5-Sugar, Spice and Sugar
The easel, however, had been currently collapsed and propped against the wall to make more room in their sitting area. He always kept it put up and out of the way when he wasn't actually painting. His paints and palette were in a sealed box, to keep out air until he was ready to use them again.
He had come to an agreement, with Angela and Melvin, that his unfinished paintings could hang on the wall—in his room and away from onlookers—until finished, to prevent accidents.
But for the time being, Callan had about fifteen pieces of sketch paper laid out around him. Each one had a charcoal sketch of a studying Melvin, from various angles and with different expressions.
Neither of them said a word. Angela was out for a run, so the apartment was exceptionally quiet. There was only the occasional flipping of a page or the tearing of paper, mixed with both Melvin's note taking and Callan's scribbling.
Melvin was the perfect model, Callan thought. No matter what he was doing, he was still. Motionless. He was either reading or studying and both required minimal movement. And when Melvin did move, like to turn a page or write something down, it was fast and he always returned to his original position.
He made for a very nice sketch subject.
Callan's phone went off and he glanced at it. It was on vibrate, so it wouldn't be too awful if it rang. He pulled it close and saw his professor's name flash across the screen. He unlocked his phone and raised it to his ear.
"Hello? Dr. Shane."
"Callan, I'm really glad you answered," his professor said. "It's about the art show. The one that's going to be downtown. Well, I managed to get you two approved spots in the gallery. Bring your final entries by my office sometime this week so I can get measurements—"
"HOLY SHIT ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"
Melvin jumped at Callan's sudden thrilled, loud voice. He dropped his book and it knocked against the table, creating even more noise. But that didn't distract Callan in the least bit. He was on his feet, walking around and rubbing his hair.
"I'm very serious," Dr. Shane chuckled.
"Alright, yeah, I'll get my pictures to you. Paintings, right? Yeah you said paintings. Oh God, thank you so much!"
"You're welcome, kid." His professor was still laughing. "Don't hurt yourself. Just come by my office during my hours."
They hung up and Callan punched into the air, pulling his fists close to his chest in excitement. He looked to a very confused Melvin, unable to hide his smile.
"I got a spot in the student gallery downtown! The really big one, Mel!"
Melvin's eyes lit up. He jumped to his feet and ran at Callan, hugging him tight and yelling with him.
"OH MY GOD CALLAN THIS IS GREAT!"
"I KNOW I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!" Callan shouted. He gasped. "I have to pick out paintings! I need opinions. Melvin, whenever you're finished studying—"
"No! Callan this is important! Let's go look now!" Melvin cried, grabbing Callan's hand and dragging him to their room. "And then when Angela gets back she can give you her opinions too!"
Callan didn't tell his mother why he was coming over in the middle of the week. But he was sure she knew, by the way his voice cracked and escalated, that there was good news. Callan had packed up his favorite paintings, along with the ones Melvin and Angela liked the best. He was all excited adrenaline as he parked and pulled his paintings from the car.
He ran up to the door and knocked.
"Hi Cal," Alice laughed, opening the door to let him in. She glanced at his arms, full with his canvases. She furrowed her brow.
"Mom, mom, ma," Callan panted, "I got accepted for that art show."
Alice's eyes widened. Even through his jumbled words, she knew what he was saying and her face lit up as bright as her son's. She raised her hands to her mouth as she gasped, the sound one of pure joy. Alice cupped Callan's cheeks and pulled him into an awkward hug because of all the paintings between them.
"I'm so proud of you!" she cried. "When is it? You have to tell me. I have to mark it on the calendar."
"I will, I will but I need help picking pieces," Callan said, nodding to his paintings. "I asked Melvin and Angela but I want your and dad's opinions, too."
"And we'll be happy to help in any way. Come put them on the table while I finish chopping these carrots."
Callan followed her into the house and ran to the table. He started to organize the paintings he had brought: one of broken houses, one of a table laid with dolls and lace, a green hill laden with blue flowers with a wall in the distance, a forest with tall trees and near invisible horses at their bases, and finally the picture of the man overlooking the forest at sunset.
Alice finished at the stove and walked over to him, wiping her hands on a towel. She carefully looked at each one.
