TJ's Stories - Ballet Boy's Bubble Butt (02)

Devon is gone when I wake up.

Five fifteen, he'd said. The apartment is quiet and slightly too large-feeling, his absence oddly present. His coffee cup is on the drying rack. There's a note on the counter that just says smoothie stuff in the fridge — help yourself and I stand in the kitchen for a moment reading it like it's going to tell me something more.

It doesn't.

I get to class. I sit through sixty-five minutes of organic chemistry and retain approximately one fact, which is something about carbon bonds, and I write Devon's name in the margin of my notebook and then cross it out so hard the pen goes through the page.

Gym is better. Gym is always better when my head is too loud with something I can't solve, because the thing about three hundred pounds on a bench press is that it requires your entire brain's attention or you die. I spend ninety minutes doing exactly that — chest and arms, pressing and pulling and pushing until my pecs are so full and flushed with blood that I can feel my own heartbeat in them, until my arms have that satisfying dead-heavy feeling that means I pushed past where I wanted to stop. The gym clears my head. When I come out I feel almost normal.

Marcus meets me at the bar two blocks from the gym — Marcus, who I've known since freshman year and who is reliably excellent at talking about absolutely nothing meaningful for three hours — and we drink two beers each and talk about the upcoming season and whether Alvarez is going to stay healthy and whether Marcus's most recent situationship is actually over or just dormant, and then Marcus points at me with his bottle and says: "What you need, man, is to find a girl with an ass like God put it together personally and just let her bounce on your dick until your brain reboots. You've been weird all semester."

"I've been fine," I say.

"You've been weird."

I think about Devon in the splits.

"Maybe," I say.

Marcus raises his bottle. "First party of the year is next Friday."

"Sure," I say. "Sure."

I think about Devon the whole way home.

I take the stairs — elevator in this building is genuinely slow — and I'm on autopilot, still half-thinking about the carbon bonds I need to learn by Thursday and whether my left shoulder is going to hold up through fall ball, and I push the apartment door open.

Devon is standing in the hallway directly across from the front door, coming out of the bathroom.

He's wearing a towel.

One towel, low on his hips, tucked at the side, and his hair is damp and pushed back and his skin is still faintly steamed from the shower, warm-looking. He stops when the door opens. I stop in the doorway.

We look at each other.

He has water on his collarbone. His eyelashes are damp. The towel sits at his hip bones and beneath it the carved indentation of his V disappears and the ridge of his abs is visible and his whole chest is bare and faintly golden in the hallway light.

I have been thinking about him all day.

"Get on your knees," I say.

Devon's eyes do something I don't quite have a word for. They go dark and soft and certain, all at once, like a muscle releasing tension it's been holding for a long time. He looks up at me for just one beat — checking something, reading something, finding what he needs in my face — and then he drops.

He kneels on the hallway rug in front of me, his hands resting open on his own thighs, and he looks up at me with those pale green eyes and the slight wet fall of dark hair and his lips just barely parted, and I feel something in my chest crack open that I will not examine tonight.

I reach back and pull the door closed behind me.

"Good boy," I say. The words feel—right. Natural. Like I have said them before, in some other version of my life that I'm only now catching up to.

Devon's lips curve very slightly.

I reach down and grip the hem of my shirt and pull it off over my head and toss it somewhere behind me. Devon is already looking — not furtively the way he looks in the kitchen, but openly, with full deliberate attention, his eyes moving over my chest and shoulders and arms with a focus that is almost evaluative.

I flex. Not the playful single-muscle show from the couch a week ago — I mean I flex fully, both arms up in a slow deliberate double bicep, and then I bring my arms down and let my pecs settle and I watch Devon's face.

Devon's lips part all the way. He makes a very small sound.

"You want to touch?" I say.

He looks up at me and his eyes are enormous. "Yes, sir," he says. The sir comes out smooth and unhesitant, and something in my lower spine fires like a lit match.

I step closer. Devon brings his hands up and sets them on my thighs first, just to stabilize himself, and then raises them to my stomach — runs his palms flat up over my abs, slowly, feeling each ridge of muscle — and then higher. He sets both hands on my pecs, cupping them from underneath, feeling their weight, and then he leans in and presses his lips to the center of my chest.

I put my hand in his damp hair.

Devon kisses slowly up the curve of my left pec, his lips warm and unhurried, and when he reaches my nipple he closes his mouth around it and my hand tightens in his hair involuntarily. He makes a quiet, pleased sound around it and uses his tongue, and I tip my head back briefly at the ceiling and think about nothing except the specific wet warmth of Devon's mouth.

