TITLE    : Grant
STORYID  : grant
SUMMARY  : Memories of Grant make his heart (among other organs) swell.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2018-02-01
CATEGORY : gay-sex-stories
FLAGS    : h
TAGS     : |gay|anal intercourse|penis|cock|same sex|lgbt|love|gay love|buttocks|


Grant is above me. His dark crew cut. The silver loop ornamenting his right earlobe. His brown eyes. The regular features of his handsome face. The movements of his head, back and forth and sideways. His mouth open, showing his even white teeth and his moist pink tongue. His rapt gaze locked on mine.



These sights fill my vision as I lie upon my back, my legs folded, my knees against my chest, my calves along Grant's upper arms, my feet astride the sides of his head.



The crooks of his extended arms press firmly into the backs of my knees. He bucks, a stallion sending his rigid cock back and forth through the tight ring of my anus before retreating to fill me yet again. His lunges drive the cradle of my hips back and forth. My left arm, lying along my ribs, bends at the elbow, my forearm resting upon the back of my left thigh, which feels thick and meaty, my fist tightly clutching my erect penis. As Grant rocks me, I pump my fist up and down, working the flesh of my cock back and forth upon the thick shaft of my straining member.



These sensations occupy my consciousness, but not my thoughts, as Grant fucks me.



In place of the hollows of his elbows, his hands hold the backs of my knees. His cock remains in place, within the circle of my round, stretched anus, but Grant has assumed an upright posture. He no longer leans over me. He seems intent upon the mechanics and the feel of fucking me. His gaze is more focused. His glance alternates between my own and the sight of his cock appearing and vanishing between the firm, sleek mounds of my buttocks. His hands shift. He presses his palms against the backs of my thighs, opening me more, and fucks me faster, harder, as he watches.



He rides me smoothly, easily. I lift my head, peering down, between my knees, past my stomach, but I can see only my fist around my prick. I rest my head upon the mattress again, the sheet smooth and cool beneath the nape of my neck.



The ceiling, like the walls, are baby blue. The lamp on the table on Grant's side of thee bed is of a modern style, its shade a foot-tall band of transparent plastic in a framework of brass, a simple stand of the same metal connecting to a circular base. The headboard is a beam of oak. The sheets and pillowcases are white. There is a simplicity to the room, to its sparse furniture, to its Spartan décor. Can one tell anything about a man by the appearance of his room? I've known Grant for six months now, during which time we've made love about a hundred times. He is ever the penetrator, I the penetrated, but I cannot say I know him well; he knows me no better.



These are my thoughts, as Grant fucks me.



He lifts his head, closing his eyes. A sheen of sweat shines upon his throat. His mouth opens as he fills his lungs with breath. His thrusts continue, regular and rhythmic. His hands move, clutching my ankles. I continue to masturbate, happy to have made myself a gift, again, to Grant.



His tempo increases. He drives his cock faster and harder into my stuffed bottom. I love the feel of him inside me, deep within the bowels of my being. For a moment, I lift my head again, to look, but see nothing but my hand and cock. I close my eyes for a moment. Opening them, I see Grant's handsome face, looking determined, as he peers down, watching. His smooth, muscular chest moves back and forth, like the rest of him, his abdominal muscles appearing and vanishing as he thrusts and withdraws. His nipples are small, but erect, inside the moats of his areolas. Every inch of him is beautiful and virile, handsome and manly, masculine and powerful. Do I love him?



His gaze meets mine as his upper lip compresses against his lower. His eyes seem to plead. His brow knits. His grip has moved to the front of my feet. His hands tighten. They move to my soles, press down and apart. The sunlight streaming through the windows behind him is bright. As he parts my legs, he looks like an angel about to take wing. Drawing his hips far back, he lunges into me, his rigid cock plowing past my buttocks, deep into my rectum. My hand is idle, my grip loose about my erection. Grant begins to fuck me in earnest, shoving his cock into me hard and fast. He gazes at me and at the junction of our bodies that forms our union. Does he love me?



I begin to masturbate again as Grant plunges his manhood into me. His hands are around my ankles again. One moment, he looks as though he's pleading, then as if he's struggling for breath, then determined. My feet frame his face.



His hands press flat the backs of my upper thighs. His movements are fast and fluid. He's an accomplished lover. I watch the top of his head, his eyelashes, the bridge of his nose, his compressed lips, his broad shoulders, his erect nipples, the flexing of the muscles in his powerful arms. Do I feel as Leda felt when Zeus made love to her in the form of a swan?



Now, he grits his teeth. His upper body straightens, his head lifts and falls back. I feel his balls slap my bottom as he pounds me without heat, with mechanical precision and technical excellence. My cock in the circle of my fist rides against my belly, even as Grant rides my ass. Is it odd to think of making love as if it were a mere performance?