"I definitely like the one with the man on it," she said, tapping the painting. "Definitely that one and….I think the picture of the flowers."
"Those were the first two Angela and Melvin picked out, too."
"Well I think those may be your winners," she teased. "They're all so amazing though, Callan. They're all so stunning."
Callan smiled. He felt lame thinking that every one of his paintings came from a scene from a dream he had. But those dreams stuck out the most to him; they were the most real and vivid. So painting those images were more like painting from memory and experience than from a foggy imagination.
"Thanks," Callan replied softly. "I sort of think so too."
They laughed and Callan told her more about the paintings. What each one meant to him. And once they had finished, Callan helped her in the kitchen. It was all calm; Whiskey watching them through the window from outside, his tail wagging.
Once dinner was finished, Callan ran to let the dog in. He sat on the floor, playing with the large dog. Alice even dared to snap a few photos with her phone of the two playing.
The door clicked open and closed, with a little more force than either of them were suspecting. Callan's shoulders slumped and rested his arms around Whiskey's broad neck. Alice inhaled and smiled as comfortingly as she could at him. Callan managed to force a smile back.
"Welcome home, dear," Alice said, looking around as John walked into the room. Callan turned and waved from the floor; John narrowed his eyes.
"Good evening. It's good to see you, Callan," he sharply greeted. John set down his coat. It was normal for Alice to go put up his coat and shoes but she never moved from Callan's side.
And for that, Callan was grateful.
"Hi, dad," Callan said getting to his feet. Whiskey whined and Callan patted him on the nose. "Umm….guess what? I got accepted into an art show at a gallery."
"So that's why you brought all of your shit here?" John asked, gesturing with a vague hand at Callan's paintings.
"For some input, yes, that's why my shit is here. I want to know which ones you like the best. I'm trying to see which ones I should take."
John rolled his eyes and turned to Alice. "Is dinner almost ready?"
"John. Can't you at least pretend to be interested?"
"And give him false hope?" John snapped. "There's no future for this, Alice. Not one that's stable."
"Alright," Callan said, turning away and grabbing his paintings. He stacked them up neatly, though with shaking hands, and picked them up off the table. "I think that's enough input for tonight. When will dinner be ready, ma? I want to know too. I'd like to go but if I have to wait an hour for fucking food I'll pick something up on the way home."
"Goodness, John," Carla groaned. "Why? WHY? Is it so hard for you to get over this?"
"Alice, is it really wrong for me to be concerned with my son's future?" John pushed.
"Seriously, is dinner almost ready?" Callan repeated. He swallowed hard, his entire body on fire.
Alice sighed, shaking her head. She went to give her pot of lamb stew a stir as John slumped into a chair. Callan went to the entrance hall, sitting at the edge of the steps. He rested his paintings against the wall and sat quietly with his head in his hands.
"Callan, come on and eat," Alice called. Callan reconsidered leaving instead. And so she called again. "Callan!"
He rose and walked back into the dining room. He slipped into his usual chair and watched his mother walk from the kitchen with their bowls of stew. John already had his. He didn't wait for Callan to sit or anything.
"Thanks," Callan muttered to his mother. She sat down, scorning John silently. He looked away from her, fully aware of her gaze.
All Callan wanted to do was eat and leave. He knew there would be more berating from his father. He knew it was coming. At least the food kept him somewhat occupied.
After dinner, Callan left. He said his goodbyes and left as soon as he could. Alice packed up some food for him, against John's wishes because Callan was "cut off" from food too, and helped Callan carry his belongings to the car.
"Things will work out, Cal," she sighed.
"Of course they will," Callan replied. As much as he tried to be hopeful, he knew he was lying. She knew he was lying. "Love you, mom."
Alice caught him by the ear, giving him a gentle tug. Callan winced and pushed her hand away.
"You're lying," Alice sighed. "Your ears turn—"
"My ears turn red when I lie, I know," Callan groaned out. He fell against his car, his eyes on the ground. Alice ran a hand through his hair, to push back his mess of fringe from his face, and placed a little kiss to his forehead.
"I'm very proud of you, Callan," she said. "You should always know that."
"I mean it."
Callan grinned. "I know."
