Put Me On All-Fours for Christmas by Alex Pendragon (aka alexp336)
Sometimes the holiday spirit moves you, and sometimes it moves you to write about teenage friends and Christmas exploration. It's been a while since I've written anything (I'm the author of "On the Poolboy Payroll", "A Closer Shave", and a couple of other stories) so accept this short as an apology for absence and - hopefully - the first cautious steps of picking up the reins again.
As ever, play safe, be nice to strangers, donate to Nifty, don't republish without permission, and check out my blog: http:// http://dirtyanon.tumblr.comdirtyanon.tumblr.com
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** Put Me On All-Fours for Christmas **
"Come on, Matt, quit playing around. I was being serious."
I have to admit, there's something I love about Jayce's "I'm frustrated at you" face, though I'd never tell him that there are times I'll purposefully annoy him in the hope of seeing it. This, though, wasn't one of those times. For once, in fact, I'd been honest about what I wanted.
"Who's playing around? You asked and I answered."
Jayce sighed, clearly exasperated both with me and with the direction the conversation had taken. I suppose I could see his point, but at the same time I wasn't going to backtrack - not after I'd built up the courage to tell him exactly what my dirty little heart desired.
"Look, all I'm asking is what you want for Christmas. I don't think that's so weird a thing to ask your best friend. Why are you making it weird?"
I thought about that one. Was I making it weird? Jayce had - with typical straight boy bluntness - asked me point-blank what I wanted from him as a gift, telling me he had too much going on what with college applications and his dad's bizarrely long list of chores and everything else that an eighteen year old guy thinks is tremendously important to think up something himself.
After he'd pointed out that, left to his own devices, I'd probably get an aftershave gift set with a beer glass and a bottle of something so noxious in scent that professional cleaners would think twice about using it in a toilet, I conceded the moral high ground and thought instead about what I might want from him.
Rationally - boringly - I should probably have said a gift card or a DVD or something. Problem is, rational all too often takes a back-seat when Jayce is around, in exact proportion in fact to when he's wearing a certain muscle shirt and basketball shorts.
Yes, I'm gay and yes I'm in lust with my straight best friend. I'm a cliche. A tired, played-out cliche. In my defense, I think you should at least see Jayce in those shorts before you judge me too harshly.
And so, when I opened my mouth, "a DVD" or "a Starbucks gift card" or anything else from the mundane, safe list of "things Matt will certainly use but which will never be confused for something exciting" didn't come out. Instead, I told him what I really wanted.
Hence the stalemate.
"I just think you're not taking this seriously," Jayce said. He'd stood up now, pacing in front of the couch as he does whenever he's annoyed or deep in thought. "I ask you a serious, legitimate question, and you give me this dumb, not at all serious answer."
I shrugged. "You asked what I wanted for Christmas, it was hardly a testimonial on the stand."
Jayce stopped still in front of me, staring at me with a look halfway between confused and outraged. "You told me... but, you told me that..."
I paused, to see if he planned to finish the sentence, but apparently I'd stumped him.
"I told you that I wanted to eat your ass for Christmas, yes."
I'd never actually seen someone throw their arms up in despair before, but today was proving to be a first time for many things. Jayce went back to pacing.
"Look, Matt, you know I'm not... y'know... gay."
I nodded, solemnly. "I know you're not gay, Jayce. We have had the conversation where you are not gay before. This is a thing of which I am aware."
He glared at me. "Again, you're not taking this seriously. I'm not gay and so, no, I'm not going to let another guy put his... his mouth on my butt. Even if he's my best friend."
Settling back against the cushions, I shrugged. "It's not gay to let someone eat your ass, Jayce."
Now his look was incredulous. "I'm pretty sure it is, Matty. I'm pretty sure letting another man do... that.... Well, I'm almost 100-percent certain that it's not going to be confused for something a straight guy would do."
I mulled on that for a moment. Did my best friend - he of the perfect physique and drool-worthy bubble butt - have a point? It would undermine my argument if I concluded that he did, but I owed it to our friendship - nay, to science itself - to at least consider it.
"I think," I said, eventually, stretching out the words as I figured out my reply, "that it's only really gay if you're doing the eating. Otherwise, it's just sensations. And you're not even making eye-contact."
Jayce stopped dead in his pacing. Stared at me. "Eye-contact?"
