Half an hour later, with a couple of glasses of wine in him and a beer-and-a-half in me, we both loosened up a bit. The two of us had sat at my kitchen table–the dining room table hadn’t been delivered yet–talking about the kind of nonsense any two guys having dinner together might: sports, the economy, the vagaries of middle age, and all the other topics that exist mostly to fill unwanted silences, before eventually circling back to the gaps in our history.
“So, you said you had two kids?”
“Yeah. Alex and Riley.”
“Well?” He snapped his fingers. “Phone. Pictures.” Once I’d handed it over, queued up to the album with the kids’ most recent visit, he veritably cooed over them. “Riley’s so cute. And Alex…” He shot a sly grin at me. “He’s got your smile. Bet he’s a heartbreaker, just like his old man.”
“Hah! I don’t know.” With a shrug, I admitted, “Tell the truth, I’d really rather not know, you know? Like, I don’t want to think about my kids having… Oof, yeah, no.”
Mitch laughed knowingly. “Yeah, I hear you.”
“As to the heartbreaker thing… Look. I know I wasn’t exactly the best guy to date back then, and I tried to raise him to be better. I hope he took the lessons to heart, but who knows?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he laughed. “I had a pretty fuckin’ great time with you.”
I felt a slight flush rise in my cheeks. “Well, uh, thanks, but I mean that I could be careless with people’s hearts.”
He took another sip, then shrugged, saying, “Eh, maybe so. But I think everybody is at that age. We were kids; it happens. For what it’s worth, I never thought that you were particularly careless with mine. I knew what I was getting into.”
That was about as good an opening as I was ever going to get..”Look, Mitch… I just… I need to say this, because I don’t want it to be hanging over me for the rest of the night.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly before answering. “I’ve thought about this a lot over the years, and I want to apologize for not being more supportive of you back then.”
Mitch rolled his eyes in answer, but I continued. “No, I’m serious. That first night we met… I still remember saying to you that…” I paused once more, trying not to wince at the memory. “I remember saying to you that it was a shame you planned to transition, because you made such a pretty girl. It was shitty, and I’m sorry.”
He sat looking at me for a few moments before speaking. “I appreciate that. I do, because I remember it, too. But… Hey, look, I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t hurt, but…” He spread his hands out, palms up. “I mean, we were kids. You were, what, nineteen?”
“Twenty.”
“Okay, fine, twenty. You didn’t know better back then. Hell, I could tell you thought you were paying me a compliment in some sort of weird way. And the fact that you brought this up, even though it clearly makes you uncomfortable… Honestly, that means a lot to me. You could have just let it go and hoped I’d forgotten.”
After taking another drink, he said, “Was it shitty? Yeah, it was. But I’ll be honest with you,” I saw a hint of anger flash across his face before his expression shifted to something closer to wry amusement. “It doesn’t even enter the top hundred worst things said to me by people who were supposed to care about me.”
“I’m sorry,” was all I could say, no matter how utterly insufficient it seemed.
“Well, I appreciate that too, but… Eh, it is what it is.”
We grew quiet after that, each taking small bites of our food. I worried I’d killed the conversation with my apology, and he seemed to be lost in thought. As we ate, though, I found myself caught between reminiscence of who he’d been and the reality of who he was now. And he was… he was…
The laugh, my own laugh, caught me almost as unaware as it did him. “What?” he asked, seemingly perplexed.
“I was just…” Another little chuckle, more nervous than anything else, slipped out this time. “I was just looking at you and thinking… For the record?”
“Yeah?”
“You were right. You do make quite a pretty boy.”
Mitch stared at me in disbelief for long enough that I worried I’d offended him, then threw his head back with a long, loud laugh of his own. When he finished, he picked up his wineglass and raised it as if in toast. “Well, thank you very much for that. You haven’t turned out too bad yourself.”
“It’s kind of you to say that.”
“Fishing for compliments? Really?”
“No,” I replied with a shake of my head. “No. Just… If I’m honest? The last few months–hell, the last few years–have… let’s just say they’ve shaken my confidence a bit.”
