by Johannes T. Evans
He’s beautiful in the way that men are beautiful in the poets and plays of the Ancient Greeks — he’s broad-shouldered and packed all over with muscle and fat, his hair shorn down short, freckles scattered across his handsome, blunt nose. He’s got long eyelashes, rounded cheeks, a strong chin, and his voice is soft and sweeter than you’d expect from such a big man — it belies his age where his stature doesn’t.
He’s got the confidence of an older man, holds himself with far more sway, far more dominance, than any 19-year-old has any right to, and the humiliation runs down his spine and makes Clarence feel like he’s fucking drowning in it, his skin feeling hot and cold at once, his cock so hard in his trousers it’s making his head spin. He’d be surprised if there’s any blood left in his head, what with the way it’s all flowing downward.
Elton looks down at him with his lips shifted into a gentle smile, and he sounds almost earnest as he says, cooing, “That’s it, sir, down on your knees, just like that.”
Jesus Christ, his heart is pounding in his chest, his skin sensitive as if he’s recently been shocked, and Elton’s hand feels huge and inescapable where it cups his cheek and the side of his jaw, a finger sliding against his neck as Elton eases him down.
Elton Smiley might be big and strong and hulking, but in one crucial area, he doesn’t live up to Aristophanes’ ideals: his cock is so big that Clarence loses the ability to speak when he lays eyes on it, loses the ability to fucking string his thoughts together. When he tugs the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms down, it bounces out huge and intimidating, a thick shaft that’s already hard and pulsing.
When Elton takes hold of himself, pulling down on the skin of his cock, his foreskin slides back and reveals the shiny pink bulb of his cockhead, slickness gathering at his slit in a tantalising droplet like dew on the petal of a flower.
“That’s good, sir,” says Elton quietly, his fingers sliding back around Clarence’s head and curling through his hair. Clarence only gets a few seconds to get his breath into his lungs before Elton tugs him forward and starts to feed his gargantuan cock into Clarence’s mouth and down his throat.
Elton’s got the slightest of smiles on his face as he looks down at Clarence, his eyes focused on Clarence’s face, the look sort of meditative and warm, as though he does this sort of thing all the time and it’s the most casual thing in the world. There’s an easy brutality to it, a hypnotising ease to the spread wide of his lips.
His mouth is full up immediately, Elton’s cock heavy on his tongue, and fuck, Clarence knew the lad was into this vegan shite, that he ate what seemed like his weight in fruit through the course of the week, but he didn’t expect the kick of sweetness on his tongue alongside the musky taste of sweat.
It’s so heavy on his tongue he feels ready to throb with it, his cock hard in his trousers even before he presses the heel of his hand down into it, and he can’t hold back the moan as Elton drags him forward, pulls him closer.
He doesn’t thrust his hips, doesn’t fuck himself down Clarence’s throat, because he just doesn’t fucking need to: instead, he holds Clarence’s hair in a tight, firm grip and feeds his cock down Clarence’s throat like he’s sliding a sword into a sheath, like it just fucking fits there.
Clarence gags at the sheer size of it, his throat twitching and trying to work because Elton’s cock is just so fucking big, but the thing is inexorable: Elton slides him slowly down the length of it, sinks Clarence down to the root of him. Clarence gags again, whimpers, chokes, tries to struggle back.
“Hey, hey, Mr Cook,” says Elton soothingly, as if Clarence’s lips aren’t parted around the base of a cock so big he’s sure it must be bulging out his fucking throat. “It’s okay, sir,” he says, smiling indulgently down at him, and Clarence feels so fucking tiny in his hand and impaled on his cock, feels his throat spasm again, feels his cock jump as his blood runs hotly under his clothes. “Just breathe. Through your nose, you’ve got enough space, just do it — ”
Elton pulls back just enough to give him the tiniest gap, and Clarence heaves in all the air he can through his nose before Elton drags him down on his cock again. Clarence moans around him, the gag not as powerful this time, and he tries to cough but he hasn’t got the space, hasn’t got the fucking room.
He heaves in a breath when Elton eases him back, feeling tears burning at the corners of his eyes, and then Elton fucks into his throat again and Clarence moans. He’s grinding his hips against his own hand, thrusting against his palm through his trousers, and there’s no chance of pulling his head away or controlling the pace: Elton is fucking his throat at precisely the pace he desires, using Clarence’s mouth like he’s little more than a fucking toy, and Clarence might just come about it.
He’s throbbing with it, his cock aching and his balls up tight, and Christ, it’s humiliating, humiliating and so hot and so good he could fucking perish.
Elton obviously needs more than what he’s getting, because he transitions from pulling Clarence’s head down onto his prick to thrusting his hips forward and actively fucking his face. He’s teary-eyed and whimpering, cock jerking and his balls drawn up so tightly, feeling so full, he feels like his sac is going to fucking burst, let alone that he’s actually going to come.
Every slap of his balls against his lower lip makes Clarence shudder, every shove of his cock in his throat, and then Elton’s letting out a soft moan, breathless and sweet, and those balls of his are working, his cock pulsing so that Clarence can feel its throb on his tongue. His cockhead is buried so far down Clarence’s twitching, spasming throat that Clarence can’t even taste it, and Clarence is squeezing his own cock and he’s fucking coming too.
He feels dizzied with it, utterly overwhelmed as it crashes over him in a rushing wave, his heart pounding in his chest as he’s dropped right into it: when Elton slowly draws him back, almost peeling Clarence, exhausted, off the length of his prick, Clarence stares up at him with wet eyes, struggling to focus on his face.
His jaw aches and his tongue is wet and there are tears on his cheeks and his whole body is still being hit by distant waves, feeling as if he’s been drenched in pleasure.
“You have a nice mouth, Mr Cook,” says Elton warmly, his voice thick with praise, and Clarence shivers. He looks blearily to Elton’s cock as Elton works himself over with his hand — it’s softened a little but is still remarkably hard, spit-slick and shiny with Clarence’s saliva. “Can I fuck you from the other end, next? I only need five minutes and I’ll be good to go.”
“Christ,” says Clarence, voice hoarse, but his hands go to his belt nevertheless.
ABOUT JOHANNES T EVANS:
Johannes T. Evans is a gay trans man from the South of Wales with a love of fashion, bugs, and the briny deep. He writes all manner of men in love, with a particular affection for fellow trans and disabled MLM. You can find him on Twitter or Tumblr @JohannesTEvans.