeping my hands on him when he sways at the loss of support. His eyes are hazy and unfocused, but they don't stay that way for long. I reach for his shirt at the same time he goes for mine; each bit of skin we expose increases the temperature of the room degree by degree. We're professionals at disrobing, managing to lick and suck, kiss and stroke each inch of flesh we uncover--somehow without getting tangled or distracted. Quick, efficient and impossibly arousing. I've always been good at hiding foreplay, but with him as my student we've both become masters. There is nothing romantic about this display, at least not on the surface. We're just getting ourselves naked. Right.

As soon as we're both finished, I spin him around, catching my right arm under his right knee and lifting that leg as I inch him forward. My beautiful baby boy is no idiot; he raises his leg higher and hooks it over the back of the sofa, pressing his left thigh against the supporting frame. He's perched there, between two muscle queen gym bunnies whose attention is no longer on their own cocks, but rather on his, jutting erect and straining in the narrow space between them. There is just enough room for his slim body, one foot sinking into a dubiously stained cushion. The sofa is there to support his weight and give him something to use as leverage. By now he has to have realized that this is not going to be a quick fuck.

He's waiting, skin tensing and relaxing around my hands as they smooth down his back and over his ass. I stroke once across his exposed hole and he thinks that's what's going to happen next; I'm going to lube him up and split him open. And I will...eventually. But for now, I've got something better in mind. My tongue has received one of his tastes and now it craves a slightly different one, one it might just like even better than his tongue. My knees are grateful for the presence of his clothes as they hit the ground, my face sliding down his back and coming to rest against the perfect mounds of his ass. I inhale sharply, letting the intake of air serve as a single, short warning to him. He barely has time to register the sensation before my tongue finds his hole. Tight. Hot. Mine. I brush his hole lightly once, twice and a third time before delving inside, twisting to allow the rough top and slick underside surfaces to hit every nerve ending. Scrape and sooth, press and release; his hole flutters open and closed, beckoning me inside and then refusing to let go. My fingers dig into his ass and hold him open, one hand swiveling down to let a thumb push in underneath my tongue. I hold him open, stretching him down as my tongue strokes upwards. I can hear him now, his voice catching on his teeth. I am filled with the scent of him, growing ever stronger. Sweat begins to trickle down his swan's-back, finding my tongue with unerring accuracy. Salt mixing with spice, water and musk and he's riding my tongue, using both legs to rock against me. His fingers are gripping the sofa, arms tensed to show surprisingly toned muscle. I can tell his head is thrown back, diffuse light glinting in his damp hair as his strawberry lips cry out and up, voice echoing off the ceiling. Their eyes are watching but now those gazes do not reach us, cannot touch us. The heat and arousal we're building holds them at bay; they watch from behind the glass panes of this union they cannot even begin to understand.

As much as my tongue enjoys his ass, my cock is demanding its own taste of that delicacy. By the time I reach my feet, I've got the lube open and two slick fingers inside him, curving up to stroke his prostate even as I scissor them apart. My cock protests the condom, as it always does when I'm about to fuck him. It never ceases to amaze me that with any trick, I'm not physically ready to fuck until I feel latex on my skin, but with him I sense nothing but regret. Someday, that sensation will be nothing but a memory. For now all I can do is press the head of my cock against his hole, withdraw my still-splayed fingers and know that the first thrust inside him will overwhelm any momentary pangs.

And then it's there. There. That moment of impossible pressure, almost painful, of the very tip of my cock ordering him to let me in. Commanding, demanding and then taking what I want. His mind wants me in, even as his body resists. It wants to resist, craves that sensation of being taken. Overpowered, forced into submission, made to open, to spread itself before me. We are equals, but at this one point of contact, in this however-you-want-to-phrase-it instant, my body commands his, utterly. Completely. Mine. I own him.