Grant's hands return to the backs of my upper thighs, pressing down upon them. He is back to lunging, to sending long strokes of his rigid prick through my impaled anus. Then, he grasps my calves, midway between my ankles and my knees. I begin to pump my cock faster and harder. It has swelled in my fist, becoming thicker, firmer, longer. Grant plunges his prick into me. The muscles in his arms bulge. I see veins I hadn't noticed before, thick with the coursing of his blood.



Jab. Poke. Thrust. Lunge. Plunge. Repeat.



He holds the front of my feet again. Suddenly, his lips encircle the big toe of my left foot. I feel the wetness and the warmth of his soft oral embrace. A thrill shoots through my cock.



He bends forward, leans down, and his mouth covers mine. We kiss. His dick remains buried between the cheeks of my ass, but he stops thrusting as he gathers my head in his hands, kissing me. Holding the nape of my neck, he swings over, onto his back, bringing me around, above him, so our positions are reversed. His cock slides free, and I squat above his lap, facing away from him, and brace myself with my right hand. My left is still on my cock, which is harder than it's ever been before. My hands find the top of the headboard. I hold on for support, plunge my bottom down, upon Grant's thick, rigid column of flesh, and feel his cylindrical organ driven home, deep.



I let go of my penis. Freed of my hand, it juts before me, stiff and swollen with need.



As I plunge downward, Grant thrusts upward. I am content to hover, stationary, and let him resume control. As I squat in place, he fucks me from below. My cock bounces, up when he rams me, down when he retreats. I begin to counterthrust, meeting Grant's plunges with lunges of my own. We are partners, after all. Lovers, are we not?



My hand returns to my cock, my fingers curling around it, making a fist. I masturbate anew, timing the pumping of my fist to the rhythm of our thrusts. I look forward, into the light. I do not look back. I do not look down. And then, a few times, I do. Each time, Grant's face is a mask of concentration, of determination, of near desperation, of need. He must come, but he cannot, not yet.



I, too, feel the need. Not his need, but my own. No matter how close we may be, we live alone in our flesh, in our bodies, even during the moments of our greatest "intimacy." We can know one another, if at all, only through our empathy.



I raise and lower my haunches, and Grant allows me the pretense of being in charge of our passion, but for a moment only, as a novelty, to enhance his own passion. I frown, mouth agape, feeling the delicious tickling in my groin and balls that heralds the onset of orgasm. I must come. I must. I must, and, yet, like Grant, I cannot, not yet.



Up and down, back and forth, deeper in and farther out. My legs flex, my stomach tightens, my lungs labor, my heart pounds, my cock and balls jiggle and sway and bounce. Grant's hands indent the flesh of my thighs. I feel his fingers knead and rub. He runs a palm down my chest, over my nipple, down my stomach. He kisses my rib cage, my hip. His hands roam my abdomen, gliding here and there.



I rise, lie prone, and Grant is upon me, pressing his erection down, past the inward-curving slopes of my buttocks, and through my bottom. His cock drives back and forth within the circle of my anus. He fucks me. I feel the soft collisions of his pubes, the rasp of his tight curls against my flesh, the slap of his swinging balls in the cleavage of my ass. His weight and force repeatedly drive my body against the mattress. I am passive. I do not resist. I am his entirely, both body and soul, his gift. All I want is his love.



His penetration is deep. He rests his forehead against my neck. I feel his mouth kissing me between my shoulder blades. My cock slides against the smooth, fresh sheets. As he thrusts, he adds a rotation of his hips. Then, he is against me, his groin, his pubes, jabbing my impaled ass with short, quick strokes. Looking over my shoulder, I find his mouth. We kiss. He nibbles my earlobe. I feel his tongue, wet and warm, explore the cartilage of my ear, tracing its ridges and depressions, its highs and lows.



Grant repositions himself so he can attain depth and plunges into me fast, sending his cock deep in long strokes that fill my bottom again and again. My cock rams the sheet below me, and I feel I must go mad if I don't explode.



My agony continues, promising ecstasy. I wonder whether it's bliss that will ever come.



When the fountain of semen erupts, the explosion is terrific. Streamers of my seed rocket into the air, geyser after geyser streaking forth, while I am crippled with the unbearable joy of orgasm, the nirvana of ecstasy, the bliss of love's pent-up passion finally released. My seed, thick and white, forms rivulets upon my belly, groin, and thighs. I toy with the spill, lathering it upon my skin, and let it dry. In an hour, it becomes brittle flakes, shiny and smooth mementos of my masturbatory fantasy of Grant, whom I lost a year ago, not to death, but to a lovely, wonderful young woman named—well, her name really doesn't matter, does it?



By loving Grant, I've learned to be wary of the "B" in LGBT. I'd heard, and half-believed, "bisexual" was just a term gay men who'd yet to accept their homosexuality used to describe themselves, but, now, I know better. I am sadder, but wiser.



I look down at the cool, smooth streaks of dried semen, and I think of Grant and what I thought might, but never could, be.

