“Fuck, Toby. Fuck, yeah. Oh, God.”
That was the last straw. The entire world contracted for a second—every muscle in my body locked down, even my hearing cut out—and then exploded the next as I yelled Toby’s name again and came down his throat.
He choked a little, dribbling cum and saliva, and my spent dick gave another half-hearted twitch inside his mouth because it was so fucking messy and hot, and I loved it.
Twenty-eight years, and I hadn’t known I liked messy and hot.
I reached out a trembling hand to Toby’s hair—it was soft, fuck it was so soft—and pulled him off me. He panted up at me, wild-eyed and swollen-lipped, and wordlessly resumed stroking himself.
I sank to my knees, spreading my thighs on either side of his, and pressed our mouths together. Toby’s lips were hot and wet with spit and cum, but he opened for me unhesitatingly. I trailed the backs of my fingers down his abs, absorbing his shudders, and wrapped my fingers around his so we could work him together.
“Show me what you like,” I rasped against his mouth. “Show me how you like it. You want me to suck you?”
“No, I want your hand on me. That big, capable fucking hand. Get it wet,” he instructed, his voice hoarse. I raised a hand to my mouth and licked my palm until it was dripping. His gorgeous brown eyes sank half-shut, and he whimpered when I wrapped my hand around him again.
“Fuck, yeah. Like that but tighter.” Toby moved his hand away and instead clenched my shoulders tightly, trusting me to take care of him. “Harder. Like—oh, yeah. Yeahyeahyeah. Just like that. Shit, you’re good, Beale. Don’t stop.”
“Not gonna stop,” I promised. Even if my arm fell off. Even if an earthquake hit. Even if my heart actually exploded from all the rapid-fire thumping. Even if my leg muscles gave out, like they were threatening to do, because I could still feel the aftershocks of my orgasm in my balls.
I thought about all the shit he’d said to me and how it had amped me up unbelievably. So with no plan whatsoever, I cleared my throat and leaned in so I could whisper in his ear all the things I’d like to do to him.
“I can’t wait to get my mouth on you. I can’t wait to… to suck your balls. And I want to eat you out. I’ve never done either of those things, but you’d be my first. You could… you could show me?”
I worried I was failing epically, reminding him how inexperienced I was, but Toby let out a high-pitched wail and gripped me harder, so I kept going, moving my hand faster, grasping him more firmly.
“I want to fuck you over the counter in the guesthouse kitchen.” Once I started, it was easy to just spill every fantasy I’d ever had. “Against a wall with your legs around my waist and my hands spreading you open. Maybe I’ll do it when the contractors are here so you’d have to be extra quiet, since you’re fucking filthy and seem to like that idea.”
Toby groaned.
“And I want to fuck you in the pool, too. I’d blow you under the water, then finger you and get you ready for me. Then I’d push inside you and—” I paused, remembering how he couldn’t swim. “And I’d hold you up the entire time and keep you safe. And then I’d—”
“Oh, fuck. Oh, yeah. Fuck, Beale! Fuck.” Toby came in giant splatters that hit my chest, my stomach, and the patch of pubic hair right above my dick, and, no lie, it felt like the greatest accomplishment of my entire life.
I’d done that. I’d made him do that.
We smiled at each other wildly, then fell to the ground side by side with the lounge cushion under our heads, both our chests heaving like we’d swum all the way back from the island and run back to the house.
Gold afternoon sunlight fell through the slats of the pergola’s roof, creating rainbow fractals that burst on the inside of my eyelids—beautiful Catherine wheels of color splashing across my brain.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I’d never felt more at peace. And the idea drifted across my brain that I’d been so, so, so wrong, because it turned out “oh” and “fuck” and “yeah” were maybe the most expressive three syllables in the English language.
And I wouldn’t have known that, if not for Toby.
He was right. His blow jobs really did change lives.
It was a long moment later when he finally turned his head toward me. “That was.” He had to pause and swallow, still breathless. “Seriously high quality. Eight point five out of ten.”
My heart, which had finally slowed down slightly, started to beat faster, not with fear but promise. “Not sure how it could get better than that.”
I turned my head and found him grinning.
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll show you,” he promised.
And then… he did.
9
Toby
Help Me Hagatha (Issue #2441)
Dear Aunt Hagatha:
I’m not like most of the people who usually write you. I’ve actually got a perfect life! My job pays well, my girlfriend is amazing, and my family loves me a lot. I remind myself each day to be grateful.
But every once in a while, I wish I could just walk away from it all and start over. That I could build something… different. How can I stop myself from feeling this way?
Roberta in Ridgemont
Dear Bobbikins,
You can’t.
I mean, you could. Or you could try, anyway. But, like… what for? You get one life. So cowgirl up, get thee a therapist (no, but for reals, tho), own your feelings, and make some big changes. You just might find your perfect life gets even perfect-er.
Best of luck darling,
Your Aunt H.
“Listen, missy, what did we discuss earlier today?” I lifted one eyebrow. “I don’t need you over here, rubbing yourself all up in my business, while I’m trying to cook and I’ve still gotta get ready for Littlejohn’s Trivia Night.”
Marjorie twined herself around my ankles, looking as innocent as a ginger floof the size of a small tank possibly could—which was to say, not innocent in the slightest—and I shot her a warning glare before continuing to spread the cinnamon sugar topping on the french toast casserole I was preparing for the following morning.
Yes, to reiterate, I, Toby Elford, was standing in a tiny Florida kitchen, drowning bread products in cream and covering them with enough butter and sugar to give myself a contact high, using a recipe of my mom’s I somehow remembered perfectly, despite not thinking of it since leaving Ohio a billion years ago, whilst chatting with a cat and preparing to engage in a trivia night organized by a man who’d shouted at the television the other night that Europe was a country in Asia.
Who the fuck was I?
How the fuck had I gotten here?
Why the fuck wasn’t I running away as fast as my shapely legs could carry me?
Excellent questions, all.
I recalled only vague glimpses of my descent into this madness. There was that blow job by the pool on Saturday, after the harrowing horror of our trip to the Island of Plovers. A decidedly non-platonic night in the guest room with Marjorie locked firmly out and Beale’s arms locked firmly around me.