Alice checked his ears and at the lack of red tinting them she returned the smile. "I love you, too."
They hugged each other tight and Callan got into his car. He watched his mother back into the house and then drove. But as soon as he drove to the end of the street he stopped, letting tears finally streak his face. He fished out his phone. He wanted a distraction. Anything to take his mind off his father's criticizing and his stupid art.
He scrolled to Jean's name, his finger hovering over the call button. He inhaled and pressed his name, listening to the phone ring.
It would only be for a moment. He'd only maybe suck Jean off. That's all he wanted. It was a distraction. A quick fix. Something. And he wouldn't feel so guilty—
Callan hung up before the second ring. He slammed his hand on the wheel in frustration, pressing his head to his arm. He let tears drop off his chin as he stared at his phone, trying to push away a feeling of guilt that was already surfacing. He stared at the list of names on his phone's screen…
He bit his lip and glanced at the clock. It was barely eight…
Callan pressed call again and held the phone to his ear. He waited. The first ring. Second ring.
"Umm…hey…old man," Callan said, laughing a little at the harsh voice on the other end. "Are you busy?"
There was some shuffling around, probably papers. "Rereading these fucking depositions. Drinking a cup of tea. Not entirely."
"Want some company?"
Callan shifted in his chair rather nervously. He felt silly asking. But he couldn't go to Jean. And he didn't want to be home. Not yet.
"I could actually use a little company."
Callan managed to find Zachary's home after putting the address into his phone's GPS. He remembered, a little, from when Zachary drove him to his car at the bar. At least once Callan got into the actual neighborhood. Ironically, Zachary lived closer to Dr. Robinson's (Callan's dad) house than Callan liked; it was less than ten minutes away.
He parked in the driveway, as Zachary kept his cars in the garage. He sat in his car, staring down the concrete walkway to Zachary's door. Taking a deep breath, Callan climbed out and walked up to the door. He knocked, considered running away and crying the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, when Zachary opened the door, raising an eyebrow.
"Care to explain, Callan?" He still stepped aside to let Callan in. "You sounded like you were about to fucking cry on the phone."
"Does it even matter?" Callan groaned, throwing off his jacket and kicking away his shoes. "Do you want me to blow you? Should I just grab a counter and bend over?"
"You can shower first," Zachary said, picking up Callan's shoes and placing them neatly by the door.
"What? I'm not going to shower."
"If we're fucking, yes you are."
"You didn't make me shower the first time."
"Because I had enough alcohol in my system to not give a shit," Zachary said. "I'm sober at the moment. And I'm not sticking my dick or tongue in any part of you that's not clean. You're showering."
"Give me some fucking mouth wash then!"
Callan threw his hands up in defeat, stomping around and making grunting sounds with the eloquence of an elephant. Zachary folded his arms, leaning against the wall to watch the small temper tantrum. Eventually Zachary stopped and glared at him.
"Fine. Which one?"
"Glad you're being cooperative, brat."
"Stop calling me brat."
"I will when you stop acting like one. Now go get your ass in the shower. You can use mine. It's bigger."
Callan didn't argue. He shuffled behind Zachary, following the man into his bedroom. He had vague memories of the decadent room but they were all fond memories; getting fucked into one of the best orgasms he's ever had and waking up on a bed of clouds that smelled fresh and clean.
There were really no negatives.
He walked into the bathroom, looking around curiously. Everything was neat, placed in a particular spot. Callan could tell from the way the bottles on the counter were perfectly organized, from tallest in the back to shortest in the front, and the way the towel sitting next to the sink was folded that Zachary was meticulous about his belongings.
"Here's a towel and a washrag," Zachary said, pulling the two from the cabinet and setting them on the counter; both were as neatly folded as the other towel. "Don't use my mesh brush."
"I'm not touching your gross back scratcher," Callan said, pulling his shirt off. He let it fall to the floor as he started to unbutton his pants. He stopped, holding them loose around his waist. "Umm…can you leave?"
Zachary looked up, halfway through folding Callan's discarded shirt. He rolled his eyes.
"You realize I've seen you naked, right?" he muttered, setting Callan's shirt on the counter. Callan made a soft noise of protest and Zachary rolled his eyes, leaving the room.
