Sometimes the Truth Hurts
Don’t ask me why I did it. Not why I pushed Sonny off the couch—that part I understand. That’s because he’s an insensitive lout who can be totally clueless at times. No, I mean why did I, after heaving him off of me as hard as I could, do a complete turn around and not only help him up but allow him to place his head in my lap, in an utter reversal of our previous position, despite all the alarm bells that are going off in my own head?
Maybe it was the whimpering. I hate to hear a grown man cry, you know? All right, maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was because deep deep down inside, I really can’t find it in myself to hurt him, no matter how many times he’s hurt me. I’m just too soft for my own good, and I know it.
“Tim-tim, why are you mad at me?” He’s turning those doe eyes on me, those sweetly sad puppy eyes that make my insides turn into meaningless goo. Like caramel, but less tasty.
“Sonny, when will you get it into your thick head that I’m not in love with you anymore? We aren’t together, and it’s time you moved on? Read my lips, Sonny. I… don’t… love… you…. Capisce?”
For a moment, nothing is said between us, as if he’s actually mulling over my words.
“I’ve told you this before,” I add. My voice sounds weak, even to me.
“Tim,” he says at last, his momentary deliberations at an end, “it’s funny how your eyes always look away when you say that.”
The boy is smarter than I give him credit for.
He rolls over in my lap, until he’s facing my crotch. Right away, I know this can’t end well. But his breath is so warm against my jeans it’s making my cock swell again. He reaches up with one hand, catching the zipper between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand—unfortunately for me, he’s quite ambidextrous. He begins to tug at it, and the teeth begin to release.
Why aren’t I stopping this? Damned if I know.
“Sonny, what are you doing?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“Well, yes, but I mean why are you doing that?”
“That’s a different question, then.”
I groan at his sudden grasp of logic, my zipper down, and my briefs showing an embarrassing stain already, my growing cock clearly defined. If I don’t find a way to fight this, I’m doomed and I know it.
He’s breathing into the fabric, pressing his lips against my erection, caressing it. His fingers are headed toward the waistband, and I know I should stop him, know I should make him behave, but there’s a part of me that just wants to enjoy this, wants him to cater to me, to make me feel good, for once. I mean he owes me, right? It won’t mean anything. Just a blow job between friends.
Maybe that’s what we really are—friends with benefits?
I moan, making the mistake of moving, only instead of moving away from him, I’ve actually made it easier for him to take my cloth-covered dick into his mouth. I attempt to speak, but the sounds which emerge can in no way be classified as a verifiable language, much less English.
His fingers tug at my underwear, pulling it down. The trouble with that is that my jeans are still there. So he isn’t going to get very far that way. Maybe it’s just as well, I think, but my cock protests, asking me can’t I do something to mitigate the circumstances so that Sonny can proceed in his obvious plans to have his way with me?
How hard would it be for me to raise my hips, slide down my pants, and let nature take her course? His tongue is swirling around the head of my cock, which is peeping out from my briefs, complaining about the lack of comfortable space contained therein. His lips encompass the head, taking it in, eliciting an anticipatory shiver from yours truly.
Oh yes, Sonny, more, take more, please please please take more.
I’m going down for the count now, and I know it. One hand grips the arm of the sofa, the fingers of the other are tightly entwined in Sonny’s hair. My hips are raising of their own volition, as if begging him to strip me of my pants and my dignity. He slides his mouth further down my need. Oh damn, it feels so good, so warm, so wonderful. I feel myself about to say something stupid, something Sonny-induced, despite my protestations to the contrary mere moments before. See what effect he has on me?
But before the ill-fated syllables can make their escape, I hear music. No, it’s not the music in my heart. To be more precise, I’m hearing Yo Ho Sebastian, the Cosmo Jarvis song. That’s Sonny’s ringtone, I’d know it anywhere.
I’ll give him credit for not diving for it immediately, for continuing to pay attention to my aching hard-on as long as he does. But seriously, much as I love the song, it’s just not conducive to getting my cock sucked. So, with a sigh, and knowing I’ll regret it, I push his head back gently. “You should take that, Sonny.”
Why not? The mood’s broken, and common sense is flooding back into my extremities. Well, except for one, which is furious with me, and curling up to prove it.
He manages to reach for his phone, twisting himself up and off of me in the process, flipping it open. Listens intently for all of ten seconds, then shuts it.
“Sorry, Tim-tim, gotta go.” A quick kiss on my lips, before I even have time to think, much less react, and he’s gone. Out the fucking door.
Seriously? Now who’s the slow learner? I zip myself up, feeling an ache in my chest that just won’t quit.
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