The Muse's Undoing

MATTHEW

Iwake up sweating and tangled in Fischer’s long limbs. His leg is between mine, his arm thrown over my chest, and his forehead is tucked against my shoulder. My dick is tenting the sheet, and I sigh at its persistence.

I’m in severe danger of attaching myself to him like a leech. His constant proximity now brings along with it a cacophony of emotion my mind isn’t capable of sorting through. It’s an onslaught, and the solution is probably space.

Space I don’t want.

Still, I’ve never been good about doing what I should be doing. I can hold down a job fine, but everything else I do is based on a patchwork reminder system. The clinic I use for STI testing calls me an hour before my pre-scheduled appointments every other week to make sure I show up and do that. Maggie and I go to the dentist together so I never miss a cleaning.

I have laundry and grocery reminders set on my phone, but I usually swipe and forget those. Thank God I don’t have a pet. Although, I have a few plants, and they’re thriving, but I credit the sun and my sense of aesthetics with that. I can’t have them looking bad.

As much as I know taking some space is the healthy way to process the last few days, the idea of being alone when I don’t have to be is unsettling. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a twin, or if there’s something else missing in me that makes being alone feel like a physical ailment, but it too often does.

The absence of Fischer has consistently pushed me into the arms of strangers. Between my muses who all identify as female, I go on benders. Anonymous sex and Grindr hook-ups that grind my self-esteem to dust—as men tend to do. Even when I try to take a break from dick—like Dry January or whatever, I inevitably wind up back on my knees at a gay bar, cruising for a cock in my mouth.

Or in a Plaza hotel room getting split in two by a repressed businessman who doesn’t even bother to take off his wedding ring.

How could I not absolutely love myself?

Fischer stirs, and my erection gives a visible throb. I need to get away from him. Make some coffee or something. Put my damn clothes on.

But his hand moves, up my chest to my neck, and he shifts half his weight on top of me.

Eyes still closed, somewhere between awake and asleep, his mouth finds mine, and you can say what you want about morning kisses, but I happen to love them. Rare, languid, and extremely horny. I don’t stop myself from grabbing his ass and deepening the connection between our mouths. His hand travels down, finding my cock and stroking it through the sheet.

God…

Without saying a word, his mouth follows the trail of chills his hand left, and then he’s sucking me.

“Jesus, Fischer…”

“Mmm…” his hum vibrates my balls.

“What if Gavin walks in?” It’s that time of day, after all. Late morning. Monday. Fuck, and I have to work this evening.

He only slows down, and the blow job gets better. He’s at my side, leaving my legs restless for something to clench between them as his tongue works my nerve endings, flooding me with endorphins.

I shove my hand into his wild hair, not to force anything, just to feel him moving. Encourage this behavior with positive reinforcement. “That’s so fucking good. Fuck. I love the way you suck me.”

His hips roll against the mattress in response to that. I wish I had more words, compliments to rain down on him. The best I can do is wet two fingers with my mouth and play mindlessly with his hole while he savors every inch of my cock.

After a few minutes of being all slow and sweet, he heats up, both literally and in his interest in getting me off. I add a third finger to him and get more aggressive, matching his energy. The moment moves quickly to a breaking point, and when his orgasm takes him, he pops off my cock to breathe, but his hand doesn’t stop until it jerks my release straight onto my chest. He face plants into my cum, sucking and licking it off me, and I can’t keep my hands off him. I’m writhing and moaning and still stupidly horny for him.

He winds up back at my mouth, giving me a taste of myself and glomming onto my side.

I genuinely can’t imagine this man in a war zone. But I think that’s one of the things about Fischer I like best, and it makes me never want to spend a second without him. Which brings me back to my original point. “Maybe I should get going.”

“Where to?” he murmurs.

When he takes a break from kissing me again I say, “Home. To get my work clothes…”

I don’t have time to get my next excuse out because he’s on top of me again, straddling me this time. “You’re frisky when you wake up,” I note.

“I was hoping to find you inside me again, but this works.”

“You were seriously okay with that?”

“Mm…” His mouth lands on mine with some force, and I am absolutely locked in.