36: Jacobi (E 7th Street)

I was halfway through a particularly thrilling email about communications strategy when my screen went black. For a second, I thought it was just my laptop dying – but then the gentle hum of my window AC unit sputtered out, leaving nothing but the oppressive silence that comes right before you realize you're fucked.

"Great," I muttered, glancing at my phone. 2:07 PM. The hottest part of the day in what the news had been calling a "historic heat wave." Translation: New York was melting, and now my top-floor apartment in my pre-war building was about to become a brick oven.

From my desk chair, I craned my neck to peek out the window, peering down at East 7th Street. The air outside shimmered above the pavement. Seven stories below, a few miserable pedestrians dragged themselves along the sidewalk, looking half-dead. Sterling Group had made the right call telling everyone to work from home. The subway platforms would be actual hell right now – concrete saunas packed with sweaty, irritable New Yorkers.

The brownout couldn't have come at a worse time. My apartment had already been hovering around 80 degrees with the AC struggling at full blast. Now, as I stood by the window, I could feel the temperature climbing. The still air clung to my skin, heavy and damp.

My phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Con-Ed: "We are aware of a power outage affecting your area. Crews are working to restore service. Estimated restoration time: 7:00 PM."

"Seven?" I groaned, doing the math. Five hours without power. Five hours in this heat.

I leaned back in my chair and chewed on the cap of my pen. The plastic was warm between my teeth as I stared at the ceiling, where I wished a ceiling fan were – not that it would make a difference now.

The sweat had already started beading at my temples and across my chest. My t-shirt clung to my back, damp and uncomfortable.

Fuck this.

I whipped off my shirt and tossed it onto the floor. The brief movement sent a trickle of sweat down my back. Sitting there in just my athletic socks and the brown utility shorts I'd thrown on earlier that morning, I still felt like I was wrapped in a wet blanket.

The apartment had that particular stillness that comes with sudden silence – the absence of all the little mechanical hums we never notice until they're gone. No refrigerator. No AC. No laptop fan. Just me, breathing in the increasingly thick air.

I walked to the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, knowing I shouldn't but needing the brief whisper of coolness. The light inside didn't come on – obviously – but I could feel the residual chill as I grabbed a bottle of water. It wouldn't stay cold for long.

Back at my desk, I took a long drink and pressed the cool bottle against my forehead, then my chest. The water inside was already warming. I looked at my dead laptop and the stack of papers beside it. So much for productivity. My brain felt as sluggish as the air around me.

"Five hours," I said to the empty room. My voice sounded oddly loud without the background noise of electronics. I needed a plan that didn't involve slowly cooking in my own apartment.

I rummaged through the fridge one more time – quickly – pulling out turkey, mustard, and the last slice of provolone before the door swung shut, cutting off the final whisper of cool air. The bread was in the cabinet – nothing fancy, just wheat. Making a sandwich felt like more effort than it should have in this heat, but I needed something in my stomach.

As I slapped everything together, sweat beaded at my hairline and trickled down my neck. My apartment had transformed into a sauna, the brick walls now radiating the heat they'd been absorbing all day.

I carried my sandwich to the couch and picked up the Salter novel I'd left splayed on the coffee table last night. A Sport and a Pastime. Fitting for this weather – all that French summer heat and languid sexuality. I'd read it before, but Salter's prose was worth revisiting from time to time.

Three bites in, and my chest was slick with sweat. By the time I finished half the sandwich, droplets were rolling down my sternum, gathering momentum as they traveled over my abs and disappeared into the waistband of my shorts. The pages of the book felt damp between my fingers.

"Fuck this," I muttered for the nth time today, setting the book down. A dark sweat stain marked where my lower back had pressed against the couch.

The sandwich sat heavy in my gut as I stood, feeling another rivulet of sweat trace the center line of my belly. I couldn't stay here. The apartment had to be pushing ninety degrees now, and it would only get worse.

The bodega downstairs might have cold drinks, maybe even ice cream, if their generator was working. And across the street, Tompkins Square Park had those big old trees. Shade. Maybe a breeze.

