Page 29 of When He Calls

My hand goes to his stomach. The strip of skin between the hem of the t-shirt and the waistband. My fingers touch him and electricity shoots through me, his body temperature against my fingertips, the first contact between us that isn't a voice or a phone or a fantasy built from recordings played in a parked car.

His skin is smooth. Soft over the muscle beneath it. My hand rests on his stomach, and his breathing continues underneath my palm, the rise and fall steady, involuntary, the body doing what the body does while the mind is somewhere the meds put it.

I slide my hand down, under the waistband. He's not wearing underwear and I stifle a groan. The sweats are the only layer between his skin and mine, and when my fingers find him he's soft, heavy with heat, the weight of him resting against his thigh. I hold him. Loosely. The way you hold something you've been thinking about for ten days, carefully, the grip controlled, the pressure just enough to feel the shape.

He stirs, not toward waking. A shift, the body adjusting to the touch the way it adjusts to a change in temperature, an unconscious accommodation. His hips tilt slightly. His lips part further. A sound leaves him, low, barely there, a sound that his conscious mind would have caught and swallowed. Pulling him out of his pants, my cock swells painfully against my pants.

How fucking perfect.

I stroke him slowly. Long, even pulls, my grip tightening gradually, my thumb working the head on each upstroke. His body responds exactly the way it should. He thickens in my hand. The hardening is gradual, the blood flow increasing with each stroke. He’s impressive. Big, thick.

The kind of cock I’d swallow over and over until he spills down my throat.

But not tonight.

Tonight is for me.

He's fully hard in my hand. The size of him fills my grip. I stroke him for two more minutes, steady, unhurried, feeling the heat build, his hips making small involuntary movements, his breathing deepening.

I let go and pull my hand out of his sweats. I hook my fingers in the waistband and pull them down all the way, slowly, over his hips, his thighs, his knees. He doesn't wake. His cock rests against his stomach, hard, flushed, the evidence of his body's cooperation. I pull the sweats to his ankles and leave them there.

Grabbing the lube, I uncap it. The sound is small, a plastic click, and I freeze. His breathing doesn't change. I squeeze the lube onto my fingers, enough to coat them, enough to make what comes next as easy on his body as possible. He’s relaxed, so it won’t be hard, but he deserves it as comfortable as possible. No need to break my toy before I get to break him while he’s awake… but that’s a plan for another day. For now, my tip is leaking, a wet spot forming, my balls throbbing so hard I don’t know how much longer I can wait.

I push his knees apart. The movement is slow, one hand on each thigh, spreading him open. His body offers no resistance. The trazodone has taken the tension out of every muscle, including the ones that would normally tighten at the approach of a hand between his legs. He's open. Loose. His head turns on the pillow, and his lips move around a word that doesn't become a word.

My slicked fingers find him. I press one finger against the opening and the muscle gives almost immediately, his ass is relaxed enough that my finger slides in with steady pressure. He's hot and tight, even with the muscle relaxed. I work the finger slowly, letting his body adjust, adding lube, pulling out and pushing back in until the resistance drops even further.

Two fingers. He takes them with a sound, a low exhale that vibrates in his throat. His hips shift. His cock twitches against his stomach, spilling some precum, leaving a small trail.

I want to lick it off, but I have more important work to do.

I work him open for three minutes. Adding lube. Stretching slowly. My other hand on his thigh, holding him open, feeling the muscle under his skin and the heat radiating from the center of him. By the time I pull my fingers out he's loose enough. His breathing has quickened slightly but his eyes are closed, his face slack, the trazodone holding him under while his body responds to what's happening above the sedation line.

I stand and undo my jeans, pushing them down with my boxers. I'm so fucking hard. I've been hard since I sat on the bed. Since my hand touched his stomach. Since before that, since the keypad, since the alley, since the moment I left my apartment knowing that tonight was the night I'd stop standing in his doorway and start being inside something else.

I slick myself with lube. More than enough. The excess drips onto the sheet. I don't care about the mess, I want him to know, on some base level, that he was taken, that when he wakes, my cum will be lodged deep in his ass and leak out slowly as he sits up in the morning. I position myself between his legs. My knees on the mattress. His legs lifted with my hands holding them in place. The angle is right. The access is right.

His body is so fucking right.

I push in, nice and slow. The head meets resistance and I hold there, pressing steadily, letting the lube work. His body opens around me in increments, each fraction of an inch a negotiation between the pressure I'm applying and the muscle that's giving way because he wants me inside him.

Halfway in, I stop. His breathing has changed, faster now, shallow, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that's closer to exertion than sleep. His hands have closed on the sheets. The fingers gripping the cotton the way they would have gripped the phone while my voice told him to come.

I push the rest of the way in. The full length. His body takes me and the feeling is so right, that my vision goes white at the edges. The heat of him surrounds me. The tightness grips me. I hold still inside him, my hands on his hips, my weight forward, his body beneath mine, his breathing in my ears, his heartbeat in the mattress.

I move. Slow at first. Long, full strokes that pull nearly out and push all the way back in. His body rocks with the motion. The headboard is against the wall, and I adjust the angle to keep it from making contact. No sound. No evidence. Just the wet sound of the lube, the rhythm of my breathing, the unconscious sounds his body makes. Small grunts pushed out of him by the impact of my hips against his.

He moans, his head turning on the pillow, his lips shaping into an o that has yet to release the moan I’m dying to hear. His cock is leaking against his stomach. His body wants this even if his mind isn't here to authorize it. His body knows what's happening to it. His body is saying yes in the only language it has.

I fuck him harder as my pace increases. The angle deepens. His back arches off the mattress, and his face squeezes. It’s pleasure, the way his balls tighten, his ass tightens around me.

My hand wraps around his cock. I stroke him in time with my thrusts. The coordination is perfect, my hips and my hand working the same rhythm, his body caught between the two sources of stimulation, the pressure inside him and the pressure around him, building toward something his sleeping brain can't stop.

He comes. His body clenches around me, the orgasm pulling through him in waves, his cock pulsing in my hand, the spill hitting his stomach, his t-shirt, my fingers. The sound he makes is the sound from the phone call, the groan that breaks at the top, the same sound, the same voice, except this time my body is inside his body and the distance between us is nothing.

Lifting my fingers to my mouth, I suck him off, tasting the salty cum and savoring it.

So fucking perfect for me.