#texture sequel

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Cigarette burns marred the cheap motel carpet like black confetti.  He could hear the soles of those damned sneakers dragging across the worn fibers a good ten paces behind him. The hallway was deserted so he took his sweet time fishing the key card out of his wallet. The kid slowed and stood behind him, restless. Larry stood back to take stock of him. His muscles were coiled tight, broadcasting tension.

"Don’t over-think this, kid," Larry soothed, stepping closer, "it ain’t any different than before."

His lips were soft, warm, slightly hesitant. One cupped hand against his jaw, tilting him just so, and he opened up with a shuddered sigh.

"You’re a fuckin’ tease, you know that?"

"You like it."

It was said through an easy grin, feather-light. Larry played along and pulled him close, gripping his hand, leading it to his groin. The kid’s breath caught at the feel of him.

"Get on the bed."

Some men would bristle at the command, but his boy fell into step as if born to it. He was confident, sure-footed, peeling his clothing free as he moved. The angles of him were sharp and narrow and his cock was one of the best Larry had ever seen, long and curving and flushed pink.

As soon as he reclined on the mattress Larry was on him, still dressed, thumbs pressed into the twin hollows at his hips. Static roared in Larry’s ears, the taste reminding him just how much he’d missed the feel of another man’s prick in his mouth. He tested himself, every inch eased slowly, clenching his throat around him. Slender fingers weaved into his hair, guiding. He grunted, encouraging, bobbing his head faster. The kid caught on quick and strengthened his grip . Eyes watering, nostrils flared, Larry clamped his lips tight and swallowed. It was like a spark had been ignited between them.

A clipped moan and a sharp thrust upwards; Larry fought not to choke, then doubled-down as the kid lost control and held him steady. Saliva dripped from his chin and he anchored his weight against the taut thighs beneath him, gulping for air between sharp, erratic thrusts.

“Fuck!”

Larry held fast, letting the semen pool in his mouth, then spit it into his palm. He took a moment to appreciate the picture his boy made, arms splayed, jaw slackened. Utterly wrecked.

"You’re not done yet."

The kid’s legs spread easy as Larry positioned himself, unzipping, jeans yanked just low enough to be out of the way. He took two slick fingers on the first try.

"Wait, lemme move."

Just like that, and he was perched on all fours, arching back.

"Christ. You know how good you look?" Larry murmured, "you’ve got the most perfect hole. You want me to fuck it, baby?"

"Yes, god.”

He pressed back in, just a little past the knuckle, until he had the kid writhing. A couple of quick tugs on his cock and he lined up, then sank as slow as he could into hot, clenching heat of him.

When he fucked other men it tended to be rough and dirty; back-alley affairs done in the stark silhouette of street lamps with boozy, open-mouthed kisses and rushed orgasms that bordered on painful. But Larry wanted this one to last. Each thrust was measured - pulled out to the tip - then slammed to the hilt. The noises they wrenched from the kid were keening, mindless.

"More!"

It came out as a sob. The youthful face was turned in profile, eyes dull with the kind of pleasure that’s near-unbearable.  Desperate hands gripped at Larry’s hips, reaching back to pull him deeper.

"Are you close?"

The kid answered with a hoarse cry and went boneless.  Larry held him upright and took a few more thrusts to finish, pulling out to shoot thick ribbons of come across the smooth dip of his back.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Larry grunted in agreement and collapsed next to him.

"That was the best game of chicken I ever played, old man."

Somehow, Larry managed a shrug and a smile.