Loki comes out of the shower with hard-on bouncing up to his belly button. Smells of city tapwater and Dial soap, and stray, untoweled drops dribble off honey-colored hair and down his shoulders.
He smiles like he has just figured out some new rudeness to try out on me.
I am on the couch with Darcy the cat, grading student essay exams, in baggy cotton shorts, the stereo playing Eurythmics way low.
Loki plops down beside me, warm and clean, and Darcy hightails it upstairs.
After classes he’d headed to Tybee to catch some waves. Disappointed in the choppy water, he cleared out early and strayed to my house, unannounced. Parked his board in the corner of the living room, next to a painting he works on weekends, when he usually pays his visits.
Hard to ignore the upraised pork-sword and tight furry goolies underneath. His bright, unblinking eyes spell h-o-r-n-y as much as his cock does. My interest mounts. I put the folder and red ballpoint aside.
For several seconds we just stare at each other’s eyes, a quiet, ready-for-anything staredown.
“Let me undress you.”
He crawls over on top of me and unbuttons my shirt with his teeth and tongue. A slow process, but satisfyingly lewd. Finished, he brushes his nose up against my throat. The underside of his cock skims my stomach. He peels the open shirt off my shoulders and arms, hangs it around his neck, and then he unbuttons my shorts. He stands up to tug them off, tosses them and the shirt towards the cold fireplace.
Then he straddles my waist with his slim but sinewy legs, nutbrown and lightly furred. Flexes one bicep, then proves how perfectly matched its twin is. Sucks in to show off his well-defined abs. His dick rubs up on mine.
Leans down and puts his thumbs against my adam’s apple. I stiffen. He smiles, showing his teeth. My asshole tightens.
His penis tries to subdue my penis. We cross sabers and cock fight. Each stroke firms up our rods a bit more. He lunges low to jab at my balls.
I feel his triceps with my fingertips. Ouch. His nipples rise like Vietnamese paddy hats.
My dick is nightstick hard, and I jam it up to his crotch.
Almost imperceptibly Loki tightens his grip on my throat.
The game is to make the opponent cum first, then triumphantly force yourself into him.
Now the two fighters are planted firmly against each other. Concentration and lust try to drive the foe down. As much as possible we try not to move the rest of our bodies now. A subtle shift in my hip, though, and my cock rises to his glans, moist with precum, gaining leverage, like a toproll in arm wrestling.
Veiny and full up, the two rods level on one another. His balls mashing mine. He presses his whole body down on me, loosening the grip on my adam’s apple. His skin feels rubbery, taut, feverish. Chest to chest, belly to belly, we thrust into each other. His legs grapevine mine.
I realize my disadvantage and try to roll him over onto the carpet. He successfully resists. I raise my right leg, slightly, trying to ram his ballsack. He counters, pulling himself higher on me, locking his forearms behind my head, and mashing my face into his chest. My heart is beating against his cock, while my cock wags freely between his thighs.
His rhythm accelerates. I wrap my arms around his lower back and pull him in to me. A climactic spasm seizes him. He shoots into my hairy chest.
I tighten my hug, manage to turn him over, off the couch, and I crawl down, in semi-slow-motion, on top of him. For a minute he heaves under me, moaning, a sly satisfied smile on his lips. The starchy smell of Loki’s jizz surrounds us.
He grunts softly, under his breath. He makes a pretend struggle against me, muscles twist on muscles, which only serves to put him stomach down to the carpet, with my cock between his butt cheeks.
He pushes himself up on his hands and knees. Spreads his legs. I grab his still damp hair in my fist, and he groans. I don’t need spit to lubricate. The head of my cock presses into him.
“Relax,” I say.
“Uh-um,” he says.
I get in. He groans again, deep down inside himself, so deep I can feel it against the bottom of my rod. He pushes his ass up to me.
“Um,” I say. “Loki. My precious boy. You feel so nice inside. Nice.”
I fuck him for real now. His whole body, his skin, his viscera, his throbbing heart, open up for me. I pump into him—my upward thrusts are measured, firm, authoritative—like I am a steam engine, a drill, a hydraulic pump. My left arm hooks his throat and pulls him up to me in an arch.
His face reddens as I squeeze his windpipe shut. A small vein pops up at his temple. I pound harder, light-punching his gut with my right fist as I thrust. I start to howl, the noise fills my chest, and then escapes through my vocal cords, filling the whole house. I thrust again and again, slamming myself deeper and deeper and deeper into the wetness of him.
I release his neck. Stop. Breathe heavily, short gasps. Feel something almost electrical combing over the two of us. I pull my dick out of him. Lie down beside him, my left arm over his left shoulder.
He moans. Backs up to me. We listen to the music, knobbed down to almost mute: “These are my guns these are my furs this is my living room.” Darcy’s mewing at the top of the stairs. Then her loud motorized purring.
I lean in to him, blow playfully in Loki’s ear. He swats me away. After our hearts stop banging, after the sweat cools, after the room stops spinning, we rise, only to collapse again on the couch. Naked and entangled, victor and vanquished, man and man, solitary and together, whole worlds still spinning inside us.