Page 63 of Pressure Head
Phil swore. Looked like we had something in common. I brought a hand up to fondle his balls and rolled them around in their soft, hairy sac. Phil made tiny thrusting motions into my mouth, obviously holding himself back. His arms, as he gripped onto the headboard, were tense and shaking.
“Bloody hell,” he said and pulled out of my mouth.
“I was enjoying that,” I protested.
“So was I. Too bloody much.” He knelt just out of reach for a moment, breathing heavily, then swung his leg away. “Time you got some clothes off, Paretski.”
I sat up and took my shirt off a bit more slowly than I needed to. I was trying to think how to do this.
I didn’t want Phil to freak out when he saw my scars.
They’re not terrible—I’m not the bloody Elephant Man—but it’s obvious I’ve had surgery. I could pretend I was shy; ask him to turn the light off, or get under the duvet, but wouldn’t that just make it more obvious? In the end, I thought,Sod it. “Don’t freak out when you see the scars,” I said, pushing off my jeans and underwear all in one go.
Phil drew in a sharp breath, staring down at me. He could have been looking at my hip or my cock, but I had a sinking feeling I knew which it was. He was back to stone-face, and he didn’t make a move to touch me, either.
“Hey, I’ve got an ache right here that needs some attention,” I said, stroking my cock as a visual aid. “If you like, you could kiss it better,” I encouraged him.
Phil’s gaze lifted to meet my eyes. I dared him silently to say something about the scars, about the accident. To apologise.
He didn’t, and I breathed again as he dipped his head to kiss his way down my chest, all the way down to take me in his mouth. The intensity of it made my head spin—Phil Morrison, with his lips wrapped around my cock, and God, he knew a trick or two with his tongue. My eyes kept trying to clench shut, but I was bloody determined to keep them open, to drink in the most beautiful sight I’d seen in a long time.
Phil’s fingers ghosted across my balls, but they didn’t linger, heading to that bit just behind them. An American bloke I went out with for a while called it thetaint, but I never did find out why. For some reason, I’d kept getting distracted every time the subject came up. Whatever it was called, it was a gateway to heaven. Phil teased it gently, rubbing back and forth, getting closer and closer to my entrance all the time, until—fuck—he slipped a finger inside me.
He took his mouth off my cock so he could speak. “Like that?”
“Fuck, yeah.” I gasped involuntarily as he pushed in deeper. He sucked me some more, probing ever deeper with his finger until I was bucking and cursing, then he pulled off and shifted position. I didn’t resist as he rolled me onto my side and spooned up behind me, his cock poking between my thighs, hitting my balls. “You can fuck me, if you want,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t take the shake in my voice for reluctance. “There’s stuff in the drawer.” He was silent so long I started to worry. “Phil?”
“Yeah. Fuck, I want that.” His words went right to my cock. I leaned over to scrabble in the drawer, and tossed him a condom and a packet of lube.
“Just bear in mind it’s been a while, okay?” I warned him.
“I’ll take care of you,” he rumbled. He caressed my arse cheek for a moment, then slithered down the bed. Oh God. Was he going to do what I thought he was going to do?
He was. His grip on my arse was so hard I knew I’d have bruises in the morning, he spread my cheeks wide and dived in with his tongue. How did he know? How the fuck did he know what this did to me? So fucking intimate. I was shaking so much he must have barely been able to hold me, as that teasing, wet warmth bathed my crack and circled my entrance, then jabbed inside. Again and again he tormented me, until I was so bloody desperate I’d have given anything,anythingif he’d only get inside me now. I struggled to form the words to tell him.
“Need you in me,” I begged. “Want you now.”
The wait while he rolled on the condom and slicked himself up was agony. I felt a moment’s fear as the huge, blunt tip of him pressed against me, and then the burn as he forced his way inside.
“Oh fuck!” I gasped. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He kept pushing, slowly but unstoppably. Stretching me out and filling me. It hurt, yeah, but somehow it was right that it hurt, the physical pain driving away the mental hurts of all those years ago. Like the operations I’d had when I was seventeen, and the rehab afterwards, where I knew the pain was doing me good. And then it stopped hurting, and I could feel his balls against my arse, his bruising fingers on my hips, and it was fucking wonderful.
He started to move. Slowly at first, then speeding up, he pulled out of me and slammed back in, changing the angle until I cried out, and then hitting that spot again and again. “Christ, Tom,” he groaned. “Touch yourself—I can’t . . .”
I barely had to lay one shaking hand on my cock before I was coming, a blinding white flash of pleasure searing through my whole body and leaving me limp and trembling. Phil let out a huge, wordless groan that rumbled through my chest, and I knew he was coming inside me, shooting out his own ecstasy. His harsh breaths rasped in my ear, and he let go of my hips and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me to his chest.
“So fucking beautiful,” he whispered. I melted back against him, moulding to his body.
I didn’t realise we’d fallen asleep like that until I woke, hours later, my back warm but my front half bloody freezing. Seeing as that was the half with the important bits, I roused myself to try to work the duvet out from underneath Phil’s gently snoring body. Thankfully he woke up just enough to give me a hand, as his solid, muscular bulk seemed to have tripled in weight since I’d had him lying on top of me last night.
We’d made a right mess of the sheets—they were definitely feeling a bit crusty—but that could wait until morning. I pulled the duvet up over us both and surrendered to oblivion once more.
