Probe, touch

Sometimes I feel like I wage a psychological assault on a guy after I've already depleted all physical defenses and pillaged his hole.

I'm in Vegas at a conference and I've just fucked a load out of the boy.  Actually, I fucked a load out of him, pulled out and tossed the condom out to jerk out my own load while playing with him, got him hard again, and then manipulated his body with my hands until he shot off a second load.  And he's curled up in my favorite position: me on my back with him on his side, a hand intimately draped across my waist and his head resting on my chest.  Both our hearts are racing, jagged pulses thundering between our bodies like molecules bouncing off one another in boiling water, but what I notice most is the fuzz of his soft beard tickling my chest as we both breathe together in contrasting deep, even rhythmic breaths colored with a musicality that complements our position, as if we fell on a soft cloud while swaying to a slow waltz.

And as always, I'm never satisfied with scenes of serenity, firing verbal cannons that decimate the area.  I probe with questions.  Dig.  Scrape at any defenses until the soul lies bare.  And then I molest that pure form until it crumbles.

I look down at him, piercing open stare as his eyes shift up to mine and I lock in for a kill.

"You're so damn beautiful," I flatly declare as he blushes.  No reason to sweet talk him now, he thinks.  But perhaps he's wrong.

I'm not sure if eyes can tear up without any tears.  The ducts are dry, but his eyes sigh.

"What's wrong?" I ask, genuinely confused at how my compliments can do any harm.

"Nothing."  Then a pause as he struggles and deliberates on going further.  "I'm just thinking about work and Vegas."

"How so?"

My fingers dance across his back to gently encourage him further.  Delicate touches of encouragement.

We go on to talk about the work drama going on in his life.  And then the meat of things.  How he's been in Vegas for awhile now and how he's frustrated that he can't find the guys he's looking for.  Deep connections are made with visitors that leave in days.  Even the local population is largely transient.  Those that stay are often haunted by the forces that lured them to sin city in the first place.

The mood has deeply changed.  And as he drowns in his thoughts, brooding, I peer from above with open adoration and am aghast at my grotesqueness, digging and prodding so that I can touch the beauty of a guy that has given himself to me in so many ways, vulnerable, reaching in beyond my fingers to smash his sensitive core.

What's wrong with me?

I message him later to try to set up a repeat, knowing full well that I'm tempting him to a path that he sincerely would like to avoid.  He showed restraint and politely declined.  But I still get hard reading his gentle refusal, wistfully fantasizing about touching him again, inside and out.