“Oh?” His tone seemed half-intrigued and half-disbelieving. “Do tell.”
“Nah, it’s… it’s fine.” It wasn’t, but we’d been having such a good night up until that point, and I didn’t want him to look at me and see the loser who can’t stop talking about his divorce. “I’m just being dumb.”
“No, come on, you’re not. You can talk to me about it, Tom. I’ve been through… maybe not the same stuff you’re going through, but…” He held up his finger and showed the lack of a ring on it. “I know how hard that is. I do. So, if you want to talk about it, I’m all ears.”
Sighing, I began to reply, “Man, I don’t wanna be–”
Mitch interrupted me. “You’re not being… whatever it was you were about to say. You’re not imposing, or whining, or burdening me. I’m asking you.”
“Well,” I began reluctantly, “everything just ended up so differently than I expected it to, and it’s kind of thrown me for a loop. I thought we started out good. I mean, we did! We were good through the first five years, maybe even ten. But somewhere in there, something… I dunno, something shifted.
“I try looking back, and it’s… there are things I could point at where she could have tried harder, or I could have tried harder. And I know that I did try harder sometimes, but it never seemed to be enough. Or, maybe it was enough then, but we could never make it stick, you know? Like our marriage was a helium balloon slowly deflating, and we were two kids trying to keep it off the ground, playing like we were going to get it to fly again, until we eventually got tired of pretending.
“At the end, it was all just so… so bloodless. No big explosion, which I’m grateful for, but it was almost the inverse of that. She clearly just did not care about me anymore, except maybe as the father of her kids.
“And the more I think about it, the more certain I am that her… disdain, I guess? That it extended out before that. Like being married to me, actually married and not just two roommates raising kids, got to be one more chore she had to put up with in her life, and now she didn’t have to anymore. ‘Oh, he’s served his purpose, time to move on.’ By the end, I didn’t really want to be with her anymore, either, but I don’t think I was quite that cold. I hope I wasn’t.”
Mitch leaned forward, his hand moving as if to touch mine; but then he withdrew, looking almost embarrassed. I remember now how much I wished he hadn’t pulled back and how much my own disappointment surprised me.
He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, then said, “That’s… I can’t imagine you ‘cold,’ Tom. That’s not you.”
“Maybe. I hope so.” Another pull off my beer to give me time to process, then, “Anyways. It’s all just left me feeling a little… adrift? Or maybe jilted, in a weird way? By the end, I was so ready to be away from her, so it feels weird to complain about. And I’m not saying I wanted us to be at each other’s throats, or that I wished she’d cheated on me so that I’d feel some kind of righteous wrath or anything like that, but it all feels so anticlimactic, you know? Twenty-odd years together, and then it all just… ended.”
Mitch, understanding, nodded his head. “I’ve heard that story before, yeah. It’s hard when it feels like there’s no one to blame.” A small frown appeared on his face with this last statement, one that hinted at something I’d been curious about since that afternoon.
After a moment’s hesitation, I said, “Can I ask what happened with you and Jason?”
Snorting, he replied, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. Fair’s fair.” After pausing to look down into his glass for a moment, he said, “It’s funny the way things shook out.
“So, I transitioned over the course of a few years about… God. Twelve years ago now? Woof. Thanks for making me feel old, man.”
“Sorry.”
Mitch waved my apology off with a laugh. “It’s hard for me to say if he pulled away then because I transitioned or if he was going to pull away anyways. I mean, we’d been together for twelve or thirteen years by then, depending on how you measure it. Some of the passion had already gone away; maybe that’s normal. I don’t know.
“But it really started to slip once I began making more… concrete moves, I guess. I tried to rationalize it at the time. ‘Hey, it’s an adjustment for him, too.’ That kind of thing.
“And he tried to be supportive in other ways, but looking back, it felt so… forced. Like he was doing it so he didn’t seem like an asshole more than anything else. Like he was going to keep his word, no matter how much it bothered him.