Nodding, I sat forward. Gestured at his crotch. "Sure. If I was blowing you, you could look right down and see me. I could look up and see you. We could make awkward eye-contact when I had your dick in my mouth."
He put his face in his hands, as if it was that very eye-contact that he was worried might happen now. I stole the opportunity to look at his biceps as they flexed neatly in the process; at how his buzzcut blond hair caught the light as he dipped his head.
Jayce was the blond-haired, blue-eyed, all-American boy next door. He was also quite literally the boy next door - to me, that is. When my parents had dragged us halfway across the country, I'd found myself not only figuring out that the feelings I was increasingly having left me more interested in guys than girls, but that I was mere feet from the perfect target for my suddenly accelerating sexuality to fixate upon.
That we became friends - him, the athletic, honest, what-you-see-is-what-you-get posterboy from an Abercrombie campaign, and me, the cynical, smart-talking but all the same perplexed by life and all its complexities queer kid - might have started out from the convenience of proximity, but ended up after five years as the sort of authentic relationship that only blood-feuds, religion, or going to war can spoil.
Well, that and the overwhelming urge to eat your best friend's perfect ass, perhaps.
Don't get me wrong. Jayce knew that I was attracted to him. In typical, too-nice fashion, he didn't even give me the teasing I probably deserved for it - I was, retrospect made all too clear for comfort, blatant in my ogling and lusting - but instead treated each dropped-hint and mildly-sleazy comment with a sort of apologetic understanding that both shamed me and turned me on all the more.
He was impossible and perfect and the ideal foil for my burgeoning, teenage affections to latch onto safely, and it was therefore a surprise only to the two of us that, at eighteen, I was hopelessly smitten and, invariably, painfully hard.
"Eye-contact," he said, despairingly, voice muffled by his hands.
"Look," I told him, trying to inject my tone with the sort of matter-of-factness that you might encounter when discussing changing your cellphone data plan, or arguing about the merits of brining. "I think you'd enjoy it. People generally enjoy it. You said you liked it when Lucy played down there, no?"
That was a low blow, even I could see it. Yes, Jayce had told me once what his ex-girlfriend enjoyed doing while they were having sex over the summer, and yes it had on occasion involved a sly finger sneaking between the muscled, perfect orbs of his ass which I was almost positive Lucy had never fully appreciated.
"A finger!" Jayce insisted, blushing a little. "It was a finger. And, like, it happened once, maybe twice at most. Man, I knew I shouldn't have told you."
I raised my hands, placatory. "You told me because you knew I'd understand. And it was at least four times, if I'm remembering correctly."
I was. I'd jerked off on countless nights, thinking about those four times and Jayce shuddering with pleasure. True, in the fantasy it was my hand he was writhing on, not that of some swimteam skank (who was actually a fairly nice person, but there's no room for sympathy in these matters).
"Fine, four times. But a finger, not a tongue!"
It was time for science.
"Listen, after the spine or whatever, the ass has the most nerve endings," I told him. I wasn't entirely sure that was correct, but saying it with confidence seemed the next best thing to accuracy. "If you liked the finger, you'll go absolutely batshit crazy for the tongue. It doesn't make you gay, it makes you human. And you know I won't tell anyone about it."
Jayce looked at me. There was still that element of "who are you, strange alien wearing my best friend's skin" to it, but was I imagining a softening there, too?
I pushed on, emboldened by the lack of an outright refusal. "Worst case scenario, you hate it. We stop, it never gets mentioned again. But what if you find out you love it, Jayce? What if you suddenly realize that you can do this with girls, and all of a sudden you have this whole new exciting thing in your life? If you ask me, that's you getting the Christmas present, not me."
In my defense, all of that was stuff that I believed to be true. What I'd conveniently left out, mind, was my own horny part in it. How the idea of holding apart Jayce's meaty cheeks and burying my face in-between was driving me wild, and how I wanted to feel his muscles melt as I worked him over slowly but surely.
"I just..." he started, but I didn't let him finish.
"Some people cum just from having their ass played with. Without even touching themselves, I mean."
Jayce stared at me. "Hands-free?" he asked, eventually. I nodded in reply.
If my wholesome, level-headed friend had one kink - however mild it was - it would be a hands-free climax. He'd seen it once in porn (of course), a guy sitting back after getting what Jayce had described to me as a long, long blowjob, and then suddenly he was just shooting, hands by his sides. Jayce thought it looked incredible; I'd filed away that detail for potential exploitation in the future.
