Re: Exterior: a rest stop, desert [sexual content]
A boy was accustomed to men that grew harder in the glossy slick of his mouth, weighed down under his moaning as they cored into him, so insistent, the meat of tongue and jaw and a perjured tongue. It made him an angel of little deaths, with the slurp of bittered edge making him dizzy as he pulled off and sucked one of the man's balls into his mouth. He could feel a tremor in the rift of those knees as the man braced himself against the dented metal of the stall's door, could feel the tracing drift of hard, calloused fingertips through the soft tuft of days-old beard on his cheeks. He pulled off, slippery hand still working hard to coax and claim and aim, tugging the heat and swelter inside the man towards the torrid covet of his mouth.
He was a boy, just a spit of a thing, so he wasn't offended by the slur and the smear of the man's words. He slaved and he salivated, to feel like he'd earned the level of ardor that made the man's solid thighs tremor like a slippery seism. His eyes and his long lashes and the flection of his mouth made a gift's bow around the man's dick as he settled back in for the haul, with the knobs of his wrists casting shadows and his knees knocking together with a hollow clang. He was hanging on for dear life, smooth mouth and cragged hands and his holding on to the man's hips with long fingers that ran around to the small of his back.
He didn't mind the hands in his hair where they slid against the grain, not even when they gathered fistfuls and coiled and heaved until it hurt and his not-whore's mouth broke free with gasp. He kept up the work, with a hand that preserved his stroking and worship, aiming the man's spark of salt and heatwave towards the slant of his lips and his chest.
"Yeah," he muttered, the word jagged like scoured stone as those hands yanked at his hair. As the man's hips faltered and the hot brine of sodium savor spilled over the boy's cheeks in wide, white stripes. "Yeah, yeah."
He kept up the stroke of his hand through it all, pink tongue darting out to taste the core of an abrupt sort of shame that started to flood him from the top down as his high drifted down like a diamond trace of paper on a dying gust. No. No, no. Wait. It wasn't right, was it? Brown eyes flicked wide like the blade of the knife in his previous pocket might, if he'd pulled it out, held it to the hollow shelf of an elegant jaw. He dropped his hold on the man's slippery-softening cock and began to wipe a sleeve over the mess on his cheeks. Had to make it go away. Had to make it not real.
The boy stood on unsteady feet, wavering like a haze of fog's stupor on a stiff breeze. His eyes felt milky and thick, unseeing. He wanted to unfeel the hot burn on his face. Pushed past the man in his glorious apathy and inertia, almost stumbling, grabbing limply at his clothes where they'd scattered over the tile.
What's the worst that could happen was a grievous mistake, and it wound his clockwork heart up to tightness, and blistering tears plopped over his cheeks as he shouldered his way out of the diner and back through the nondescript oak of a door. The worst that could happen was the thing that he'd done.