I grabbed my keys and wallet, not bothering with a shirt. Half the neighborhood would be shirtless in this heat. Slipping on a Mets cap to keep the sweat from my eyes, I headed for the door.

The stairwell was even worse than my apartment – a vertical tunnel of hot, stale air.

I'd barely made it down three flights when I heard footsteps echoing up from below. The stairwell was dim, lit only by the emergency lights, their sickly yellow glow casting strange shadows on the peeling paint. 

As I rounded the fourth-floor landing, I nearly collided with a guy coming up, his face buried in his phone. I flattened myself against the wall, but he didn't notice until the last second.

"Oh! – sorry!" He jerked back, nearly losing his balance on the step. His phone almost slipped from his hand, and he fumbled to catch it. "Wasn't looking."

"No problem." I nodded, trying to edge past him in the narrow space.

He laughed, a warm sound that bounced off the stairwell walls. "I was checking the Con-Ed app. Like that's gonna make the power come back faster, right?"

"Any update?" I asked, pausing despite the sweat now freely running down my chest.

"Nah. It's telling me seven." He slipped his phone into the pocket of his gym shorts, and I got a better look at him. Dark curls, slightly damp at the temples. Maybe thirty, with a lean and athletic build. His eyes – deep brown, almost black – flickered from my face to my chest, then quickly back up.

"I'm Jacobi, by the way. 5C." He extended his hand, then seemed to reconsider as he noticed the sweat glistening on my skin.

"Leo. 7B." I offered my hand anyway. His grip was firm, palm slightly cool from holding his phone.

"You've been up there the whole time?" Jacobi asked, his eyes making another quick journey down my torso before snapping back to my face. "Top floor must be brutal right now."

"Like an oven." I ran a hand down my wet stomach, noticing how Jacobi tracked the movement, his gaze lingering on me.

"I was heading out to grab a drink," I said, gesturing vaguely downstairs. "You want anything? I'm happy to bring something back."

Jacobi shook his head, dark curls shifting slightly with the movement. "Just came from the bodega. It's closed – power's out there too. Owner put a sign up saying he's gone to his cousin's place in Queens."

"Shit," I said, pushing my cap back. The thought of climbing back up to my apartment made my stomach turn.

"I've got water in my fridge," Jacobi offered, after a moment's hesitation. "Still cold. You're welcome to come by, if you want."

I weighed the offer. My apartment was an inferno. This guy seemed normal enough. And cold water sounded like salvation right now.

"That'd be great, actually. Thanks."

"Cool." Jacobi smiled, turning to lead the way back up to the fifth floor. I followed, watching beads of sweat roll down his neck and disappear beneath his tank top.

When he pushed open the door to 5C, I was hit with the relative coolness of his apartment – still warm, but at least five degrees less punishing than the stairwell.

The place was cluttered but lived-in. Books stacked on a coffee table. A half-folded pile of laundry on the couch. Three different coffee mugs scattered around the room. Despite the mess, there was something oddly fresh about the air – a clean scent, like laundry detergent or maybe some kind of cologne.

"Sorry about the disaster," Jacobi said, kicking a pair of running shoes out of the walkway. "Wasn't expecting company."

"Trust me, I'm just grateful," I removed my ballcap and tossed it on the counter.

Jacobi moved to the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door. He grabbed a glass pitcher quickly and shut the door just as fast, preserving whatever coolness remained inside.

"Gotta be strategic," he said, pouring water into two glasses. "Every time this door opens, we lose precious cold."

He handed me a glass, and I took a long drink. The water was gloriously cool, sliding down my throat and settling in my stomach. I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation.

When I opened them, Jacobi was watching me, his own glass pressed against his lips, eyes dark and intent.

"So," Jacobi broke the silence, setting his glass down on the counter. "You must have a pretty serious gym routine. Your..." his eyes traced the contours of my chest, lingering on my abs before meeting my gaze again, "...definition is impressive."