Callan closed the doors once Zachary was out. He took a long breath, suddenly flushed and feeling terribly awkward. He wanted to fuck Zachary, just because he knew he'd feel guilty for fucking Jean. But instead he was being instructed to shower. Zachary was acting like his dad.
Except he didn't bitch about college majors.
Callan let his pants fall and kicked off his underwear. He turned on the shower and stepped inside, pulling the glass closed behind him. The hot water was refreshing. It stung, relaxing his tensed muscles. Callan let his head fall back, the water running down his hair and onto his shoulders and back. He turned around and picked up one of the bath washes sitting on a high, stone shelf in the corner.
Even the bottles in the shower were neatly organized.
He picked up a blue bottle, poured soap onto his hand and closed the lid. He tried to set the bottle back in its original spot but the slick soap dripping on his fingers made his grip impossible. The bottle slipped between his fingers, knocking in to the other bottles. They all fell off the shelf, hitting the shower floor like a sack of potatoes.
"Ah! FUCK!" Callan shouted as the heavy shampoo bottle hit his foot. "Fucking…shit…"
He let the mess stay and went back to washing. He used his hand to smear soap across his body and stood still to let the water wash it away. His toe was in pain; like hell he was going to waste time lathering himself up.
He turned, the water washing the soap off his shoulders, down his back and lower half until he felt it on his legs. He snatched the washrag from the showerhead and scrubbed himself clean off all the suds. He stood directly under the stream water to let it all wash away.
Turning off the water, Callan kneeled to pick up the mess he had made. He threw the bottles back onto their shelf and stepped out, grabbing the towel off the counter. He ran it over his hair, leaving it a wild mess on his head, and wrapped the towel around his waist. He pushed open the doors.
"Hey! Should I even bother getting dressed, old man?" Callan called, walking into the room.
There was no Zachary in sight, but there was a bottle of lotion and lube on the bed. The comforter had been pulled back and folded, leaving only the white sheets. Callan tiptoed to the bed, picking up a pillow. He raised it to his nose and inhaled.
It smelled clean, just like last time. Just like Zachary.
"Now was that really so fucking hard?" Zachary asked, walking into the room. Callan looked up from the pillow and shook his head.
"Only because you asked me to," Callan replied. "What's with the lotion? Do you have some thing about…lotion? Is a lotion fetish even a thing?"
"Wow, thanks for answering my question," Callan snarked, tossing the pillow on to the bed. He sat down as Zachary rolled up his sleeves. He picked up the lotion, squeezed some onto his hand and rubbed them together to warm it.
"Really? Are you fucking serious right now?"
"Haven't you ever heard of fucking foreplay, you shitty asshole?" Zachary snapped. "Or do you college kids just shove your dicks in each other's mouths as soon as possible."
Callan dug his heel into Zachary's leg. "Don't suck on my toes."
"Fucking gross. You'd need a pedicure before I do that shit."
Callan laughed as Zachary started to spread lotion over his foot. Zachary's hands were strong, each finger working into the muscle. He didn't rub for long before picking up Callan's other foot, doing the same. Callan blissfully smiled, closing his eyes and letting Zachary do as he pleased.
Zachary worked Callan's calves, pushing his hands under the towel to massage Callan's thighs. Callan moaned without meaning to, his eyes shooting open as he covered his mouth. Zachary chuckled, picking up the lotion again and sitting back on his knees, between Callan's legs.
Callan gasped as Zachary pressed against his growing erection. It felt restrained from the towel and just from Zachary's rubbing, Callan was ready for it to be free. But Zachary paid it no attention, even as he brushed against it. He opened the lotion, pouring a thin, cold line from Callan's stomach to his chest. The sudden cold liquid left Callan numbed for a brief second.
Zachary grinned, smearing the lotion from Callan's chest and onto a pert nipple. Callan shuddered at the cold on his skin but the sensation made a slow moan escape his lips again. He bucked his hips against Zachary, but a gentle hand pushed them back down.
"Not yet," Zachary purred, rubbing Callan's chest.
"Fuck…come on, Zachary. Just fuck me." He wrapped a leg around Zachary's waist, trying to pull him closer. But damn the man's self-restraint was something to be admired; just not when Callan wanted to have fun.