“Then… then I got my top surgery, and that was the end of it. Not immediately, but maybe three months after, he just came to me and said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore.’
“It’s funny. I’m still, to this day, not sure if he was ever…” Mitch sighed and shook his head. “Back when we were dating, Jason told me that it didn’t matter, that he would love me regardless of whether I went through with transitioning or not. That he loved me for me, no matter what.
“The way he acted when he came to me with the divorce, the pain in his voice, I still sometimes wonder if he’d been lying to me or lying to himself, you know? Part of me wants to think the best of him, that he meant what he said but couldn’t follow through. But, honestly, I think he was just kicking the can down the road the whole time, hoping he’d never have to put up or shut up.”
As he spoke, his eyes had drifted away from mine to look out at the night sky through the kitchen window. Maybe it was his loss of focus on me, or maybe the wine, or maybe he just felt like he could be vulnerable for a moment, but for the first time that night, I saw more than just a hint of the pain he’d been carrying; it made me want to reach out, as he’d almost reached out for me earlier. Just like him, though, I didn’t follow through.
Then, his gaze returned to mine, and a none-too-convincing smile slid into place. “I guess it doesn’t matter, right? Jase was a pretty decent husband for a decade and some change. He was a good dad to Amber, and he still is; I walked her down the aisle at her wedding, but he was still there. They’re not as close as she and I are, but she still calls him Dad, too.” With another snort, he added, “I try not to be too annoyed at that.”
“I think you’re allowed to be. Ex-husband’s prerogative.”
“Fair fucking enough. A toast: to mildly bitter ex-husbands and the assholes we left behind!” Mitch raised his wineglass, and I my bottle, and we clinked them together.
“Hear, hear!” After a long pull on my beer, I said, “Still, I’m sorry that you had to go through that. It sucks when people aren’t who you think they are.”
“It does. But, to return to the topic at hand, you, Sir…” He said it with that same intonation he had that afternoon, the one from our youth, the one that made clear the word started with a capital ‘S’, albeit a little more boozily this time. A sudden tightness in my slacks showed that it still had the same effect on me now that it did back then, as did the lascivious grin on his face. “Once you get out of this funk, you are going to be just fine. More than fine. Trust me, the way the dating pool is out there? Pfft. You’ll be fighting them off with a stick.”
I tried to play off the sudden rush of arousal I felt when Mitch, intentionally or not, reminded me of our old times together. “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
His grin froze, then slipped into something smaller. Sadder. Disappointed. “Ah, not so much. Maybe for a little while, right after the divorce. After Jason split, I dated around a bit. Got into a couple of longer relationships. The last one… Well, I didn’t want to say it before, but that’s part of why I finally decided to move up here. And since then… yeah, no one, or no one of any real note.”
“Huh.” I could feel my brows knit together in confusion. “I’m, ah, I’m surprised by that. Like I said earlier, you’re a good-looking guy.”
Mitch, shrugging off the compliment, replied, “It’s a numbers game, man. I like guys, not women, so that cuts out half the human race. But since straight guys don’t look at me that way, that cuts it down again. A lot. Add into that equation that I’m coming up on fifty, short, and, well, trans–which is a turn-off for a big chunk of, ah, age-appropriate gay guys–and solving for X gets even messier.”
“That sounds hard. I’m sorry.”
He waved the condolences away as easily as he had the compliment. “It is what it is. I chose to live my life being true to who I am, and that’s a helluva lot better than some people get to do. I’ve got friends, I’ve got Amber, and I’ve got my business. Overall, I’m happy. I am. If I hadn’t transitioned… Well, I just don’t wanna think about it. Maybe I wouldn’t be here at all.”
We sat with that somber thought for the next minute, each of us nursing our drinks. I know that I was trying to think of what to say next, but all the responses seemed so pat. Another chorus of ‘I’m sorry?’ Or the obvious ‘I’m glad you’re still with us?’
I thought of the story he’d told me, of the disappointment that sometimes came with freedom and the pain that honesty had brought into his life. It felt almost arrogant to compare our circumstances–God knows that a stifling marriage and a mostly amicable divorce couldn’t hold a candle to all the shit he’d been through–but I still did. My marriage had ended because it had ceased to be true, to be a real partnership.