I took another sip of water, feeling it cool my core. "Thanks. I try to get in four, five days a week. Mostly compound lifts, some cardio." I ran a hand absently across my stomach, wiping away beads of sweat. "Nothing too complicated."

"It's working," Jacobi said, his voice dropping slightly. He leaned against the counter, his eyes making another deliberate journey across my torso. "Seriously. That's the kind of build most guys at my gym are chasing."

The way he looked at me wasn't subtle anymore. His gaze was appreciative, hungry even, lingering on the ridges of my abs, the curve where my shoulders met my neck.

I set my glass down. "You seem pretty fit yourself."

"I do alright," he shrugged, but there was a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Are you hot?" I asked, letting a smirk spread across my face.

Jacobi caught my meaning immediately. He laughed – a low, warm sound that vibrated in the still air between us.

"Yeah," he said, reaching for the hem of his tank top. "I am pretty hot."

He pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it onto the counter beside him. His body was lean but muscular – the kind of physique that came from dedication, not just good genetics. Dark hair dusted his chest, trailing down to disappear beneath the waistband of his shorts. His skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat, catching the dim light filtering through the blinds.

"Better?" he asked, his confidence evident in the way he stood, shoulders back, letting me look.

I didn't try to hide my appreciation as my eyes traveled from his strong shoulders down to his belly. "Much better," I said, nodding slowly. "And yeah, you are hot."

Jacobi took a step toward me, close enough that I could feel the heat from his breath as he exhaled.

"Your chest is really hot," he said, his voice lower now, almost reverent. His eyes traced the sweat glistening in the dark hair that covered my pecs and trailed down to my navel. "The way your chest hair catches the sweat... fuck."

I smiled – that familiar sensation when I recognize hunger in another man's eyes. A confidence settled over me despite the heat.

"You want to feel it?" I asked, my voice steady and deep. Not a question, really. More of an invitation I already knew he'd accept.

Jacobi's eyes widened slightly. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Yes," he breathed, the word barely audible in the still air of his apartment.

"Go ahead then," I commanded softly. "Feel my chest."

He didn't hesitate. His hands reached out, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as his palms made contact with my pectorals. His fingers, cool from the water glass, pressed into the thick muscle, exploring the firmness beneath the light sheen of sweat.

"Fuck," he murmured, his thumbs brushing over my nipples as his fingers spread wide to cover as much territory as possible.

I stood perfectly still, watching his face as he explored. His expression was transfixed – eyebrows slightly raised, lips parted, cheeks flushed darker than could be explained by just the heat. His breathing had quickened, each exhale warming the small space between us.

"Squeeze them," I instructed.

Jacobi complied immediately, his fingers digging deeper into the muscle, kneading my pecs like he was trying to memorize their shape and density. His nostrils flared as he leaned in closer, and I knew he was breathing in my scent – the clean sweat, the faint traces of my morning shower soap, the unmistakable musk of a man's body under the Manhattan heat.

"You smell so good," he confirmed, his voice almost breaking. His hands continued their worship, one sliding to my shoulder to feel the thick deltoid muscle there, the other trailing down to trace the ridges of my abs. "Fuck, you're built."

I groaned softly as Jacobi's hands continued their worship, flexing my pecs beneath his touch, then relaxing them – giving him the contrast between hard and soft. His eyes widened at the display, lips parted as he watched the muscle move under his fingers.

"Jesus," he whispered, squeezing harder as I flexed again. "That's fucking incredible."

The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable now – pure muscle worship. His breathing had grown heavier, and a flush had spread across his chest. His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the striations in my muscle.

"Lower," I commanded, my voice a low rumble in the quiet apartment. "Feel my abs."

Jacobi's hands slid down immediately, palms flat against my stomach. His touch was reverent, fingers spreading wide to cover as much territory as possible. I kept my abs relaxed at first, letting him feel the natural firmness beneath the light covering of sweat and hair.

"So fucking hot," he murmured, eyes locked on his own hands as they explored my midsection. "Your stomach is perfect."