By my own design, the slide into his body is insanely slow. I want him to feel every millimeter of my cock and I have to feel his hole burning me alive, so slowly I half-fear that I'll melt away before I'm completely there. My chest presses to his back, sealing us together with our sweat. My mouth finds the back of his neck, sucking hard enough to raise a purple bruise before I shift my head up and over to press our cheeks together. His eyes are wide and unseeing, staring blindly to the heavens and I can feel his breath gasping along his lips and blending with mine. He wants me to finish this initial joining, to just push forward as I hold his hips steady. I stay the course, wanting to torture us just that little bit more. The head of my cock glides ever-so-slowly over his prostate and his entire body quakes, cock jerking, balls tightening. The seconds it takes for the contact to pass are interminable; it must feel like I've dropped an anvil on his crotch and left it there. He wants, but this is my show and we both know it. Our muscles flex and twitch with agonizing grace, my back flowing into an arc as I finish pushing inside him. Now, and only now, are we joined.

We are paused now, enjoying the simple state of union in which we find ourselves drowning. His entire body is soft and warm surrounding me, tissue contracting ever so slightly in a gentle reminder of his dynamic thereness. My fingers flex a rhythm into the flesh of his hips, instructing him on the undulating cadence our bodies will enjoy when we deign to indulge them. He doesn't move, his butterfly body pinned by mine, a truly unique specimen that I alone have gracing my collection of one. Still, I know that his skin heard my hands, that he is ready, prepared to begin.

Sliding out of him is an unmerciful ache and I hate to do it, only bothering because I know that in order to be back inside, I have to leave. The tight ring of his hole milks me, wringing and pulling in protest. His jaw shifts and clenches, his entire body ready to meet me on the return journey. We meet halfway, his ass stroking the skin stretched across my hipbones as I admire his fluid, feline grace. We both have that quality, though we differ in the execution of it. The contrast, I think, is a striking one, two feral cats caught in honey, lightning movements drawn out in amber.

This lassitude allows me to savor every staccato flash of pleasure I feel as we again and again and again again again meet and part and meet. My spine tingles, my skin hurts; the air is sharp as a knife and I find reprieve only where we touch. Our witnesses see two men fucking; we see one being worshipping its very existence. The acute delight of fucking as our joy in being. Being.

Tight and becoming tighter, hot and getting hotter; this building friction fights us even as it brings us closer together. Pleasure washes over me, filling my lungs, supplanting the oxygen my body needs with this rarer substance that feeds my soul. My entire body vibrates with it, expanding and glowing in its excess, cock screaming my need to come, to finish. I crave standing in this light but cannot bear its presence. The fire is so alluring when you're sitting at its side, but step within its heart and you find an entirely new universe--one you cannot fathom for its infinitude.

The pace has held steady, but our hearts have not; they beat erratically, frantically--the only sign either of us have that what we are doing cannot last much longer. We're riding each other and the devil is chasing us, but to all onlookers we have no care for our pursuer. This illusion is fracturing from the inside out; the clasp of his body is a siren and I am not inured to its call. My blood is begging me to let go, to flood him with myself, to ease this marvelous tension. I can hear his blood asking for the same, for mercy, compassion, benignancy. Something, anything, whatever I'm willing to give so long as I ease his gorgeous suffering.

I'm not about to change course, not this close to the pinnacle. We'll find our resolution soon enough; I can feel my body reaching into him even as his twines with mine. We pull and tug, coaxing orgasm out with innate deftness, an adeptness we were born to share with none but each other. The sudden onrush of blinding pleasure that heralds my climax freezes me in place, buried deep within him. That crushing sensation is doubled by the scent and pressure of his own culmination, thick and binding as it holds me down and pours forth.

I don't want to leave him; every moment I linger inside his body extends my pleasure, reminding me of why I need him so much, of why I do this again and again and again. Still, I withdraw, knowing that the mundane aspects associated with our mutual worship must be addressed. After I've done that, I ease his leg back onto the floor, subtly massaging now-aching muscles. Around us, the audience starts breathing again, although I doubt they've remembered to blink. I feel their stares penetrate the now-dissipating haze we build around us so I quickly retrieve our clothes. This encounter was merely an aperitif, something to whet our appetites for later delicacies--ones we will enjoy in a locale more conducive to our preferred type of leisure.

My desire for him is sated only long enough to reach the exit and I cannot resist taking from him one last kiss before we leave, sending our just-stilling pulses back into frenzy. We should go home. Now.