I also felt, with a certainty that had evaded me for the previous half a year, that no matter how much leaving the lie behind hurt, it could only be for the good. Mentally, I’d known that since long before the piece of paper and the division of assets, but sitting there, with someone who I’d loved and lost long ago, with his melancholic smile and voice that awoke old emotions, I could feel it in my heart, too.
Earlier, I’d looked at Mitch with eyes that tried to see all the ways he’d changed since the last time we met; over the course of the evening, they’d stopped looking for differences and focused on the similarities.
I hadn’t realized it until that moment, how much he was still who he’d always been: still the same person I’d locked eyes with across a darkened, smoke-filled club, still the same person I’d spent all those nights talking with about movies and music and all the other ephemera that seemed so important back then, still the same person who sent me away for the summer with sad, apologetic eyes, freeing me–freeing both of us–to find the future we needed to.
And, yes, still the same person who I remembered pinning to that flimsy dorm room bed as he wrapped his legs around me, who moaned and thrashed and begged for release in ways I still sometimes dreamed about. Still the same person who could bring that feeling rushing to the fore with only the slightest change in his voice and manner.
I didn’t know how to tell him all this, or if he held similar thoughts about me, or what–if anything–it meant for us now. But I knew I had to say something, for him and for me both.
And then, before I could form the words I needed, the titular chorus of “I Wanna Be Adored” blared out of the speakers.
With a sardonic, mirthless laugh, Mitch answered the singer. “Me too, buddy. Me too. Can’t remember the last time I felt adored.” Then he drained his glass and, peering at the bottom of it, quietly added, “Christ, I can’t even remember the last time I felt desired.”
Mitch’s eyes alighted on me once more. Microexpressions flickered across his face almost too fast for me to catch them: desire, hope, disappointment, embarrassment. And then, I finally knew what I wanted to say to him; what I had wanted to say the whole night, even if I hadn’t been able to admit it to myself.
“Mitch–”
He stood suddenly, with a fake laugh and the smile to go with it. “Shit, man, just ignore me. This is why I don’t drink anymore. Always get so maudlin.” He scooped up his plate and mine before I could respond, then headed to the sink and began to scrape what remained of our dinners into the disposal with his back to me.
I called his name again, but he just shook his head. “I said I’m fine.”
Rising from my chair and moving towards him, I answered, “You’re not.”
He stopped scrubbing at the plate in his hand. “I will be. Please, Tom, just… just let it go.”
“No.” My hand touched his hip, and he shivered as if in answer to the question neither of us had been brave enough to ask until that moment. “Why did you come here tonight, Mitch?”
“I just…” He swallowed audibly. “I just wanted to catch up. Help you out with–” His voice faltered when I moved closer, fully behind him, and grasped his other hip.
I lowered my face, mouth almost touching his ear, to growl, “With what, pretty boy?”
He rewarded me with a quiet moan, then a louder one when his hips shifted backward to press that deliciously tight ass against my groin. “With… with…”
“Tell the truth, boy.” I leaned down, lips planting the tenderest of kisses on his neck. “Because I can think of so many things you could help me with.”
I followed the soft kiss with a longer one, then a nip; the plate he held fell into the sink with a clatter, his hand moving up and back to pull my head closer. “Tom, please.”
His voice could–did–make me as hard as anything, but I knew mine held power over him as well. It dropped into a lower register, transforming into a tool that I hadn’t had need of in years, but which still worked towards its intended purpose. “Say it right, boy.”
“Oh God,” he gasped. “Oh God, Sir. Please, Sir. Please, I need you.”
“Such a good boy,” I chuckled, sliding one hand across his stomach, then down under the waistband of his slacks. I didn’t know what I’d find when I reached lower, and I realized with sudden, sharp clarity that I didn’t care. I needed to make sure he knew that, too. “But you’ve always been my good boy, haven’t you, Mitch?”
