[ Fanfic ] YunJae: Doctor Love
Title: Doctor Love
Fandom: DBSK
Pairing: YunJae
Rating: NC-17
Synopsis: Jae is a model who thinks he's going insane. Yunho is his doctor. Other than that, there's no plot, just smut.
A/N: Not nearly as cheesy as it sounds. No, seriously.
Anxious - but then again, when wasn't I? - I waiting in the too white room, sitting on a cot that creaked every time I barely moved, for the doctor to come in and tell me what was wrong. I had theories about it, ranging anywhere from a tumor on my frontal lobe to just vanilla insanity. Too little sleep, too much work, too many late night drinks with friends, not enough sex, even though the offer was always there. Difficult to tell, really. I only knew that I was slipping, losing time, not understanding what the hell was going on around me.
When the door opened I nearly jumped to my feet, sign enough that I was in a bad way, but the guy just smiled, all perfect teeth and dark eyes that seemed to see me without really doing anything at all. The white coat he wore made him look taller than he was, and it didn't help that he was all legs and lanky arms. He could have been a model, like me, if he'd wanted to, at least, that's what I was thinking as he extended a hand to me.
“I'm Yunho Jung,” he said, barely a trace of an accent there when he spoke, but it explained the way he was looking at me, a fellow Korean in this foreign place.
“Jaejoong Kim,” I said, my name coming out sounding stunted. I hated that name, that connection to a place I couldn't remember and didn't care about. Call me Hero, I wanted to say, anything but that horrid name that didn't describe me at all.
His hand shake was like his posture, strong, sensible, not at all afraid of the person standing in front of him, even though I thought everyone should be worried about me, being near me. I felt like a caged animal, perpetually ready to attack if anyone showed me the slightest signs of provocation. And it had happened, too, was why I was finally there to get my head looked at. Apparently more drugs and alcohol than a college frat boy could go through didn't make your management company blink a perfectly mascara'd eye, but as soon as a guy beats the shit out of the guy fucking him in a dirty club bathroom? Yeah, that gets you a quick “mentally unstable” stamp on your file, and then a visit to the nice doctor.
Shaking off the thoughts that I was sure he had noticed, I tried to smile, to not look like I was terrified of my surroundings, even though I was. I'd always hated doctors, and the pain they brought. Needles and sterilization and death. I couldn't even fathom wanting to be one, or wanting to be around one, but then, Yunho Jung didn't have a ring on that important finger. Maybe he was just gay, a little trick like me.
“Your file says that you work with a local modeling agency,” He said, words washing over me and settling somewhere in my soul, which I was convinced he was judging. “Pretty illustrious career from what I can see.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry, but, what does this have to do with anything?”
He raised a shoulder in a shrug, sat on the little spinning stool chair that seemed to belong to every doctor. “Maybe nothing, maybe something, maybe everything,” he said, casual tone beginning to grate on me even as it was comforting. “Would you say you've been working a lot lately?”
“Are you a physician or a shrink?”
“Little bit of both,” he said. “Do you feel like you're being handled?”
“By you, or by my company?” I'd been to see shrinks before, so many times. Growing up with different features than everyone else in your damned small town would do that to a kid. At least I'd never taken a blade to my arm like so many kids I read about on the internet. Would have been difficult to find a modeling job with scars like that.
“By me,” he said, and I got the distinct impression that he wasn't lying at all, that he wasn't trying to trick me into saying something.
“No, I guess not,” I said, settled back on the horrible sounding cot. “And to answer your earlier question, yeah, I guess I've been working a lot. Sort of goes with the job though.”
“What about drugs or alcohol?”
I smiled, wondered what he thought of it, because I knew that it melted people's inhibitions. It was one of my gifts. “Also part of the job.”
“How much would you say you drink?”
“Enough to get drunk,” I said, honestly couldn't quantify it any more than that. “Most mornings I wake up with a hangover.”
“What about drugs?”
I didn't mean to shoot him the look that I did, but it sort of happened anyway. It wasn't quite the look I used in clubs to pick up boys less pretty than me but still interesting, but it wasn't a whole lot different, either. “What do you think?”
“Drugs, alcohol, overwork, and too little sleep can cause a slew of different negative psychological effects.”
