A boy that feels

What can I really say about a boy whose whole body acts like a plasma globe, nerve endings that sway and dance yearning for stimulus to touch and make a connection, tentacles seeking something to grasp, filaments assertively glowing with electricity and yearning to extend a path to dissipate the energy? He had asked me if he was gonna turn up in the pages of my blog and I made the mistake of telling him that if he writes up our last encounter, we can co-publish and share both points of view. So now I stare at a blank screen trying to come up with a traditional narrative when all I can think of is that look of longing hunger, those unfiltered howls from my ministrations and the way he connects to my suppressed desires every time we meet. This muse does not trigger words to flow onto a page. It triggers base instincts and only inspires my need to violently fuck my load into a hole.

When I got to his apartment, I was fumbling to quickly find the gate code to his complex that he had sent me. I didn't want to get caught hanging around again. He lives right in the middle of the gayborhood and last time I ran into a platonic friend that I had to distract with random questions so he wouldn't inquire as to why I was hovering around a complex that is miles from my home. This time, as I let myself into the boy's apartment, another friend texted me. I texted him back that I was at @prepkink's apartment. This friend was one of the few that knows the other side of me. In fact, he was the one that introduced me to @prepkink while we were hanging out at a bar and then whispered into our ears our twitter names, which led to some knowing looks and giggles like teenaged children telling a dirty joke.

No giggles now, though, as I tossed my phone onto his bed, grabbed his neck to pull him close, and mauled him with a fervent kiss. And as much as I had thought I had enough time to languidly explore his body before I went home, things escalated quickly. He's extremely connected to stimulus and completely unrestrained in his reactions. As my fingers dance across the contours of his body, his body ripples in goosebumps despite the late summer heat and he moans from the depths of his core, uncontrollably vocal and speaking in an undocumented language of pure lust. That, in turn, doubled my efforts to push him to new heights. At some point, I was gnawing heavily on his nips to the point where he needed to soothe it with aloe later that night. I also remember slapping his balls just to hear him roar in pain around my cock that was shoved deep down his throat. I remember angling my cock to thrust just so it breaks through that wall deep in his ass so that his eyes would roll. He does something to me. That look of pure need in his eyes, those pleading eyebrows, that moan, the violent shaking of his body as he accommodates my moves. It beckons me to push a little further. It gives me permission to go a little harder, to tap into that dark part of me that enjoys making a guy tremble. It actually encourages it.

But what I remember most is lying in bed with him. Me on my back. His head on my chest. I'm completely spent, trying to catch my breath. And then I feel him tremble and shake, unprompted. I'm not even touching him. Aftershocks of an orgasm he never had. Even he's confounded, half laughing and speaking at the same time: "I. Don't. Know what. My. Body is. Do… -ing."

And I'm watching in awe of how his body jerks and the beauty of it's song, so much so that I just hold him to me, envious of the unrestrained emotions and I hold it all in internally and invisibly weep at the untamed beauty.