My Way 27

My Way

36 Joe




I do not bottom, Joe. Ever. I do not bottom…Ever.Ever.Ever.Ever…


Bugger. Or not. Ever.

Never-ever was a very long time—unless Joe popped his clogs o’course—in which case, it might be sooner rather than later. A lot less longer to hope that never-ever meant definitely-maybe…

Thus, it was a waste of the time Joe did have left to fret about that. Tick-tock. Time was a tricksy devil. It could lull you into a false sense of security just as fast as it could smash your dreams to smithereens.

All hope is lost? Tended to be a question of tense…

Present: I do not bottom ever—is a helluva lot different from—Past: I have not bottomed ever.

And altogether different from: I will not bottom ever… 

A flicker of future possibility Joe snuffed out. For now. In the meantime? The present was a gift, not to be sniffed at. Mac slinked over to the bed and snagged the lube off the cabinet. That glinty gaze skimming the L shape formed by Joe’s body—as if he were trying to decide which bit to scoff first—while slicking up. Watching the deft sweep of Mac’s fingers was second only to watching plush lips trawl the length of Joe’s cock. By the time Mac had clambered up and nudged Joe’s legs further astride with first his left, then right knee, Joe was strung tight enough to shatter.

He had no idea what dastardly design the scoundrel might embark on…but it wasn’t a feathery tongue of flame skimming across Joe’s shoulders. The fizzle of cooling flesh should’ve been audible when Mac retraced its trip with a blazing breeze of cool breath blown across damp skin.

“So responsive…” he murmured, pressing plush lips to Joe’s nape as shiversome fingertips traced the rails of his ribs.

“Mac…” His name whoosed out as if Joe had been holding his breath. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him this way, when he’d grown accustomed to grappling hook hands and grasping fingers that clawed his flesh, scoring half-moon scars. Clutching too tight, leaving livid bruises in their wake; a snatch ‘n’ grab that left Joe feeling bereft. So alone…he’d slip off to seedy haunts, seeking higher highs to feed a need that couldn’t be sated. A thirst impossible to slake…when he hadn’t known what he sought. A lie Joe had clung to for comfort, rather than face a future too bleak to bear. The death of divine idylle.

“Mac…” Joe begged, his voice breaking on something like a sob after enduring the searing slalom of Mac’s tongue down his spine. The scoundrel paid no heed, just ratcheted the knot of need even tighter when he paused to dapple at Joe’s coccyx. “Pleease…

“Joe…” The bad-ass was abruptly cleaved to Joe’s back, reaching round to cup his jaw and steer his face toward Mac. It was with a muttered expletive that he mashed his mouth to Joe’s, a smidge off-centre in a messy smear of moist warmth before claiming conquered territory.  Releasing Joe’s jaw, Mac splayed his palm across Joe’s chest and cupped his balls with the other. Cradling them with an aching tenderness made all the more stark by the plundering intensity of his kisses.

“Mac…take me,” Joe gasped, tugging on Mac’s lower lip with his teeth. “Now. Please…” Too impatient to wait, he arched his back in a bid to make matters more…snug.  




You…” Joe pleaded.

No.” Mac yanked his head back to spear Joe with a glint so flinty it was flammable.  “You are not using me as another form of self abuse,” he growled, locating the knot of gnawing need and thrusting a slick finger into Joe’s body.

“Ah…more,” Joe gasped, pushing onto it. “I wasn’t…just-wanted you.”

“You’ve got me,” Mac snarled, swivelling that deranging digit. It had no sooner eased back than plunged forth, alongside a second to scissor with the first. His lips were but a breath away, too tempting to resist, so Joe released the bedstead to clutch buzz-cut hair and meld their mouths once more. A heady duel of tongues; abrupted when the bad-ass brushed that brain-boggling spot and Joe’s head snapped back with a “MAC!”

Now you can have more…” he rasped, tugging his fingers free about a shiver of anticipation before Joe felt the blunt press his whole self craved.