He moves to my right. Spends time there. Takes his time the way someone takes their time with something they've been wanting and finally have permission to have. His hands are on my abs while he works, and I can feel his fingertips pressing into the muscle like he's mapping it. He kisses down the center of my sternum. Down my stomach. His lips find the upper edge of the deep V that disappears into my sweatpants and traces it with devastating focus, and I grit my teeth and grip his hair.

The towel has fallen off him.

I look down — I can't not — and Devon is kneeling naked on the hallway rug and his body is even more extraordinary in full than any morning silhouette in the kitchen. The long clean lines of him, the slope of his waist, and behind him — his ass. Fully visible now, bare and round and unbelievably perfect, and it's moving very slightly because Devon is repositioning on his knees, and the sight of it does something to my blood pressure.

I pull him off by his hair. Devon looks up at me with a flushed face and swollen lips and I pull my cock out of my sweatpants.

Devon's eyes go immediately to it and he goes very, very still.

"Oh," he says softly.

"Yeah," I say.

He's beautiful and I'm holding his hair and I drag the length of my cock across his cheekbone, slowly. Devon's eyes close. I lay it across his face — the full weight of it, the thick shaft resting on his cheek and jaw — and let him feel it, and Devon makes a broken, reverent sound.

"Beg," I say.

Devon opens his eyes. He licks his lips. "Please," he says. "Sir." His voice has that honey quality from the video, low and liquid. "Please. I want—" He turns his head and presses his lips to the shaft, just a soft press. "I've wanted—" Another press, moving upward toward the head. "Please let me suck your cock. Please. I'll be so good."

I keep my face still even though my cock is throbbing against his cheek with his heartbeat or mine.

I drag the head along his lower lip. Back and forth. Devon's mouth is slightly open and I can feel his breath and the almost unbearable softness of his lips and I do this for a long, deliberate moment while he sits perfectly still and patient and wanting, and then I press the head just against his lips without pushing in.

Devon's whole body trembles.

"Good boy," I say, and slide inside.

The warmth is extraordinary. Devon takes me slow, his lips stretching, his tongue doing things I can't quite track but which feel like they were specifically engineered to undo me. He hums when I hit the back of his throat and the vibration travels the entire length of me and I make an involuntary noise that I will never speak of.

I back him off to the head and let him breathe for one beat, and then I guide him down again.

We move to the couch. Or I move to the couch and Devon follows on his knees, and I drop down and spread my legs and Devon kneels between them and looks up at me with that open, gone expression and goes back to work.

He is — thorough. Enthusiastic. Sloppy in the best way, his mouth producing a slick, glossy mess as he works, saliva running down the shaft and dripping off, and he doesn't seem remotely concerned about this, seems in fact to lean into it, the whole wet degraded intimacy of it. He takes me deep on an exhale and I feel the soft clench of his throat around the head and my hand tightens in his hair and I hold him there for a moment, just a moment, and Devon's hands grip my thighs and he breathes through it and takes it. Little choking sounds. His eyes watering at the corners when he finally pulls up, a long thread of spit connecting his lips to the head of my cock before it breaks.

He looks up at me, ruined and radiant.

"What a good boy," I say, rough-voiced, and Devon makes a desperate sound and dives back in.

I reach over to the coffee table without looking and pick up the beer he'd probably left there before his shower. Still cool enough. I take a long pull and watch Devon work my cock — watch his head move, watch the obscene gloss of everything, watch his shoulders and the clean line of his neck — and drink my beer with the loose unhurried ease of a man completely in possession of the situation, who I have apparently been all along just waiting for the right circumstance to demonstrate it.

Devon looks up and sees me drinking. His eyes go hazy with something that might be the hottest thing I've seen in my life.

I pull him off by his hair.

He comes up gasping, lips swollen, chin wet, and I tilt the beer bottle to my own mouth and take a long pull and hold it. I grip Devon's jaw with my free hand, tip his face up, and lean down and press my lips to his — not a kiss, not quite, my mouth open against his open mouth — and let the cold beer run from my mouth into his in a slow, deliberate stream.

Devon shudders. Swallows. His throat works.

I push his head back down onto my cock.

He moans around it, loud and low, and I feel the sound everywhere and I tighten my grip in his hair and the moaning gets louder and I realize Devon is actively not trying to be quiet and neither am I anymore and the apartment is full of the sounds of this, our sounds, and it's so different from everything polite and managed that I've done for five years that I feel it like a physical relief.