"It's just..." he said, the conflict clear on his face. I shook my head, talked over him.
"Think of it this way. You get to be the awesome best-friend giving a present only he can give, and you maybe get the bonus of doing something you've never been able to do before. Win-win, right?"
He was thinking; I recognized the slight frown.
"And nobody finds out?"
Bingo.
A lot of people think that, when you're fishing, once you've got the fish on the hook and you feel that jerk in the line, you're all done. Reel `em in and there's your dinner on the river bank. In reality, that jiggle is just the start of it; if you're too fast with the handle, the fish will get flighty and stands a good chance of slipping free. Too slow, though, and you're giving your dinner time to get loose and escape. You have to get the pacing just right, otherwise you're going to go hungry.
At least, that's what I expect is true. I've never been fishing myself.
Still, I was holding my breath as I reeled Jayce in. Told him that no, it would be our little secret, and that if he really wanted it would be a topic of conversation that was off the table between even just the two of us.
"Fuck..." he exhaled, eventually, and I knew dinner was served.
My parents weren't home - I wish I could take credit for engineering that useful scenario, but they were just more involved in work than being domestic - but, while the thought of having Jayce spreadeagled on the living room rug was appealing, I suspected he would feel more comfortable upstairs, suitably out of the way in my room.
We'd been in there together hundreds of times before, of course. Thousands, probably. And yet there was a palpable difference in the feeling now; something about the knowledge of what we were about to do weighing on both of us. I knew I had to keep the mood light, jovial, but to my surprise Jayce was doing an even better job of it than I was.
He pulled off his shirt, pecs flexing in the process. Suddenly I felt very self-conscious about my own far-more-average physique.
"I don't know where..." he started. I nodded at the bed, mute for the moment. Jayce sat on the edge, hands gripping the comforter either side of his heavily muscled thighs. Stared at me where I stood across the room by the closed door, watching him in return.
I raised my hand, twirled a finger in the air as if to say "turn around." My best friend gave me a look, as if one final consideration as to whether or not this was the right thing to do, but just as I was about to speak - whether to coerce or to tell him to forget the whole thing, I'm not sure which - he got up, turning and kneeling on the bed with his back to me.
I drank in the sight like a man shipwrecked and parched. Broad shoulders, tapering down sharply to a narrow waist. Shorts low on his hips, the waistband of his Calvins visible above, and the fabric clinging eagerly to his ass.
"Dude..." Jayce said, softly, when I'd shown no sign of moving. I took the five, six steps over to the edge of the bed. Mattress firm against my kneecaps.
My fingertip trailed lightly down, from the jut of his shoulder blade and through the gully of his spine. Half expecting him to flinch forward at my touch, but instead left to watch as his head tipped forward - chin almost on his chest - and his arms lolled at his sides. There was a small patch of hair just at the base of his spine, so blonde it was practically invisible to the eye but soft against my finger.
"Lean forward," I told him, struggling to recognize my own voice, a half-octave lower and thick with lust and nervous energy. Jayce shifted his body, holding his torso up on his outstretched hands. Head still tucked down tight, as if by looking up he might inadvertently catch my eye and somehow make what we were doing suddenly real.
In another world, at another time, I'd have paced myself. Peeled down first his shorts and, after giving his boxer-brief clad form sufficient worship with eyes and hands and imagination, moved on to strip him down to bare flesh. The knowledge that Jayce could opt-out, overwhelmed, at any moment was the mental equivalent of the fast-forward button.
Carefully I eased both shorts and underwear down, tugging the clinging elastic over the firm jut of his cheeks. Exposing skin a paler, milkier white than the rest of him; the part that doesn't get to tan when he's running on the field, or splashing in the pool. Creamy and taut, and utterly breathtaking.
"Matt..." he started, a tone I knew I couldn't hear in his voice, communicated even with just one word.
"Shhh," I told him, letting the back of my fingers brush against his ass as though I was calming an animal.
Obediently, he lifted one knee and then the other as I tugged the shorts free. My breath caught in my throat as I feasted on the sight ahead of me: muscular torso, picture-perfect ass, and his balls visible between his spread thighs.
No time to pause, though; no time for mental photoshoots for later use. Just the here-and-now.