“Ahhh!” Joe gasped when Mac buried himself hilt deep in one sharp snap of hips. Stilled. A sudden silence, as sharp as the stretch. The blissful burn of pleasure pain, scarlet bright behind Joe’s lids as he released a raggedy breath. “’Kay…”

The next wee while eclipsed words. Even if Joe spent forever weaving them in tapestries of sound. He’d never be able to nail it, never encapsulate such all-consuming fullness…or the scintillating sweep of Mac’s spine, thrusting harder, faster, deeper. Slowing right down, just to drive Joe demented. He was sure of it, relished it, forgot the terms, demanded more. Got it…and how. Jack-hammer hips and snatched off cries, bliss blazing through Joe’s veins like wildfire, razing all reason to ashes. 

Promising him the more that spawned untold moons-in-June; as if he might conjure it with rhythm and rhyme. That elusive something he’d known must hover just out of reach, ever withheld, no matter who, what, how, where Joe sought it. That mythical more, taunting him with its absence. Goading Joe to seek another source, rather than mourn the loss of something he’d never had—might never know—if it was unknowable. As unattainable as talking to animals or gliding on the breeze like a wingless bird. Flights of fancy beyond his reach in the real world; a comparison too cruel to tolerate. Clean. 

“Mac…” Joe sighed when a forearm clamped across his body like a satchel strap, cleaving them closer still. Fingertips resting at his right shoulder, Mac’s elbow level with Joe’s bottom rib. More fragile than the rest, as fragile as Joe felt in Mac’s steely embrace…and yet, safer. In more danger than he’d ever been. 

Mac answered with his lips, crushing them to Joe’s before snatching them back alongside his hips. Then the bad-ass—as if hell-bent on putting himself to shame—began to build a blistering pace, surging with greater urgency. Short, sharp snaps that pounded Joe’s prostate until he was juddering wreck, clinging on by the skin of his teeth. After sliding his diagonal arm down to circle Joe’s waist, Mac tightened it to grind himself deeper still. The slick press of his chest at Joe’s back was a wall of hard heat, the only solid thing in his buttery-boned world. 

“Fuck…” Mac gasped, cutting short a guttural groan. “Joe…”

“Yesss…” Joe could scarce hold on. In a white-knuckle-tight to the bedstead sort of way. His cock was so desperate for friction, it felt like a silent scream. The sheer relief of being enclosed in firm fingers almost finished Joe off before the tattoo intensity of Mac’s hips could stake their claim. With incomparable aplomb, as inimitable as…him. Joe was done for. The damn burst, unleashing wave after wave of blinding bliss, spilling from his body in a white-hot rush. Only then, did Mac fire off a final shuddering thrust, triggering a chains-across-cobbles-Joorr as pulsing warmth flooded Joe’s insides.

The sudden stillness shrieked with the weight of words unsaid. As sacred as the silence in church when please be seated scuffles cease. Mac blew out a breath like the ruffle of turning pages before pressing his lips into the curve of Joe’s neck.

“Thank you…” That popped out unbidden, more hiccup than word.

“For what?” Mac asked, raising his head to tilt it in a wondering sort of way. 

“For…” Oh bugger. “…refusing.”

The reason he’d given for that, rather than the prepping Mac had insisted on.

Oh, if only you knew…” 

“Knew what?” Joe chuckled. The bad-ass had adopted the drum-roll timbre of Movie-Trailer-Man. 

Can The Rock obliterate a terrorist enclave with naught but a twinkly grin and bulging jockstrap? Will he triumph across the most treacherous terrains on Earth and still make it home in time to read his kids a bedtime story? Find out next week in the new nail-gnawing, sweat-glistening blockbuster of thrills, spills, and glutes t’die for: Between The Rock and a Hard Place. Coming soon to a cinema near you…

Mac had imparted more tantalizing gravitas in five words than Movie-Trailer-Man had managed to muster in a thirty-second spot. Lightweight.

“How impossible it—” Mac broke off with a frown before finishing: “—You are.” 

“I have the meanest mo-fo on the planet to keep me out o’mischief tho…” Joe sighed, too sex-soused to rustle up the rest of his five star review.

“What’re you after?” A query so arch, it suggested that Mac was forced to suffer all sorts of shady shenanigans. How rude.

“Nuffin…” Blimey, the telling truth malarkey had got way out of hand.

If he didn’t keep a very beady eye on the bad-ass, Joe was in grave danger of finding himself turning up for stuff—on the right day—before he knew what had hit him. Let alone had chance to scupper such pesky Machiavellian plottings.

Pah. If the scoundrel thought Joe was going down witho— Dang. Hoisted by his own petard. Again. 




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