“Yeah, I know that,” I said. “But I can't sleep unless I'm keyed up on stuff.”
I didn't know why I told him, why the words just slipped out. Usually I wouldn't tell people things that pertained to myself like that. There was something about him, something comforting and benign. No wonder he was a shrink.
“There are prescriptions you can take, if that's the case,” he said. “But if it's just insomnia, there are plenty of ways to work around them.”
“Look, Doc, erm, Dr. Jung, I saw Fight Club, okay? And trust me, I eat mostly right, and I get plenty of exercise. That's not going to make it better.”
“How is your sex life?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“How is your sex life?”
“Why is that important?”
“Certain studies show that sexually active people sleep better than those who aren't.”
I just stared at the man, assured he was teasing me, he had to be. I mean, I didn't look like someone who had trouble getting laid, at least, I didn't think I did. The thought made me uncomfortable, made me want to find a mirror and check my face and hair and teeth and everything. I was fussing with my hair seconds after he said it, and I hated the nervous habit.
“Maybe that's what you need,” he said, and I would have sworn I imagined the way he came towards me then, just a tiny step, really, but in the situation it seemed so much more than that. “You look nervous.”
“Yeah I'm nervous,” I said. “Some fobby doctor I've never met is talking to me about sex and how I need it.” Never mind that his accent was slight, and his vocabulary was better than mine. It was creepy, I was freaking out, the walls of the place pressing in around me. “Maybe I need a good fuck, yeah, but I don't want to talk to you about it.”
“Your company sent you here for a physical evaluation, and a mental one,” he said, infinite patience with something else I was just starting to see buried under it. “Is it the setting that makes you uncomfortable?”
“It's the setting and the way you're talking,” I said. “Jesus.”
“I'm sorry,” he said, and damned if he didn't sound it. “I've mastered the linguistics, but not the nuance. I'm bad at inflecting things.”
“Ah, right, okay,” I said, not sure of what he was saying. “So, uhh, what?”
“I was about to suggest if you wanted to talk about this somewhere else? My office, perhaps? Or if the institutional setting isn't something you like, we could meet up outside of the clinic.”
“Doc, are you hitting on me?”
Color touched his cheeks, and for the first time he looked like something more than just a figure I was distantly afraid of. “Would you be put off if I did, Kim Jaejoong?”
Something like a shiver of history and raw natural instinct drifted through me at the way he said my name, accented the way only my step mom could manage, even though she wasn't Korean. And I found myself shaking my head, grinning.
“Nah, I guess you're all right,” I said. “Meet me at the Starbucks around the corner when you get off?”
---
I met him at the Starbucks a couple hours later, already feeling like an idiot before he came in. It already felt too much like a date, and seeing him without his doctor's get up just made it worse. Not that there was anything particularly stunning about the dark jeans and tan leather jacket. But, dammit, they were fitted to him, and I couldn't stop staring at his sunglasses.
“Hey,” he said, smiling when he saw me and sat across from the couple's table I'd been lurking at. “Sorry it took me a bit longer. I wanted to change before coming here.”
“It's okay,” I said, didn't say that I'd more or less done the same thing, only I'd done it by driving to the nearest clothing store and juts buying a new outfit - my apartment was way too far away, and there were too many damn choices. “I didn't mind waiting. I have a smart phone.”
He laughed, and I loved the way his body shook with it, the way his head tipped back, his eyes crinkling into little tildes. “Are you more comfortable with things here?”
“Well, I was,” I said, though I was mostly just teasing him. “I get it, though. You're trying to make it seem as casual as possible so that I'll be able to talk to you.”
“Actually, I'd been hoping it could just be natural.”
I looked at him, the earnestness and sincerity on his features. The guy wasn't lying. For whatever reason that I didn't understand - convinced as I still was that I was an insane person waiting to explode and bite someone's head off, probably literally - he wanted to know me, and not for a professional reason.
That's probably when I started to get the idea in my head of what happened next, but I didn't know it at the time, had no idea where things would end up, or how long it wouldn't take for me to bat my eyelashes at him enough to fully captivate his attention.
“What do you mean by that, doctor?”