"I want you to turn around," Zachary demanded as he rubbed down Callan's chest and arms. "Be a good boy for me."
Callan sat up, pulling the towel off his waist. He threw it off the bed and crawled to Zachary, biting his lip.
"I'm so tired of waiting," Callan purred, nuzzling Zachary's neck. "I want you to fuck me like I'm your whore."
He was pleading. He was actually begging, genuinely begging. And it wasn't for any type of play, he was actually asking Zachary to have his way with him.
Zachary wrapped an arm around Callan's waist, pulling him onto his lap. Callan straddled him, panting and cheeks flushed. But Zachary still didn't touch him. He still didn't get undressed. He picked up the lotion and leaned down to put Callan back on the bed.
"I said turn around." The stern, repeated words made Callan inhale in shaking frustration. He watched Zachary sit back again, waiting patiently. With an angry huff, Callan flipped onto his stomach, shoving his face into the pillows and grabbing at the sheet.
He heard the familiar sound of the lotion bottle being popped open and Zachary's hands rubbing together once again.
"All you had to do was fucking listen," Zachary said, grabbing Callan's shoulders.
"Whatever…," Callan moaned, pleased by the attention being given to his shoulders.
Zachary worked his hands over Callan's back, deep into the muscle. As much as Callan wanted to be fucked, he honestly couldn't find reason to complain about the sudden massage. It was nice. Different. Definitely relaxing. He smiled, stretching his arms as Zachary worked lower.
"You have such a beautiful body," Zachary hummed, leaning down against Callan's back. Callan shuddered at the hot breath between his shoulder blades. "You're a stunning little thing."
"You're so fucking ridiculous," Callan laughed, shaking his head. A little nip at his ear and Zachary cupping his ass made him stop laughing, however.
"And such a cute ass," Zachary whispered. Callan bit his lip, shaking as Zachary spoke against his ear. "Can I have a taste?"
Callan's cheeks flushed more than he wanted. He buried his face deeper into the pillow to hide away, Zachary moving down his body. The man's fingers were light down his spine but Zachary was generously rough once he reached Callan's ass. He pushed Callan onto his knees, kneading the round muscle between his fingers.
"I haven't even touched you and your hole is begging for me," Zachary breathed, nibbling at Callan's skin.
Callan had been doing well to keep himself under control. He had his hand over his mouth and his eyes closed tight. Even while his legs were shaking, he was quiet enough. But when Zachary spread his cheeks and flicked a deft tongue between them, Callan lost the rest of his control.
He let out a long, pleased sigh, listening to the wet sounds Zachary made. Feeling the man's wet tongue prod and flick at his puckered hole. Callan dug his nails into the mattress as Zachary dragged his along tan thighs, leaving thin red marks. Callan arched his back and Zachary pressed his tongue in deeper.
Callan couldn't count the expletives that fell from his lips. They were a jumble of half-formed words and pants. He jerked his hand between his legs, fumbling for his leaking cock and Zachary pulled away. He grabbed Callan's hand and gave it a little tug.
Callan whined a breathy "please" in response. He stared up at Zachary, tears at the corners of his glassy eyes. Zachary's chin was wet with saliva and he looked exquisitely obscene from it. Zachary pushed Callan onto his back with ease.
Leaning down, Zachary pressed his lips to Callan's ear, not in a kiss but in a low, breathy whisper, "Spread your legs."
Callan quickly obeyed. He bit his lip in anticipation, watching Zachary slick up his fingers with lube. He reached between Callan's legs, ignoring the brunet's aching cock and balls, and going straight for the teased hole instead.
Zachary pushed in the tip of one finger and didn't wait for Callan to adjust before sliding in his entire digit. Callan moaned loud, no longer trying to hide the noises he made. He closed his eyes and arched his hips, feeling the slick tip of Zachary's second finger poke into him. His body shook, as Zachary pressed his second finger against Callan's ass.
"Please Zack…I need this." Callan turned his face into Zachary's neck, breathing hard and thrusting onto Zachary's single finger.
