Ed looked down at the panting man impaled on his cock and couldn’t help but feel pity for the dude’s girlfriend.
It’s not that the dude was willing to have sex with another guy—Ed had been fucking around with men since he was in high school. No, what made Ed pity the dude’s girlfriend was how sub-bitchy this guy got about it. He wasn’t happy unless Ed fucked him hard and rough, on his back, legs up, hole exposed, like one of the whore’s Ed used to visit when he was in the navy. Fucking with a guy was one thing—guys do that—but fucking like a whore? It was just unacceptable to Ed’s way of thinking. How could a guy like that still manage a woman?
His flesh on fire, Matt gripped Ed’s hip and searched for words to give his bursting heart voice. This couldn’t be love—all they did was fuck on Saturday mornings—but it sure felt more thrilling than anything he’d felt with Carla. But what words do you offer a man like Ed? Matt had never, ever told another man “I love you.” He’d barely had a real conversation with any man beyond, “How ‘bout them Sox, yeh?” His eyes searched Ed’s and found no answers; he punted.
"Oh … oh Ed. Please. Fuck me harder," Matt panted. It was the best he could do; they were the only words that seemed to make sense. "Please. Get in closer." His spine tingled as he felt Ed’d thighs hunch up against his exposed legs.
Ed bit his lip and thrust harder. Bitch always liked it harder, it’s all he fucking asked for. And look at that cock: such a fucking nice cock, any woman’s dream, and here it was, pulsing and twitching, hard as stone without any help, just from a man fucking his ass. Ed thrust sharply upward. Last week, he made that swollen fuck-piece splatter on the guy’s chin; this week he’d see if he could make it squirt right onto his nose.
Matt curled his toes. This had to be love. ”Ohhhh! Yes! Ed! I feel you!” I just want you to know I fucking love this; I love you. I love your touch. But no, can’t say that. ”Harder!”
Yes, it had to be love, and Matt new exactly why: the first day he saw Ed down at the deli after work, picking up a grinder for himself while Matt picked up baked chicken for himself and Carla, Matt thought, “There’s dad.” He didn’t look like Dad; he just had Dad’s aura, that ex-mil, nice-tough-guy swag that always gave Matt a tickle in the pickle. ”Hey, nice sandwich,” he’d blurted at Ed, leaning over towards him in a shameless introduction. He was done letting men like Ed—like Dad—go. His mother had let his dad go once, 15 years ago, and he wasn’t going to be like her.
With a soft, high-pitched squeal, Matt squeezed his cunt hard around the man who would never love him.