The Muse's Undoing

We stare at each other with desire stripped raw, my stiff, engorged cock looking ridiculous as it leaks wantonly for him.

“I’m happy to see you,” I say.

He sucks the precum off my tip, and I hiss, shivering. “I see that. Needy baby,” he mocks.

“Fine. I admit it. I’m the needy one.”

“Nah, I think I’ve got you on this one. If it’s a competition.”

“I don’t think we should make a competition out of it,” I say as he suckles my tip in a way that makes my toes curl in my shoes.

It’s so fucking intense. His tongue plays with my slit relentlessly. I squirm, a whimper that’s starting to become too familiar coming out of me. It’s the best worst feeling. So uncomfortable I like it. He studies me carefully as he probes the tiny opening with the pointed end of his tongue.

“Unh…fuck…what is that? What are you doing?” I’m both twisting to get away from him, but also angling my hips to try and let him in.

He attempts to smile around my crown, but it comes out looking lewd and wicked. He answers by engulfing my shaft and sucking it hard.

I grab at his shoulder with my other hand, doing my best to take this like a man and not a fifteen year old getting his dick touched for the first time. I try to think of anything else. The stalled Senate confirmation hearings. The ongoing conflict in the Middle East. My list of acknowledgements for my book. But none of those manage to hold my interest. Everything is Matthew’s mouth, licking and sucking and swallowing. His fist, twisting and pumping me, not loosely the way I would do it, but firm and rough. The way I’ve come to like it.

“Gonna come,” I warn him, too soon as usual.

He slides off me with a pop. Licking his lips, he holds my gaze and tells me to breathe. I do.

He forces three more breaths from me until my entire lower body is pounding with an unbearable ache. He works his mouth over my length again, moving his lips in a tight ring up and down. It feels insanely good, but I know he wants to suck. His restraint shows in the line forming between his eyes. He’s dying to use his tongue, and knowing that kills me, too.

I glide my hand through his hair, not once taking my eyes off his.

“I need to touch you before you go,” I say.

His eyes glaze, and it makes me want to kiss him. I’m probably reading too much into it, but for my part, I feel a deeper connection between us than usual. It makes the distance between our faces harder to handle. It used to be enough to be close to him. To feel his body near mine. To hold his hand or sit overly close to him on the couch. But now nothing feels like it could ever be enough.

I genuinely don’t know what to do with this surplus of feelings. If they’re this overwhelming when he’s right here in front of me, then what the fuck am I supposed to do when he’s not?

“Matty,” I say, urgency quickening my breath.

He reads this as permission to let loose on me, and I throw my head back as he draws me straight to the edge with his tongue and too-talented throat. Holding a fistful of his hair, I blather a litany of desperate words, but mostly his name. My orgasm is quick and obliterating, stunning me silent and stiffening my body like I’m being electrocuted.

Holding me in place with his hands on my upper thighs, he takes everything, coaxing even more cum from my overstimulated cock while I make mindless noises that eventually turn to begging, “Please, please, please…”

He rises to look down at me. Stepping forward, he puts me and my chair between his legs. He shoves down his shorts, and I’m faced with his big, wet erection. He feeds it to me slowly, jerking it as he slides it over my waiting tongue. No sooner than it’s seated in my mouth does he spill his load down my throat with a tortured groan.

It’s the fastest he’s ever come for me, and I hold him by the ass, swallowing him deeper than I ever have, desperate to rub my face against his pubic bone.

This sends him over another edge. “Holy shit…ah…fuck…”

I pull back with a gasp, and there’s so much cum and drool still connecting my mouth to his cock, that I feel myself firming up again.

He takes me by the hair and tips my head back. We’re both flushed and breathing heavy. My face is a mess, and I want him so profoundly I don’t even try to hide it.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too.”

It’s no more or less than what we’ve always said to each other, and so it’s impossible to know if it means anything different to him. It’s as though he said the sky is blue, and I said, indeed, it is blue.

Love is a fact of us. It’s a—no matter what—I love you. And yet, there’s more to it now.

My love for him has its own drawer in my mind. Recently, I’ve cleared out a new drawer for him where I’ve put sex. But it would require an armoire built by both of us to contain in love. Jesus, listen to me. Why do I have to make everything so fucking complicated? No wonder I give myself a panic attack a week.