Zachary stopped moving his finger to push in a second. Callan moaned, relieved, and pressed his hips against Zachary's hand again. But before Callan could find a rhythm, Zachary was pushing in a third finger. Those three, long fingers made Callan roll his eyes in their sockets. It was what he wanted. Exactly what he wanted. He curled his fingers into the pillow, riding Zachary's fingers, letting himself be stretched and slicked.
"AH FUCK!" Callan shouted, his eyes jolting open as Zachary scraped his prostate. "Fuck, Zachary, do that again. Oh fuck, please."
"You like it that much, Callan?" Zachary breathed against his neck, pressing his fingers against that sweet spot again. Callan thought he would die any second from the pleasure. He nodded fervently.
"Want me to finger fuck you there?" Zachary said, nipping Callan's skin. And again Callan nodded. "Do you want it soft or rough? How do you want me to fuck you?"
"H-Hard…rough," Callan panted.
"You need to learn some manners," Zachary hummed against Callan's neck, slowing down. "Say "please"."
Callan grabbed Zachary's hair with a shaking hand in frustration. "Please Zachary…please…hard…"
They were the only words Callan could manage, but Zachary indulged his request.
Callan let his head fall to the side so Zachary could better bite his neck. Zachary sucked at the tan skin, working his fingers harder. He pressed all three of them into Callan's prostate at once, hitting that spot over and over and hard as he could.
The feeling sent Callan reeling in pleasure. He bucked his hips in time with Zachary's hand, screaming himself hoarse with curses and moans. He came without warning, curling over into Zachary's side with a hard shudder. Tears streaked his face, his stomach covered in his own cum. Slowly, gently Zachary pulled his fingers away and watched Callan's shaking shoulders.
Callan whimpered as the last wave of pleasure hit and he slowly opened his eyes. Glassy green met languid grey. Zachary brushed Callan's hair from his sweaty face.
"Rest up for a minute," Zachary said, pushing himself off the bed. "I'm going to go clean up. Need anything? Water?"
Callan nodded. "Water please…" His voice was dry and tired. He curled his legs up to his stomach and watched Zachary disappear into the bathroom. He listened to the sound of water and when it stopped, he saw Zachary walk through the room.
Callan closed his eyes. He wasn't sleepy, just tired. And a little sore. But there definitely wasn't a lingering of disgust and guilt.
He heard footsteps and sat up to greet Zachary.
"You were surprisingly obedient," Zachary hummed, handing him the glass of water. Callan grinned and took a long drink.
"I can be."
Zachary stroked his hair and Callan leaned against his hand. "Glad to hear it."
Callan smiled against Zachary's hand. It was warm and soft, but still incredibly firm. He pulled Callan close and Callan quickly turned away. Zachary smirked against Callan's cheek.
"You don't like kissing, do you?"
"Kissing is for people in a relationship. A real relationship. We're not…that," Callan muttered.
Zachary pulled away without responding. Callan could feel the tension but he never looked back to reassure Zachary of anything. "Turn around. Let me finish rubbing your back."
Callan was too tired to argue. Too tired and too wrapped up in his own self-defeating thoughts. Zachary sat down behind him, picking up the lotion and pouring it onto his hand. He warmed it up before getting to work on Callan's shoulders. Callan hummed, letting Zachary rub out the tension in his shoulders.
"So what's with you with wanting to pamper me?" Callan sighed. "I thought you were interested in just fucking."
"I am," Zachary said. "But I acknowledge that you're young. You probably could have called a dozen other people. So I must have done something right for you to come to me."
"Maybe they were just too busy."
"Don't be a shit," Zachary said, biting Callan's neck. Callan moaned and leaned back against him. "I do this because I want to increase my chances of you coming back. You also seemed stressed as fuck."
"I am stressed as fuck," Callan sighed. "And to be honest, I think I like you more than my other fuck buddy. There's too much….history and shit. With you it…it doesn't leave me feeling guilty. But that doesn't mean you should stop with the pampering. I could get used to it."
Zachary smirked, now running his tongue along Callan's smooth skin. He trailed his hand down Callan's back, along his thigh and pushing it between Callan's legs. Callan squirmed in his hand, biting his lip. "No emotions. Just sex and the occasional pampering. I think I could handle this sort of arrangement."