There was that blush again, the same as when I'd asked him if he were hitting on me. I liked seeing it, liked the association, because for whatever reason, I liked him. Though, in a moment of paranoia, I wondered if he were hired, maybe by my company, to get me to loosen up, talk to someone, have fun with them, maybe fuck them.
“How much do you know about the company I work for?”
No flash of guilt while he seemed to be thinking about how to answer the question, which was good. It didn't quite assuage my fears of him, but it started to, and any beginning at that point was a good one.
“Not that much,” He said. “I Google'd them when they called to make your appointment.”
“That's all?”
“I Google'd you too.”
Laughing, color in my own cheeks, though of an entirely different sort, I leaned forward, just a little, my hand playing on the cup of coffee that was long since sans coffee. “Did you like what you saw?”
“Would I have asked you here if I didn't?”
I grinned, the laughter abated, and that was good. I was trying to act cool, not giggly and silly. Luckily, I was well trained, and could change gears easily. But I was happy, because he'd flashed, in that moment, a bit of control, or at leas the ability to be in control, and that was a necessity if I were to like someone.
“What do you like about me?”
“This is supposed to be about me asking you questions,” he said, but the pretense was blown, and I doubted that he'd give anything but a sterling psychological evaluation to my esteemed higher ups.
“Doesn't look like that's what you want anymore, though,” I said, realized I was being something of a tart, and looked away. He wasn't some trick I found at a club, he was a doctor, someone educated and respectable, and here I was trying to pick him up like some trash. Said a lot about me, I thought. Maybe that was my problem all along.
“Look,” I said, looking back at him. “I'm going about this all wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that this is a coffee shop, not a club.”
“Do you want to go to a club?”
I stared at him, for a moment wondering how any one person could be so naïve and sexy at the same time, to say nothing of his education. “No, no I don't,” I said, shook my head. “I just want to talk without making it seem like I'm over here planning how to undress you.”
“Are you planning to undress me?”
“You make this very, very difficult, Jung Yunho.”
---
I don't know how he ended up in my apartment, how we ended up in bed with each other. I'd wanted to just run to a bathroom, but the look on his face when I pressed my hand against his had told me that he wouldn't go for that sort of thing. Without having the actual balls to ask to go to his place, I lead him to mine.
It was the first time I'd brought anyone over for anything but harmless hanging out. The first time I'd shared my own bed with another person. It didn't feel as awkward as I thought it would, falling into bed with him. And let me tell you, as soon as he had my clothes off, I was with an entirely different Yunho Jung than the one I had met at the clinic, and called by his proper name at the Starbucks.
He was some sort of sex god, sent to cure me of my psychosis, at least, that's what I told myself as his lips wrapped around my cock, took it in deep, his tongue suctioning it as he twisted his lips from side to side. I was barely thinking, with those lips, and the strong hand gripping the base of my cock, pumping in perfect coordination with his mouth.
I've never come so fast in my life, but as soon as he took hold of my balls, started rolling them in his long fingers, I knew that I couldn't stop myself. I whimpered to him, only minutes into his technique but powerless anyway, and he didn't move, kept sucking and fondling and gripping like it was the only thing he knew how to do.
Wiping at his mouth, getting the saliva that had dripped down his chin, he grinned up at me. I think it was then that I knew I was in for a helluva night.
His hands found my thighs, spread them farther apart than they already were, and then he was kissing me, tongue still salty and hot from what he'd just done. The taste didn't bother me, wasn't the first time. But the way that he seemed so damn hungry, like he needed me, that got to me, made me want to give him as much as I could and then some.
I took hold of his cock, that angle awkward but it didn't matter, and gave it a good squeeze. I didn't need to ask him if he knew how to use it, because his swirling tongue told me enough of the rest of his moves, even if I hadn't seen them yet. The squeeze was to tell him I was all right, without saying it. I'd found some time early in my career that it was less awkward with new partners if you didn't have to vocalize things like that.
“Do you have condoms?” He asked, the kiss broken and his voice heavy.
“Oh fuck,” I muttered, hadn't planned for people being in my bedroom, not like that.
I squirmed under him, half off the bed as I found my pants, tugged my wallet out of the back pocket and fished the ancient condom out of them. I tossed it to him as I wrenched open the drawer on my bedside table, grabbed a bottle of lube.