I watched his face – the parted lips, the intensity in his dark eyes – as his fingers traced each ridge and valley. Then I tightened my core, letting my abs harden beneath his touch.

"Oh fuck," he gasped, pressing harder as the muscles turned to stone under his palms. "Do that again."

I obliged, alternating between flexed and relaxed, watching him grow more entranced with each transition. His hands moved lower, hands open across my lower belly where the dark trail of hair disappeared into my shorts.

Jacobi brought his hands together over my navel, pressing his thumbs gently into my soft relaxed stomach. I could feel the pressure against my guts, a pleasant intrusion that sent a different kind of heat through me. His thumbs sank in slightly, testing the give of my belly.

Then I contracted hard, my abs forming an impenetrable wall that pushed his thumbs outward. He gasped, a sound caught between surprise and arousal.

"Again," he pleaded, pressing his thumbs back in when I relaxed.

I flexed once more, watching his face as my muscles forced his thumbs away from my core. A small drop of saliva had formed at the corner of his mouth, his lips wet and full as he stared at the rippling movement under his hands.

"Your fucking body," he breathed, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. "I could do this all day."

"I want to worship you," Jacobi whispered, his hands still exploring my abs. "Feel every muscle. Massage you all over."

I smirked, reaching out to grab his hips and pull him closer. The heat between our bodies intensified as our bare chests met, sweat mingling where skin touched skin.

"Come here," I growled, tilting my head down to capture his mouth with mine.

His lips were soft but insistent, opening immediately as I kissed him. He tasted like the cold water we'd just shared, with an underlying sweetness that was all his. His hands never stopped moving across my torso, fingers tracing every ridge and valley like he was committing them to memory.

When we broke apart, his eyes were glazed, pupils dilated with desire.

"This heat's getting to me," he confessed, his voice rough. "Making me want to get aggressive. Get sweaty with you."

I chuckled, low and deep. "Go wild," I told him, my hands squeezing his waist. "You won't hurt me."

Something flashed across his face – a challenge accepted. He surged forward, pushing me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. His mouth found mine again, hungrier this time, teeth grazing my lower lip as his hands pressed flat against my chest.

The wall was cool against my back, a welcome contrast to the heat radiating from Jacobi's body – and apartment. His kiss was demanding now, tongue exploring my mouth as his hands slid up to my shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there.

I raised my arms and flexed both biceps hard, the peaks swelling beneath my skin. Without breaking the kiss, Jacobi's hands immediately moved to worship them, his fingers tracing the veins that stood out along my arms.

"Fuck," he moaned into my mouth, squeezing the hard muscle. "So fucking solid."

His hands kneaded my biceps like dough, thumbs pressing into the solid tissue. I could feel his breathing quicken, his chest expanding against mine with each ragged inhale. The scent of our bodies – sweat turning musky in the oppressive heat – filled the narrow space between us.

Jacobi's hands wandered back down to my chest, palms open wide to cover as much territory as possible. He broke the kiss to look down, watching his own fingers as they massaged my pecs, squeezing and releasing the thick muscle.

"Your chest is fucking incredible," he murmured. "Seeing you breathe... the sweat in your chest hair..."

I groaned as he dug his fingers deeper, kneading the muscle with growing confidence.

Fuck yeah, I thought. If I'm going to sweat my balls off today, this is how I want to do it.

Jacobi's hands slid lower, leaving my chest slick with sweat as his fingers traced the ridges of my abs. I kept them half-flexed – not rock hard, but not completely relaxed either. Just enough resistance to feel the strength beneath, while still allowing his fingers to sink in if he wanted to.

"Jesus," he breathed, thumbs pressing into the grooves between each muscle. "Your stomach is ridiculous."

His fingers dug deeper, massaging the dense tissue. His thumbs sank into the firmness of my half-tensed core, testing the give and resistance.

"Your body feels so fucking hot," Jacobi groaned, his voice thick with desire. "The way your muscles just respond under my hands. It's driving me crazy."

