From the Top. I walk in. He and I have exchanged the non-verbose dance of setting up this moment. Neither of us intended on hooking up, so I thought, but we were bored and his private pics were appealing, to say the least.
“What you into?” he asks. Although my profile says ‘vers top’, I gave him a little more of an understanding.
“YOU’VE BEEN ADDED TO HIS FAVORITES LIST.” the screen reads. I knew he was interested. His next message was a phone number.
We migrated to texting while he explained how he wanted it. I always enjoy explicit instructions and have a slight anon fetish so I indulge him as he tells me he’s preparing to indulge me. He instructs me to come in, the door will be unlocked. Come to the bedroom where he will be waiting for me on the bed. My dick is throbbing at the thought of those private pics, spread across the continent of his mattress, inviting me in, deeply. I touch myself.
Forty-five minutes later, I arrive at his place, the light flickered in the breeze way. The numbers on the doors were non-sequential. I walked up one breezeway, then up another. Tirelessly searching for door 1106. I hadn’t bothered to wear underwear. I figured I’d be naked by the time he saw me anyway. The cool March breeze on my soft jugg made my dick jump. I stopped under the streetlight, staring down at my phone contemplating whether to text him. My dick bulging in my pants casted an unmistakable shadow in the night lights. I turned into the darkness thinking communication could ruin the anonymity: I searched on.
I walked up one final breezeway and there was his door. Pause came over me. My hands sweaty and my body subtly quivering, anxiously. My hands moistened just barely as I turned the knob and cracked the door. My nerves rose with every creek of his entry way. I stepped in to hear music playing: Maxwell’s Cococure. I quickly, but quietly, disrobe. My three garments left a small pile in front of his door. I pulled my t-shirt over my head. Stepped out of my Timbs. And dropped my grey sweat pants to the floor. My body chilled in its nudity and my feet cooled on his tiled entryway floors. I stepped onto he carpet and walked down his long hallway to the only open door.
The room is illuminated with just the light of his music playing on his television. I crept through the bedroom door and there, laying naked on the bed was Hershey’s chocolate, personified. His 5-foot-9-inch, slender frame was silhouetted perfectly in the center of the bed. He lay there, face down, nose nuzzled between two pillows. I admired the breadth of his thighs, the bend of his back, the cinch in his waist and the definition of his shoulders. His manhood, pressed into the comforter of his bed, pointed back at me through his legs. He was those private pics.
I stood at the foot of the bed, admirably. I watched him arch his back as the shadows from the television danced on our bodies. His movements were slow and subtle, rhythmic almost, accentuating the melodies of his body. The music from the television in my ear as the orchestra of this moment rises to serenade my body. The melodies of his sex dance across my skin. My dick rises as I put one knee onto the bed, then the other. I reach for his thigh, grasping it slightly, intentionally, as taking the dais to deliver my soliloquy.
I urge him toward me by his manhood. His legs bend and he extends his ass. What was music is now poetry. His chest lay gripping the mattress, nipples pressed into the comforter and his arms spread to his sides. His pelvis rises in the air like prose. I can see directly from his chocolate hills, up the crease of his back to the nape of his neck. He was positioned as if his whole existence was crying out to me like the caged bird. My body arose and my sex saluted.
It begins.