Leaning down, I ran my finger down the crack of his ass, feeling Jayce flinch and shudder as I gently passed over his hole. Did it again, and another time, all the while my face getting closer until the warmth of his body was a clear sensation against my own skin. Wondered if he could feel my breath against him, then blew gently where my fingers were sliding, watching as the pale hairs bent in response.
"Just... just do it, okay," he said, voice muffled where his mouth met my sheets. I could hear the embarrassment and the longing together in his tone.
No time for second-thoughts. A hand, gentle, on each palm-filling cheek, and then the slow rasp of my tongue against his skin. Jayce's back arched, a gasp escaping, uncontrollable, from his buried face.
Emboldened, my own cock raging in its hardness and trapped in the folds of my jeans, I played my tongue across him again, pulling now to open him up more to me. Only moments before I realized he was pushing back in response, his soft whimpers a dull second to his body's urgency in communicating the intensity of his reaction.
No time for gloating, either. Pushing forward, I met his thrusts with my sharpened tongue, the pointed tip insistent where it grazed him. Jayce's hips were twisting now, his whole ass turning and jerking as he unconsciously pressed himself against me in the way that would maximize his pleasure.
"Oh, fuck..." I heard, and then his hands were fighting mine for firm grasp of his ass, holding himself apart even wider than I'd dared myself, until my whole face was up against him. Skin slick from my tongue and the scent of his testosterone musk filling my nose.
Grip liberated, I risked one hand between his legs, finding a hardness there that more than filled my palm. No complaint from Jayce, though, only a pumping of his rear that simultaneously moved his ass across my mouth while pistoning his erection into my fist.
I slipped my head lower, tracing the swollen ridge of his taint before progressing wetly down the underside of his shaft. Tongue swarming around the head of his cock, greasy with his precum, as Jayce shuddered from the waves of sensation.
"Please," he groaned, and half-reluctantly I made my way back up his inches and refocused my attentions on the tightness of his hole. My fingertips pulling at the yielding muscle while I soaked it with spit, suddenly determined to get a finger inside and knowing that Jayce wouldn't stop me.
Sure enough, only a deep sigh from the very bottom of his lungs as my index finger eased into him, my mouth still eager and insistent. Hooking down to where I knew the hardened nub of his prostate should be, then grazing it rhythmically to a chorus of Jayce's moans.
Part of me wanted to pull out my own cock, jerk it frantically as I sated myself between my best friend's cheeks, but I didn't dare risk the distraction. Could only focus on how his muscled body was reacting to my unflinching attentions, a second finger pressing home alongside the first now. Knowing from his movements, his shallow breathing that the end was in sight.
"Fuck, Matt..." Jayce gasped, as I drove my tongue in alongside my digits, then felt the clamp of his muscle against my hand as his body spasmed and he came, hard, in wet waves against the bed. "Fuck, fuck..."
That moment of transition, where your hands keep moving as the last of the orgasm ebbs and flows and eases. As you gradually still in response. Jayce's fingers laced behind his head, clamped tight there as if he was caught between praying and cowering. The muscles in his back broadening and contracting with his breaths.
I sat back, suddenly intensely aware of my dick and the growing wet spot in my jeans. It felt like only a few firm strokes across the tip would, even through the denim, tip me over the edge with just as much force as had wracked Jayce.
But I resisted, and waited for the reaction I knew must be coming.
Eventually, he sat up on his knees. That perfect back flushed and blotchy. Cleared his throat, then looked over his shoulder at me.
There was that eye-contact. Suddenly embarrassed myself, I looked down, just in time to see a final strand of cum trail from his softening cock between his thighs to my bedsheets.
"That was..." he started, paused. I looked back up, met Jayce's gaze - knowing and amazed and something else there too which I could only guess at - and nodded in reply.
"I told you."
Jayce smiled, turning forward at the same time so that I only caught the vaguest hint of the spreading expression.
"Happy Christmas, Matt."
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Short, sweet, and sticky. Want more? I have two published ebooks, Jock Auction (www.amazon.com/Jock-Auction-Alex-Pendragon-ebook/dp/B00SUS9ZEG/) and The Hitchhiker ( www.amazon.com/Hitchhiker-Alex-Pendragon-ebook/dp/B00W5S9Y1G/) which make for excellent holiday reading...
Enjoy whatever festivities you get up to, Christmas or otherwise!
-A