His breath caught at my words, then released once more in a wracking sob as my fingers found his clit, thicker and longer than I remembered, but still just as sensitive. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, Tom–.” he began, before a gentle pinch reminded him of his place. “S- Sir. Yes, Sir. Always- always been your good boy.”
I buried my face in his neck, nuzzling it. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand that before. I do now.”
My thumb lazily stroked my pretty boy’s clit, the finger that had pinched it before now moving inside his slick opening before another joined it. I don’t know if it was this or my years-belated apology that brought the wordless, joyous sound from him, nor did I have too long to ponder the question before Mitch half-turned his head, his lips finding mine in a fiery, desperate kiss.
He moaned into my mouth, tongue dancing with mine, even as he shoved his body backwards to grind his muscular ass against my cock. It was my turn to moan then, my gentle ministrations becoming rougher, less focused on fingering his sopping cunt and more on pulling him roughly against me for my own pleasure. In other circumstances, maybe this would have lessened his ardor, but not now; if anything, my lack of control seemed to spur him closer to orgasm.
Closer, and then plummeting over the edge.
His lips fell away from mine, howling out my name, as his legs shook and almost collapsed beneath him. I wouldn’t let that happen; as I’d done so many times before, I held Mitch close as he shuddered and cried out and finally fell limp. Finally, grateful, shy eyes found mine. “Th- thank you, Sir. Thank–”
I filled my voice with a steel that was purely for show. “You didn’t ask permission, boy.”
This was part of the game we’d always played, one we’d loved in our youth. From the mischievous expression on his face, one we both still loved, too. “I suppose… I suppose I should be punished, shouldn’t I, Sir?”
“On your knees, b–” Before I’d even finished half the sentence, he’d turned and knelt before me, eager hands working at my belt. Within seconds, he had that open, then my clasp and zipper.
Mitch leaned in, eyes closed, rubbing his cheek against my fabric-covered cock like a cat greeting its owner returned home from a long trip. “Mmm. Hello again, gorgeous,” he sighed. “It’s been too long.” After planting a kiss on my briefs, he pulled them down and took my cock in one hand, then both. With a drunken giggle, he added, “Very, very long.”
And then, without another word, Mitch slid his lips around the purple head and began to suck. Without meaning to, I cried out, “Fuck!” I was out of practice; years before, it would have taken far more effort on his part to draw such an enthusiastic utterance from me. That was part of the game, too, pretending to be above it all until he’d “earned” my approval.
Part of me worried that he’d be disappointed in me for failing to stick to the script. Instead, he pulled away for just a moment and looked up at me, nose crinkling with amusement. “I’m glad Sir approves.” Then, the whimsy departed, replaced by pure warmth. Adoration, even. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt such a thing, either. “It’s okay, Tom. Let me take care of you.”
I breathed out a word of thanks and nodded; that gesture might as well have been the sound of a starter pistol. With a broad, lewd grin, he returned to his task, taking my cock into the warm wetness of his mouth, slurping and sucking noisily, his head bobbing up and down in long strokes. He would alternate these with tender, loving nuzzles, kisses, and licks from tip to base, then take me in once more, each time further down my length.
As I regained my composure, my hand moved to his head, at first stroking his hair, then lacing my fingers into it, before grabbing a fistful as I drew closer to the end. “Mitch–”
When I called out his name, he shifted his hands–which had been stroking across my thighs and stomach in between cradling my balls–around to my ass, then buried his nose in my pubic hair, taking the full length into his throat. It had been decades since I’d felt that sensation; Jen could never do it, had barely even tried.
My hand tightened in his hair. I should have stopped him; I was forty-five years old, for God’s sake, and who knew how long it would take me to get hard again? But I couldn’t. The most giving, most unabashed, most enthusiastic lover I’d ever had knelt before me with my cock in his throat, trying to pull me even deeper in, desperate for my cum.
I gave it to him with a roar, pulse after pulse of hot, salty liquid spilling forth. Only when the torrent ceased did he withdraw to suck and lick the last few drops from me, then released the head from his lips with an audible pop. With a husky, lust-filled voice, Mitch asked, “Am I forgiven, Sir? Am I still your good boy?”