Callan turned around, breaking out of his grasp, to look at him. He smiled and tugged at Zachary's shirt, popping a few buttons open.
"Need to take some Viagra, old man?"
"Not at all, you brat," Zachary replied, pulling his shirt off. Callan flopped on to his back, watching Zachary strip through his spread legs.
Zachary dropped his pants and underwear, his hard cock popping free of its clothed restraints. Callan licked his lips when he caught a glimpse of the familiar piercings catching the light. He lazily stroked himself, watching Zachary open a condom and slip it on. Zachary poured lube on to his hand and smeared it over his cock, pumping himself and watching the lewd show Callan was putting on.
But there was only so much teasingly the two of them wanted to deal with.
Callan gasped when Zachary firmly grabbed his hips, repositioning him on the bed. Zachary kneeled between Callan's legs, grabbing one to throw over his shoulder. Callan was breathless, letting Zachary maneuver him around like a ragdoll. He pressed his cock to Callan's hole, teasing it with the tip. Callan grabbed at the sheets, curling his toes.
"Do you want it, Callan?" Zachary whispered and Callan curled his toes again. "Do you want my cock? Want me to fuck you?"
"I want you to fuck me," Callan breathed. "Please, Zachary—ahh!"
Zachary pushed in the head of his cock as Callan pleaded without any warning. But the sudden feeling—that hot, slick feeling—made him let out a long, husky growl. Callan shuddered all over, from his shoulders to his toes. He sighed, pleased, when Zachary pushed in more, enjoying every wet inch of the man's cock. He could feel the vague ripples of the man's piercings through the condom, lightly brushing against the walls of his body.
They both caught their breaths. Long, ragged breaths that filled the room. Zachary gave his hips an experimental wiggle, testing to see how accustomed Callan was. He waited for Callan to nod before setting a steady pace.
Callan loved it. The quick, sharp thrusts. Being stretched every time Zachary pushed in to him. The initial pain of being filled up soon faded, pleasure taking its place. He enjoyed the way Zachary's dick disappeared into his body and he watched—he shamelessly watched Zachary work because it was the first time, in quite a long time, that he wasn't doing all the work. He wasn't trying to get someone off. He was receiving the pleasure and pain—Zachary had taken to biting his leg and slapping his ass—instead of hastily sucking someone off or trying to cum first.
He thrust back, trying to keep time with Zachary. He made the slapping sound even louder, making it even harder. With one thrust, Zachary hit his sweet spot and Callan had to stop, yelping in pleasure as his prostate was hit. Zachary grabbed his hips, keeping Callan at that same angle to abuse his prostate again and again.
Callan let out mindless gasps and screams and came within seconds. He collapsed against the bed, tightened around Zachary's dick. He listened to a low groan escape Zachary's throat and felt him convulse, coming as he pulled out.
He suddenly felt cold and empty. He watched through heavy lids as Zachary sat back to catch his breath. Callan closed his shaking legs with a whimper, turning on to his side. Zachary gave his ass a gentle slap and stood up, walking to the bathroom again.
Callan watched, snuggling against a pillow. He heard the sound of running water again and laughed. This was the second time Zachary had travelled to the bathroom to clean himself up. To Callan, it was truly amusing.
Zachary soon returned, a towel in his hand this time. He dropped it on Callan's side and Callan felt that it was damp with warm water.
"Clean up," Zachary commanded, running a hand through his hair. "Hungry?"
"Uhh…I wouldn't mind something to eat actually. If it's not too much trouble."
"If it was trouble, I wouldn't have asked," Zachary replied, pulling on a pair of pajama pants. He threw a pair to Callan. "Take your time. I would offer to cuddle you, but you don't like it, right?"
Callan swallowed, hesitating. He shook his head slowly. "I don't like…cuddling…"
Zachary shrugged and walked away, leaving him to clean himself off and go find food. The door closed with a soft click behind him.
Callan sat up, wiping his cum off his stomach and the lube off his legs. He tossed the towel onto the edge of the bed and fell against the pillows again. He sighed, closing his eyes and resting his hands on his stomach.
He didn't mean to doze off but Zachary apparently had no problem with it.