“You have lubrication, but no condoms?”
I laughed, loved how damn properly he spoke, even with his dick in his hand and a condom disappearing over the head of it. “Don't need a condom for a vibrator,” I said.
“No, no you don't,” he was smirking as he pulled me into a kiss again, before taking hold of the lube, his eyes on me as he squirted it into his hand.
He didn't go straight for penetration, which I was about half used to. Instead, he pressed a finger into me, one at a time, until my head was tipped back and I couldn't think. The things he was doing, moving them, curling them in slow motions, gradually moving a little faster, made my toes curl. That was what it must be like for girls, I thought, to be fingered by some guy.
For a moment I was jealous, thinking about it, and then he was pressing into me, all amazing tightness and pain as he worked against the muscles not wanting something so large to be admitted. I wasn't crying out, or whimpering - too many guys got the wrong message - and he wasn't stopping, pushed all the way in on the first slow go, and then pulled back out.
How do I explain what it's even like? The way that it almost feels like it's too much. Not because it's painful, and not because it's pleasurable, either. There's a certain feeling to it that, from what I've gathered from women folk, isn't entirely the same as vaginal sex. Maybe it's that it's more concentrated, more intense. Whatever it is, that motion against me and into me was enough to start to make me hard again, even as my own hand was going down to take hold of my cock, play with it a little while he leaned back to get better leverage.
I couldn't tell you how long it lasted, how long he rocked into me, finally pounding so hard that I was whimpering, moaning and crying out his name in a very undignified manner, not that I or he gave a shit about it. By the time he came I was ready to profess love for him and his giant cock and the way he used it and his tongue. Thankfully I kept my mouth shut, even as he collapsed onto the bed beside me, sweating and out of breath.
“I think I'll sleep tonight,” I whispered, meant it, though.
“Will you?” He asked, and a moment passed. “Can I stay?”
“Yes you can stay,” I said, rolling over to kiss his jaw, then his lips, slowly, growing in a lazy sort of sleepy passion. “I want you beside me when I wake up, so we can do it again.”
Fandom: DBSK
Pairing: YunJae
Rating: NC-17
Synopsis: Jae is a model who thinks he's going insane. Yunho is his doctor. Other than that, there's no plot, just smut.
A/N: Not nearly as cheesy as it sounds. No, seriously.
Anxious - but then again, when wasn't I? - I waiting in the too white room, sitting on a cot that creaked every time I barely moved, for the doctor to come in and tell me what was wrong. I had theories about it, ranging anywhere from a tumor on my frontal lobe to just vanilla insanity. Too little sleep, too much work, too many late night drinks with friends, not enough sex, even though the offer was always there. Difficult to tell, really. I only knew that I was slipping, losing time, not understanding what the hell was going on around me.
When the door opened I nearly jumped to my feet, sign enough that I was in a bad way, but the guy just smiled, all perfect teeth and dark eyes that seemed to see me without really doing anything at all. The white coat he wore made him look taller than he was, and it didn't help that he was all legs and lanky arms. He could have been a model, like me, if he'd wanted to, at least, that's what I was thinking as he extended a hand to me.
“I'm Yunho Jung,” he said, barely a trace of an accent there when he spoke, but it explained the way he was looking at me, a fellow Korean in this foreign place.
“Jaejoong Kim,” I said, my name coming out sounding stunted. I hated that name, that connection to a place I couldn't remember and didn't care about. Call me Hero, I wanted to say, anything but that horrid name that didn't describe me at all.
His hand shake was like his posture, strong, sensible, not at all afraid of the person standing in front of him, even though I thought everyone should be worried about me, being near me. I felt like a caged animal, perpetually ready to attack if anyone showed me the slightest signs of provocation. And it had happened, too, was why I was finally there to get my head looked at. Apparently more drugs and alcohol than a college frat boy could go through didn't make your management company blink a perfectly mascara'd eye, but as soon as a guy beats the shit out of the guy fucking him in a dirty club bathroom? Yeah, that gets you a quick “mentally unstable” stamp on your file, and then a visit to the nice doctor.