I laughed without meaning to, the euphoria of orgasm and the joy that I’d been missing for so long bursting out of me. Hurt appeared in his eyes, so I rushed to assure him, cupping his cheek and answering, “Oh, yes, Mitch. God, yes. You’re so, so good, my pretty boy.”
His pain evaporated, replaced by relief. Mitch pressed his face against my fingers, kissing the tips, then bit his lip with the most seductive mien he could muster. “Show me?”
Mitch grinned as I dragged him to his feet, giggled as I pushed him towards my bedroom, laughed joyously when I shoved him onto the bed. Clothes flew everywhere, shirts and pants and socks and underwear–he preferred boxers, it turned out–until we lay naked in each other’s arms, kissing and stroking bodies both familiar and new.
As much as I wanted to ravish him then and there like I might have when we were twentysomethings, refractory periods unfortunately existed. Even if they hadn’t, there were so many other things to do with him that night, starting with, “I want to taste that pretty… uh…”
My brain froze. What did he want me to call it? We hadn’t talked about this at all, and I knew that some trans people preferred different names for their genitals, and I didn’t want to offend him, and–
He burst into laughter so raucous that he had to bury his face in my shoulder to muffle it, then started again when he raised his eyes to look at my somewhat miffed expression when I said, “I’m just trying to–”
My pretty boy silenced me with a kiss, answering, “I’m not picky, Tom. It’s a pussy. Or a cunt. Or whatever. And you can call my clit a clit, too; it won’t bother me. But…” He glanced to the side, a bit of that shyness from earlier returning, along with maybe some slyness to go with it as his eyes found mine once more. “… if you wanted to call it a ‘dick,’ well, I certainly wouldn’t mind.”
My jaw hung open for just a minute; then I smiled back in return. “What about ‘cock?’”
“That’s, ah.” His face reddened in the most adorable way. “That’s good, too.”
“So,” I asked in between the kisses I trailed down his chest and belly, “what you’re saying is that you want me to suck your cock, pretty boy?”
I punctuated the sentence with a delicate lick of the hardened nub we’d been discussing, drawing a shivering, “Fuck, Sir, please.” And just like that, we’d returned to our roles.
I took his clit–or dick, as he clearly preferred–in my mouth, sucking at it and lashing back and forth across it with my tongue. From the first, he began to thrash under me, as he always had. I had always loved that about being with him, how he seemed to almost entirely lose control of his body, as if only in ceding it to me could he truly find release. Sometimes, I needed to pin him to the bed to bring him the pleasure I wished to bestow; more often, I did it because he and I both enjoyed that expression of my dominance over him.
Even with the extra weight he’d gained–both muscle and the less desirable bulk that time had added to both of our frames–it took only one hand, gripping tightly to his ass, to keep him from shaking loose this time. The other moved to slide two, then three digits into his pussy, pistoning in and out, occasionally spreading apart or forming into a triangle to vary the sensations.
He ran his calloused hands across my scalp, fists balling and flexing in search of hair that no longer existed and hadn’t in over a decade. That realization made me chuckle; those vibrations took him over from near-orgasmic to all the way there.
I knew it was coming, but it still always thrilled me when he slapped his hand down on the bed and balled his fist in the sheets. Then, as he always had, Mitch cried out my name in worship, over and over again like a mantra, his voice ever increasing in volume, until one last, wailed, “Tom!” remained. After that, he lost all speech, along with control of his body, locked into a rigid, ecstatic paralysis.
Kisses along his thighs and belly as he regained conscious use of his muscles, mixed generously with murmured praise, eased his way back down from those heights. Well, mostly. I’ll admit that I did occasionally blow a wisp of breath across his overstimulated dick, provoking a squeal of indignant, unwilling pleasure from him. And so what if it did? Sir’s prerogative. He’d never have dared disagree.
