Page 14 of Built To Perform

The slap across my ass made me yelp.

“Patience, lil bro.” Amusement stole any real sting from his scolding. “Who would’ve thought our favorite freshman was such a greedy, cock-hungry slut.”

Another Eoin, another lifetime ago, would’ve probably been mortified at such branding. The current version - overheated from the dancing, and Carlos’ teasing, and the fierce awakened itch inside him - was less caught up on labels.

“Come on!” I hissed. Knowing I was inviting another slap, or more taunts, or even flirting with the possibility of Carlos delaying further; holding back just to see how frantic I could become. Yet if there was a chance it hastened him on, the risk was one I couldn’t help but take.

“Give me your hands, lil bro.”

Obediently I pushed my arms back. Felt Carlos take them, fold them. Pin my wrists at the base of my spine.

“Leverage, for when I’m bouncing off these perfect cheeks,” he teased.

A strategy I could find no flaw in. As long as he hurried up in his testing, anyway.

“Carlos!”

A laugh, then, but movement with it. The slick nudge of his cockhead, brushing down the crease of my ass until he circled in on my entrance. The pressure familiar and yet still shocking: a moment - very nearly buried by what I’d experienced so far at my big bros’ hands, but not quite - of panic, gone almost as swiftly as it was recognized. Drowned out by the exquisite, indescribable sensation of my body stretching around him.

He’d feel me straining against him, his grip on my arms, I knew. Understand how much I was trying to push back onto him, to speed our way to that perfect moment when I felt Carlos’ body drape across me. A feeling of absolute closeness, inside and out. Fighting his hold, and his bodyweight levered into me and pinning me to the couch, was futile when he was bigger, and stronger, and had physics and gravity in his favor, only I couldn’t not try. The alternative was patience, and that’d been scraped away along with any sense of shame at how much I needed him to ream me.

He sighed as he bottomed out in me; a long, slow hiss that was halfway to a grunt of pleasure. Like he meant to savor the way my ass squeezed and fluttered around him. And I’d fucked Carlos, too, just like I’d fucked other guys on the team, and Adam on his dorm room bed with a pair of my still-warm briefs to muffle his delighted cries: I knew how incredible that felt.

But I also knew how incredible it’d feel to have his dick saw in and out of me, tormenting those wildly sensitive spots that it felt like I’d only just been made aware of. Carlos had been correct, before: I was greedy and cock-hungry, and I had no time to spare on tops who meant to make me wait for my due.

“I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me right now...”

He chuckled, and then - snake-strike quick - dragged his hips back before slamming them into me.

No holding in my wail, surprise carrying it out of me on a wave of howling nerve-endings. Some part of my brain distantly recognizing that his strokes were already in time with the music, as though Carlos’ body was another part of the complicated stereo system. Wired in, and taking each stab, and strum, and thrust of the tango and delivering that to my insides at full volume.

I couldn’t move, even had I wanted to. Not with him pinning my arms, with his weight conspiring with those jackhammer strokes. Overwhelming me in an instant; I’d have had to cry out, find my tongue and demand some sort of mercy. Knowing that my big bro would stop, if I asked him to, but equally sure that he knew exactly what I needed from him now.

I gurgled underneath him, feeling that elastic band tension between wanting this so intensely - this sense of a bigger, stronger, older, and altogether more powerful man taking from me what was my pleasure to give - and the lingering shame of being so passive. Feeling like I should be fighting back, even if that battle was only to maximize the pleasure both of us received; that I was guilty of the laziness, the idleness that Coach decried so scornfully, if I succumbed to the heady satisfaction of being pounded until every thought, every fear, was slammed out of me.

It was good sometimes to simply be a hole. That’s what Adam had told me once, and I couldn’t say I disagreed.

His legs shifted around mine, Carlos squatting atop me as he thrust. Riding me, now, my clasped wrists the reins as he bucked and pounded. Droplets of sweat hitting my back, as my panting and gasping was lost to the crescendo of the music. A lesson, not so much in dance as in listening to the primordial message from deep in your body.

I didn’t need to tango, or even to lap dance, not now and not on Brayden’s stage as I took his place. I just needed to show that I could fuck.

The slap of Carlos’ crotch against my ass quickened, the tempo fiercer and more urgent. Each stroke grinding my own erection against the squishy cushions beneath me: a good friction, yes, but nowhere near enough to get me off. My own orgasm tantalizingly out of reach, even as I felt the telltale signs of my big bro’s fast approaching.

It was a hiss of triumph as much as pleasure, as he swelled in me. Burying himself deep and holding there, as I fought the increasingly desperate urge to yank my hand from his grip and contort in whatever way necessary to jerk off.

He lifted just before my resolve cracked. Leaving behind a sense of hollowness and my brain spinning. Barely time to process that, to catalog the sensations still echoing through me, before feeling his hands grip my hips and yank me back.

That sharp tug pulled me up onto my hands and knees. My face pressed into the arm of the sofa, surprise still the thief of my voice; the sound that finally emerged a bleat of shock more than anything coherent, as Carlos pushed his face between my cheeks.

There was no resisting him, no way to hold him out with exhausted muscles and a body already conspiratorial. Desperate for the firm rasp of his tongue across the hole he’d just creamed; for the urgent dig of it inside me. My hands scrabbling at the couch for leverage, then rendered useless as Carlos reached between my legs and tugged my straining cock back. The rough pad of his thumb grinding at the hyper-sensitive arrowhead of flesh behind my swollen tip, and suddenly that distant climax was far, far closer than I ever could’ve imagined.

“Delicious, lil bro,” he grunted, praise muffled by my gooey flesh.

The thought it - of my handsome teammate licking his own load from the hole he’d just finished pounding - shoved me over the edge.

Throbbing in his fist, the spray of it almost painful as I twisted under his focused attentions. Knowing, too, that at any moment the pleasure would invert, would turn to something excruciating. Only the thought of sacrificing even the narrowest scrap of something so glorious, simply to save myself from the punishing discomfort afterwards, was impossible to entertain.

I flailed instead, as that moment struck and my nerve endings crashed through from delirium to howling protest. Not caring about the sodden patch of my own cum I was now squirming in, nor the gracelessness of my movements. Conscious solely of the need to drag my cock from Carlos’ hand, and separate his lips from my fluttering hole.