Shaking off the thoughts that I was sure he had noticed, I tried to smile, to not look like I was terrified of my surroundings, even though I was. I'd always hated doctors, and the pain they brought. Needles and sterilization and death. I couldn't even fathom wanting to be one, or wanting to be around one, but then, Yunho Jung didn't have a ring on that important finger. Maybe he was just gay, a little trick like me.
“Your file says that you work with a local modeling agency,” He said, words washing over me and settling somewhere in my soul, which I was convinced he was judging. “Pretty illustrious career from what I can see.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry, but, what does this have to do with anything?”
He raised a shoulder in a shrug, sat on the little spinning stool chair that seemed to belong to every doctor. “Maybe nothing, maybe something, maybe everything,” he said, casual tone beginning to grate on me even as it was comforting. “Would you say you've been working a lot lately?”
“Are you a physician or a shrink?”
“Little bit of both,” he said. “Do you feel like you're being handled?”
“By you, or by my company?” I'd been to see shrinks before, so many times. Growing up with different features than everyone else in your damned small town would do that to a kid. At least I'd never taken a blade to my arm like so many kids I read about on the internet. Would have been difficult to find a modeling job with scars like that.
“By me,” he said, and I got the distinct impression that he wasn't lying at all, that he wasn't trying to trick me into saying something.
“No, I guess not,” I said, settled back on the horrible sounding cot. “And to answer your earlier question, yeah, I guess I've been working a lot. Sort of goes with the job though.”
“What about drugs or alcohol?”
I smiled, wondered what he thought of it, because I knew that it melted people's inhibitions. It was one of my gifts. “Also part of the job.”
“How much would you say you drink?”
“Enough to get drunk,” I said, honestly couldn't quantify it any more than that. “Most mornings I wake up with a hangover.”
“What about drugs?”
I didn't mean to shoot him the look that I did, but it sort of happened anyway. It wasn't quite the look I used in clubs to pick up boys less pretty than me but still interesting, but it wasn't a whole lot different, either. “What do you think?”
“Drugs, alcohol, overwork, and too little sleep can cause a slew of different negative psychological effects.”
“Yeah, I know that,” I said. “But I can't sleep unless I'm keyed up on stuff.”
I didn't know why I told him, why the words just slipped out. Usually I wouldn't tell people things that pertained to myself like that. There was something about him, something comforting and benign. No wonder he was a shrink.
“There are prescriptions you can take, if that's the case,” he said. “But if it's just insomnia, there are plenty of ways to work around them.”
“Look, Doc, erm, Dr. Jung, I saw Fight Club, okay? And trust me, I eat mostly right, and I get plenty of exercise. That's not going to make it better.”
“How is your sex life?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“How is your sex life?”
“Why is that important?”
“Certain studies show that sexually active people sleep better than those who aren't.”
I just stared at the man, assured he was teasing me, he had to be. I mean, I didn't look like someone who had trouble getting laid, at least, I didn't think I did. The thought made me uncomfortable, made me want to find a mirror and check my face and hair and teeth and everything. I was fussing with my hair seconds after he said it, and I hated the nervous habit.
“Maybe that's what you need,” he said, and I would have sworn I imagined the way he came towards me then, just a tiny step, really, but in the situation it seemed so much more than that. “You look nervous.”
“Yeah I'm nervous,” I said. “Some fobby doctor I've never met is talking to me about sex and how I need it.” Never mind that his accent was slight, and his vocabulary was better than mine. It was creepy, I was freaking out, the walls of the place pressing in around me. “Maybe I need a good fuck, yeah, but I don't want to talk to you about it.”
“Your company sent you here for a physical evaluation, and a mental one,” he said, infinite patience with something else I was just starting to see buried under it. “Is it the setting that makes you uncomfortable?”
“It's the setting and the way you're talking,” I said. “Jesus.”
“I'm sorry,” he said, and damned if he didn't sound it. “I've mastered the linguistics, but not the nuance. I'm bad at inflecting things.”
“Ah, right, okay,” I said, not sure of what he was saying. “So, uhh, what?”
“I was about to suggest if you wanted to talk about this somewhere else? My office, perhaps? Or if the institutional setting isn't something you like, we could meet up outside of the clinic.”