“You’re so…” His fingertips traced patterns on my scalp. “So good to me, Sir. Always so good to your…” A blissful smile adorned his lips. “Say it again? Please?”
I rose up above him, my body sliding up his, my newly resurrected hardness pressed between our bellies. Once more my mouth descended, this time on his exposed throat, to gently kiss and roughly growl, “My pretty boy.” With one hand, I took both of his wrists and held them above his head. “My pretty, pretty fucking boy.”
Mitch’s hips moved, searching for what he needed. “Please, Tom, please Sir, please–” he begged, a desperate whine in his voice.
“I don’t have any condoms, boy. If I take you, it’s going to be raw, and I’m going to fill your needy little cunt full of my cum. There’s not a goddamned thing on this Earth that will stop me once I start. Understand?”
I swear, I thought his eyes were going to roll up in the back of his head. In a low, loud, needful groan he answered, “God, yes. Fuck, I want that so bad.”
As I angled my hips upwards, my free hand slid down between us to tease Mitch’s slick opening with the head of my cock, sliding it back and forth but never quite penetrating. With a teasing voice, I asked, “Do you feel desired now, my pretty boy? Adored?”
Groaning in frustration, my lover tried to find purchase somehow; instead, my hand held his arms fast, my chest pressed down on his, my legs splayed out to force his apart. No matter how he twisted or bucked, he would only get what I gave him.
“Answer.”
Desperate, he almost shouted, “Yes! Fuck, Tom, yes, I feel–!”
And then I gave him everything.
Mitch called out in wordless thanks as half my length sunk into him; I couldn’t help but join him in chorus when I filled him entirely. A withdrawal and a return followed, then another, and another, each better than the last. I found my voice first, groaning, “Jesus, Mitch, you’re so fucking tight.”
He raised his head, bit my neck, and pushed his hips up at me as hard as he could, grunting out, “Only because- ah- Sir is- is- so fucking- ah! Big!”
No phrase on Earth will drive a man on like that one, or at least if it exists, I’ve never heard it. I released Mitch’s wrists and grabbed his ankles, kneeling and bending his body into a mating press. I was rough with him–probably too rough–but he didn’t complain. Instead, his eyes burned with a new, insatiable light. “That’s it, Sir. That’s it. Show your pretty boy what he’s been miss- Oh!” A particularly hard thrust seemed to lock his mouth open in an O shape, a perfect circle through which only pants and low, desperate whimpers could pass.
I now felt doubly grateful for the blowjob I’d received earlier. Not only had it been the best I’d had for as long as I could remember, it also let me stave off the inevitable for just a little while longer. Every thrust into Mitch’s fantastic tightness, every bucking of my pretty boy’s hips, every pained, pleasured noise he made as I reclaimed both the lover I thought forever lost and the man I used to be, brought me closer and closer to the explosive finish I knew awaited me; still, I silently prayed, ‘not yet.’ I wanted to watch him cum again, wanted to savor the feel of us, wanted to gaze upon the beautiful face of my enraptured, adoring, adored one for just a few moments more.
But that wasn’t to be.
Mitch’s hand reached out to the side, slamming down onto the mattress and grasping at the sheets again. His eyes locked on mine, lips finally loosened once more, as he begged, “So close. So close. Cum, Sir. Please, give it to me. P- ple- please!” His neck corded with muscle as he flung his head against the pillows, his cunt tightened, and I was lost, spilling my seed into him even as I fell forward and pinned his body beneath mine.
Afterwards, we lay together again, this time not with the remembered giddiness of our youth, but as two middle-aged men savoring the warmth of bare skin and renewed infatuation. We kissed, still, but in displays of languorous affection instead of unfettered need. We caressed each other’s skin, but to connect instead of arouse.
At last, still slightly out of breath, he said, “Thank you.”
“Thank me?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Fuck, man, I feel absolutely alive now for the first time in I don’t know how long.”
“You? God, I haven’t been fucked like that in years. Hell, I don’t think I’ve been fucked like that since…” His words trailed off, then he chuckled. “Honestly? Probably since the last time you and I were together.”