Devon is bouncing his ass now. I can see it over his shoulder, that perfect round ass, shifting and rolling in a small rhythmic movement while he works, just — moving because he can't not, because his body wants to be moving, and the sight of it jiggling softly with each of his movements makes me grip his hair harder and thrust into his mouth and Devon chokes and takes it and comes back for more.

"You love this," I say.

Devon moans.

"Look at you." My voice is rough, lower than my usual register. "Look how fucking good you are. That what you needed, baby? That what you needed?"

Devon's hands are gripping my thighs so hard I'll probably have marks.

He takes me deeper. I can feel him working his throat open, a deliberate, conscious effort, and then he sinks down and down and—

I feel the heat of his throat fully around the entire length of me and my head falls back.

Devon holds himself there. I put both hands in his hair and hold him — hard, harder than I mean to, my hips coming up fractionally off the couch — and feel everything coiling tight and inescapable and Devon is swallowing around me, tiny flutters of his throat, and I say his name without meaning to.

I cum with both hands in his dark hair holding him down, my cock pulsing in thick, heavy waves, and Devon takes every single one of them, his throat working, swallowing, taking me down with an almost frightening composure while I fall apart above him.

When I release his hair he comes up slow, licking the head clean, and he looks up at me with red-rimmed wet eyes and a face that is a complete and beautiful wreck and something in the expression underneath all of it is purely, deeply satisfied, like a person who has finally had a meal after a long hunger.

"There you go," I say, and my voice sounds different to me, softer. "Good boy."

Devon's smile at that is something private and complicated and wholly his own.

I pull him up.

He comes easily, climbing onto my lap in one fluid dancer's motion, straddling me with his thighs on either side of my hips. We're very close. His face is inches from mine. Those light green eyes, in the lamplight of the living room, are the color of sea glass. I can feel his breath.

He understands, somehow — has understood without my saying it — not to close the remaining distance. His lips don't come to mine. He stays right there, close enough that closing the gap would take nothing, and waits. Watching my face. His expression neither asking nor demanding, just — present. Knowing.

I put my hands on his ass.

The reality of it, finally and fully in my palms, exceeds every morning kitchen imagining by a margin that should embarrass me. Two full handfuls of the most extraordinary body part I have ever encountered, warm and smooth, and I grip it and feel Devon's breath hitch against my lips.

"Cum for me," I say quietly.

Devon reaches between us for his own cock. He strokes himself once, twice, and his hips begin to move, his ass working in my hands, his forehead dropping toward mine without touching it, our mouths a whisper apart. His breathing goes ragged and quick, those small high sounds from the videos, real and present now and not in a phone speaker but directly in my ear.

"Sir—"

"Come on," I say, and squeeze his ass in both hands, and Devon cries out softly and spills onto my chest, thick and hot, in long slow pulses across my stomach and up over my pecs, and I hold his ass steady through it and watch his face completely dissolve.

When he opens his eyes they're glassy and dark. The lamplight. The faint sounds of the city from outside.

I look down at my chest.

Then I look up at Devon.

"Lick it off," I say.

Devon lowers his head and drags his tongue flat up the center of my sternum and I watch this in a kind of possessed, disbelieving silence. He does it again. He works his way over every surface I tell him to with the slow deliberate care of someone completing a task that is also a pleasure, his dark hair falling forward, his spine curved, his hands braced on my shoulders. When my chest is clean he sits back and looks at me and there is something in his face that is quiet and complete and very satisfied.

I put my palm on the side of his face. Just for a moment. My thumb at the corner of his mouth.

"Good boy," I say. I hold his gaze for one beat, two. Then I wink, once, slow.

Devon's mouth curves.

I lift him off my lap and stand and stretch my arms above my head, feeling my spine crack, feeling the loose-limbed animal satisfaction of a body that has been used correctly for the first time in — possibly ever, if I'm being honest with myself.

I am not being honest with myself. Not tonight. Tonight is not for that.

"Going to shower," I say.

Devon is still kneeling on the couch with his knees folded under him, looking up at me, his hair a disaster and his lips enormous. He looks completely at peace. He lifts two fingers in a small easy wave.

I walk to the bathroom.

I turn the shower on cold.

I stand under it with my forearms braced against the tile and the water hitting the back of my neck and I think about nothing. I am very deliberate about thinking about nothing. I am so focused on thinking about nothing that I think about nothing successfully for almost thirty seconds before Devon's face surfaces in my mind — those green eyes, close to mine, his mouth not touching mine, the long patient understanding held in that small distance — and I lean my forehead against the cold tile and breathe.