“Doc, are you hitting on me?”
Color touched his cheeks, and for the first time he looked like something more than just a figure I was distantly afraid of. “Would you be put off if I did, Kim Jaejoong?”
Something like a shiver of history and raw natural instinct drifted through me at the way he said my name, accented the way only my step mom could manage, even though she wasn't Korean. And I found myself shaking my head, grinning.
“Nah, I guess you're all right,” I said. “Meet me at the Starbucks around the corner when you get off?”
---
I met him at the Starbucks a couple hours later, already feeling like an idiot before he came in. It already felt too much like a date, and seeing him without his doctor's get up just made it worse. Not that there was anything particularly stunning about the dark jeans and tan leather jacket. But, dammit, they were fitted to him, and I couldn't stop staring at his sunglasses.
“Hey,” he said, smiling when he saw me and sat across from the couple's table I'd been lurking at. “Sorry it took me a bit longer. I wanted to change before coming here.”
“It's okay,” I said, didn't say that I'd more or less done the same thing, only I'd done it by driving to the nearest clothing store and juts buying a new outfit - my apartment was way too far away, and there were too many damn choices. “I didn't mind waiting. I have a smart phone.”
He laughed, and I loved the way his body shook with it, the way his head tipped back, his eyes crinkling into little tildes. “Are you more comfortable with things here?”
“Well, I was,” I said, though I was mostly just teasing him. “I get it, though. You're trying to make it seem as casual as possible so that I'll be able to talk to you.”
“Actually, I'd been hoping it could just be natural.”
I looked at him, the earnestness and sincerity on his features. The guy wasn't lying. For whatever reason that I didn't understand - convinced as I still was that I was an insane person waiting to explode and bite someone's head off, probably literally - he wanted to know me, and not for a professional reason.
That's probably when I started to get the idea in my head of what happened next, but I didn't know it at the time, had no idea where things would end up, or how long it wouldn't take for me to bat my eyelashes at him enough to fully captivate his attention.
“What do you mean by that, doctor?”
There was that blush again, the same as when I'd asked him if he were hitting on me. I liked seeing it, liked the association, because for whatever reason, I liked him. Though, in a moment of paranoia, I wondered if he were hired, maybe by my company, to get me to loosen up, talk to someone, have fun with them, maybe fuck them.
“How much do you know about the company I work for?”
No flash of guilt while he seemed to be thinking about how to answer the question, which was good. It didn't quite assuage my fears of him, but it started to, and any beginning at that point was a good one.
“Not that much,” He said. “I Google'd them when they called to make your appointment.”
“That's all?”
“I Google'd you too.”
Laughing, color in my own cheeks, though of an entirely different sort, I leaned forward, just a little, my hand playing on the cup of coffee that was long since sans coffee. “Did you like what you saw?”
“Would I have asked you here if I didn't?”
I grinned, the laughter abated, and that was good. I was trying to act cool, not giggly and silly. Luckily, I was well trained, and could change gears easily. But I was happy, because he'd flashed, in that moment, a bit of control, or at leas the ability to be in control, and that was a necessity if I were to like someone.
“What do you like about me?”
“This is supposed to be about me asking you questions,” he said, but the pretense was blown, and I doubted that he'd give anything but a sterling psychological evaluation to my esteemed higher ups.
“Doesn't look like that's what you want anymore, though,” I said, realized I was being something of a tart, and looked away. He wasn't some trick I found at a club, he was a doctor, someone educated and respectable, and here I was trying to pick him up like some trash. Said a lot about me, I thought. Maybe that was my problem all along.
“Look,” I said, looking back at him. “I'm going about this all wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that this is a coffee shop, not a club.”
“Do you want to go to a club?”
I stared at him, for a moment wondering how any one person could be so naïve and sexy at the same time, to say nothing of his education. “No, no I don't,” I said, shook my head. “I just want to talk without making it seem like I'm over here planning how to undress you.”
“Are you planning to undress me?”
“You make this very, very difficult, Jung Yunho.”
---
I don't know how he ended up in my apartment, how we ended up in bed with each other. I'd wanted to just run to a bathroom, but the look on his face when I pressed my hand against his had told me that he wouldn't go for that sort of thing. Without having the actual balls to ask to go to his place, I lead him to mine.