“You’re kidding.”
He cuddled up against my side. “I’m not. You’re a hard act to follow, Tom.”
“That is a goddamned crime.” Then I thought back to all the girls I dated. To Jen. And while they each had their own qualities that made them special or memorable, I slowly admitted, “But, um, I don’t think I’ve ever been with anyone that made me feel like you do, either. Not since we used to hook up.”
He fell quiet, as if parsing what I’d said for hidden meaning. “Is that what we’re doing now? Hooking up?”
“Is that what you want this to be?”
“I asked first.”
I could have hedged my bets, could have tried to be cool and carefree, like the dumb, horny kid who’d wanted to play the field that I was back then. Instead, I simply said, “No. No, that’s not what we’re doing.”
He looked up at me, his head still resting on my shoulder, expression inquisitive and slightly amused. “Oh? Is that so?”
“Yeah. It is.” I planted a kiss on his forehead. “I’d say I’m too old to play games, but that’s not the truth. I could probably be a dumbass for the rest of my days if I chose to be.” Mitch stifled a laugh. “The truth is… the truth is, I don’t know what happens next. But whatever does, I want to give this a try, give us a try. A real try this time.
“Maybe it works out, and maybe it doesn’t. I can’t promise anything except that I’ll be honest with you and never cruel. That and, well, that I want tonight to mean something more than a roll in the hay between two half-drunk fuckbuddies, and that I’ll work at it, as long as you do, too.”
“That’s…” He appeared to weigh my words in his head. “That’s fair. Hell, more than fair. However, I would like to ask at least one other thing. Maybe more later, but one now.”
“What’s that?”
The sexy, endearing smirk snuck onto his face once more. “After you’ve had a little time to rest… Well…” His hand moved down to fondle my cock, already stirring at his tone. “I just need a reminder. Sir does own all my holes, doesn’t he? I’d hate to think that–”
Whatever else Mitch might have said was lost in giggles as I slid my arm out from under his head and flipped him over, face down on the mattress. “Then don’t think, boy. Just let me show you how much I’ve missed that tight little ass of yours.”
“Mmm.” He pulled over a pillow to rest his head on, looked over his shoulder at me, and gave me a lazy, happy smile. “As Sir wishes.”
===
“Honey, I’m home!”
From the kitchen, Mitch called out, “In here!”
I hung my keys on the hook in the entryway next to our wedding pictures, paused to flip the wall calendar to October 2023, and walked into the kitchen, breathing in the delicious aroma of my husband’s lasagne. He and I traded off cooking and dishwashing duties every other night, but I had to admit that he had me beat all to hell at Italian dishes.
After giving him a quick kiss, I turned to the cabinet to grab plates so that I could set the table, but he said, “Oh, I’ve already got that handled.”
“Did I forget something? Our anniversary isn’t for another couple of months, so…”
“No, no,” pulling me into an embrace punctuated with a longer kiss. “Just celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“Well,” cuddling in close, “Amber came by earlier today and, long story short… I’m going to be a grandfather!”
“That’s wonderful!”
“It is,” he agreed, although his smile dimmed a touch.
“What’s wrong?”
With a self-deprecating chuckle, he said, “It’s just making me feel a little… old. Which is silly, but…”
“Oh, hon.” I stroked his cheek tenderly. “It’s… Well, maybe it is a little silly, but you’re allowed to feel how you feel, even if I do think you’re going to be the sexiest grandpa at the playground.”
Mitch laughed and slapped my arm. “Asshole.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” He leaned in close for a long, lingering kiss. “And I love you.”
“I love you too.” Then, with a smirk, I added, “That said…”
“Hmm?”
“Well, you forgot to change the calendar again.”
An expression of mock fear on his face, he said, “Oh no. I’m so sorry, Sir; how can I ever make up for such a transgression?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
“Mmm, I hope so,” my husband said, a dreamy smile on his face. “Now c’mon, let’s go eat.” He favored me with a wink. “Pervert.”
“Always, but only for you, pretty boy. Only ever for you.”
