Junction X by Erastes (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

as if someone had touched a switch that brought it all into focus, he tipped up his head, my arm went around him and we fitted together. My arm around him, and his body pressed against mine. A circle, a perfect match, each made for the other. Each waiting for the other to complete the track.

I remember my heart was racing, though it wasn’t the cold making me shake uncontrollably. With each determined move he made, I breathed in time with his affection. A kiss here, there. Lower. Lower still. He roamed around my chest, letting his tongue make patterns on my skin. I heard him chuckle with delight over the three hairs I was so proud of. I could have been witty, I should have been dazzling, but all I was was grateful.

He was playful, and I suppose I should have expected that, but somehow I didn’t. The one other time, in his bedroom, it had been too hurried, too unilateral to be anything other than release—but that evening he lit up inside as if laughter and his own hidden sensuality had been burning him up for so long that it had to combust or it would consume him unfulfilled.

He could hardly keep still, wanting to do everything, try everything. One moment he was adult and serious as he stroked my cock, positioning and re-positioning himself as if I were some great experiment. It was all I could do not to come too soon. Then he’d suddenly lose focus and come bounding up the bed to kiss me, as if I’d given him some great present. His exuberance was exhausting, and I’d never laughed during sex before.

Finally the mood changed, turning from play and even serious experimentation to intent. Smiles dropped away; speech replaced by heavy breathing and the softly caught breath of reaction. I ended up restraining him beneath me, his wrists held tight in my grip. Not tight enough to mean anything, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to still us both. We just looked at each other for a long moment. Then I kissed him and we were together, two interlocking cogs. He opened to me with a sigh and his legs moved apart, his hips twisting as he rubbed his cock against my leg, and his hand keeping a tight, slow steady movement on my own.

“Oh God…” Whatever I’d thought sex should be like, I hadn’t been expecting this. Or rather, my very wildest dreams had come somewhere close. But the figure below me, gasping and running its hands over every inch of my skin, had always been Val. Today, as I write this, I find it hard to remember ever being aroused in her company. And that’s a cruel thing to say, and I’m sure that it can’t be accurate.

He tipped back his head, encouraging me to attack the beauty of his neck with my teeth. When I did, he groaned. There was no doubt in my mind what I wanted, had to have, and he knew it, had always done.

“Let me up,” he whispered.

Reluctantly, my hands clinging to him until he was out of reach, I released him and he bounded away, returning in a heartbeat with a kiss and a jar of Vaseline. I stared stupidly as he opened the jar and handed it to me.

Then he wriggled back under me, and turned over. The jelly felt chill on my fingers. I rubbed them together until it liquefied a little then reached for the cleft of his behind. He flinched and I kissed him, removing my hand as if burned. “Alex. We don’t have to.”

“We do. We must. Please, Edward.”

He rolled over onto his side and clung, whispering things I can’t even bear to write down, sweet, beautiful things, arousing, wicked and lewd. Keys to the hidden depths I wanted to drown in.

He took my hand and guided it back. “It was only a little cold. Go on.”

I pushed my fingers back and he wriggled with a satisfied sigh. “Yes. There.” My cock, which had wilted a little at his flinch, rose again as I dipped my fingers into his cleft and found his entrance.

To use the vocabulary of this moment now—for who narrates sex?—would be to make it dirty and less than it was. Looking back over time, I could anatomically list what we did that night, but it wouldn’t do justice to the good or the bad. But if I tried to use the vocabulary of sense and feeling, it would result in a purple mess of euphemism and evasion. I learned to say the words, for Alexander’s amusement, mainly, but what I did to him, lips and fingers, hands and heart, was never coarse, never dirty. Not to me. Not to us.

So I’ll say that I slid a finger in, hardly knowing where to look, either at the terrible thing I was doing—or at the incredible reaction he gave, arching his back like a wave on the sea. Each bump on his spine seemed to shiver with delight. One can’t write down the way noises sound, fresh from a wanton mouth, pressed hard into a pillow. One can’t write how it felt to watch him writhe, catching the blankets in his fist, how it felt to feel him want more, demand more, push back and back until a finger—my fingers—were no longer enough. The room dropped away from us; there was nothing but the rhythm of my hand sliding backward and forwards, and his body rising and falling in time with each sweet gasp.

He begged me, swore at me, ordered me. How I pushed in past his pain and his resistance, I hardly remember. I knew he was in pain, that alone was enough to make me shrink—but then I was there, and no longer afraid.

We paused while the sweat dried on our skin. My hands gripped him tightly around the hips, constantly moving and kneading as if to reassure him; I couldn’t imagine how he was feeling.