It was the first time I'd brought anyone over for anything but harmless hanging out. The first time I'd shared my own bed with another person. It didn't feel as awkward as I thought it would, falling into bed with him. And let me tell you, as soon as he had my clothes off, I was with an entirely different Yunho Jung than the one I had met at the clinic, and called by his proper name at the Starbucks.
He was some sort of sex god, sent to cure me of my psychosis, at least, that's what I told myself as his lips wrapped around my cock, took it in deep, his tongue suctioning it as he twisted his lips from side to side. I was barely thinking, with those lips, and the strong hand gripping the base of my cock, pumping in perfect coordination with his mouth.
I've never come so fast in my life, but as soon as he took hold of my balls, started rolling them in his long fingers, I knew that I couldn't stop myself. I whimpered to him, only minutes into his technique but powerless anyway, and he didn't move, kept sucking and fondling and gripping like it was the only thing he knew how to do.
Wiping at his mouth, getting the saliva that had dripped down his chin, he grinned up at me. I think it was then that I knew I was in for a helluva night.
His hands found my thighs, spread them farther apart than they already were, and then he was kissing me, tongue still salty and hot from what he'd just done. The taste didn't bother me, wasn't the first time. But the way that he seemed so damn hungry, like he needed me, that got to me, made me want to give him as much as I could and then some.
I took hold of his cock, that angle awkward but it didn't matter, and gave it a good squeeze. I didn't need to ask him if he knew how to use it, because his swirling tongue told me enough of the rest of his moves, even if I hadn't seen them yet. The squeeze was to tell him I was all right, without saying it. I'd found some time early in my career that it was less awkward with new partners if you didn't have to vocalize things like that.
“Do you have condoms?” He asked, the kiss broken and his voice heavy.
“Oh fuck,” I muttered, hadn't planned for people being in my bedroom, not like that.
I squirmed under him, half off the bed as I found my pants, tugged my wallet out of the back pocket and fished the ancient condom out of them. I tossed it to him as I wrenched open the drawer on my bedside table, grabbed a bottle of lube.
“You have lubrication, but no condoms?”
I laughed, loved how damn properly he spoke, even with his dick in his hand and a condom disappearing over the head of it. “Don't need a condom for a vibrator,” I said.
“No, no you don't,” he was smirking as he pulled me into a kiss again, before taking hold of the lube, his eyes on me as he squirted it into his hand.
He didn't go straight for penetration, which I was about half used to. Instead, he pressed a finger into me, one at a time, until my head was tipped back and I couldn't think. The things he was doing, moving them, curling them in slow motions, gradually moving a little faster, made my toes curl. That was what it must be like for girls, I thought, to be fingered by some guy.
For a moment I was jealous, thinking about it, and then he was pressing into me, all amazing tightness and pain as he worked against the muscles not wanting something so large to be admitted. I wasn't crying out, or whimpering - too many guys got the wrong message - and he wasn't stopping, pushed all the way in on the first slow go, and then pulled back out.
How do I explain what it's even like? The way that it almost feels like it's too much. Not because it's painful, and not because it's pleasurable, either. There's a certain feeling to it that, from what I've gathered from women folk, isn't entirely the same as vaginal sex. Maybe it's that it's more concentrated, more intense. Whatever it is, that motion against me and into me was enough to start to make me hard again, even as my own hand was going down to take hold of my cock, play with it a little while he leaned back to get better leverage.
I couldn't tell you how long it lasted, how long he rocked into me, finally pounding so hard that I was whimpering, moaning and crying out his name in a very undignified manner, not that I or he gave a shit about it. By the time he came I was ready to profess love for him and his giant cock and the way he used it and his tongue. Thankfully I kept my mouth shut, even as he collapsed onto the bed beside me, sweating and out of breath.
“I think I'll sleep tonight,” I whispered, meant it, though.
“Will you?” He asked, and a moment passed. “Can I stay?”
“Yes you can stay,” I said, rolling over to kiss his jaw, then his lips, slowly, growing in a lazy sort of sleepy passion. “I want you beside me when I wake up, so we can do it again.”