He kneaded my abs like dough, pressing in, then releasing, watching the muscle spring back. Sweat glistened between his fingers as they worked across my stomach.

"Your abs are..." he shook his head, words failing him as his hands continued their worship.

I smirked, enjoying his obvious fascination with my body. The raw hunger in his eyes was intoxicating – pure, unfiltered desire.

"Come here," I commanded softly, reaching for his neck and pulling him back in for another kiss.

I pulled back from the kiss, breathing heavily as sweat dripped down my chest.

"Keep playing with my body," I told him, my voice rough with arousal. "Don't stop."

Jacobi stepped back slightly, his eyes traveling over me with deliberate intensity. His gaze lingered on my chest, then my abs, then back up again – like he was mentally mapping every inch of me, deciding where to focus his attention next.

"You're fucking perfect," he murmured, stepping forward again.

His mouth crashed against mine, hungrier than before. As we kissed, his right hand slid up my torso and formed a loose fist. Without warning, he delivered a light punch to my left pec, his knuckles impacting the thick, relaxed muscle.

"Mmm," I moaned against his lips, the unexpected sensation sending a jolt through my body.

He did it again, this time to my right pec – a playful impact that made the muscle bounce slightly.

"Fuck yeah," I chuckled softly into Jacobi's mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "Keep going."

Jacobi groaned, a deep sound of pure want. His eyes locked with mine as he stepped back just enough to get leverage. This time when his fist connected with my chest, there was real force behind it. The impact reverberated through my pec, the muscle absorbing the blow.

"Unngh," I grunted into him.

Jacobi's hands moved back to my biceps, squeezing the hard muscle with renewed hunger. I flexed deliberately, making the peak rise higher under his fingers.

"Jesus," he whispered, leaning down to press his lips against the swollen muscle. His mouth was hot and wet against my skin as he kissed his way across my bicep, working slowly toward my armpit.

When he reached the hollow of my armpit, he paused, his breath hot against the sensitive skin. Then he buried his face there, inhaling deeply.

"Fuck," he moaned, his voice muffled against my body. "You smell so fucking good."

"Yeah?" I growled, my cock hardening as he huffed against my pit. "Get in there. Smell my fuckin' pits."

Jacobi groaned. His left hand wandered down my torso, fingers tracing the ridges of my abs before coming to rest on my half-flexed belly.

I felt his knuckles press experimentally against the firmness of my gut. The pressure sent a jolt of pleasure through me.

"Yeah," I whispered, barely audible.

That was all the permission he needed. His fist drew back slightly before connecting with my stomach – not brutally hard, but solid enough that his knuckles sank into the relaxed muscle.

"Ugh," I grunted softly, the sound torn from my throat as his fist compressed my guts.

Jacobi's face remained buried in my armpit, his hot breath tickling the sensitive skin as his tongue lapped up the sweat. His moans vibrated against my skin, sending his breath and my scent through my armpit and across my chest. All while his right fist drew back and slammed forward again, this time hitting me just below the navel.

"Hnngh," I grunted as his knuckles disappeared into my relaxed gut. The impact traveled through my guts, a wave of pressure that was just strong enough to force a grunt out of me, but still spoke to my neighbor's hesitance to let loose on me. 

"God you smell incredible," he murmured into my pit, inhaling deeply as his fist connected again – this time directly into my navel. 

The punch folded me slightly, my abs offering minimal resistance as his knuckles burrowed into my soft stomach. My intestines compressed into me and the urge to ask him to hit me again roiled up within my body.

"Ugh – fuck," I gasped, the air forced from my lungs.

"Fuck, you sound hot, too," Jacobi groaned, pulling his face from my armpit to look at me. "I love the way you grunt."

His fist pounded into my lower belly, right above my pubic bone. This one went deeper, his knuckles disappearing into the softest part of my gut. His fist drove into my intestines, forcing another groan out of me.

"Uuuhhh," I moaned in pleasure, louder this time, my body instinctively curling forward as my guts absorbed the blow.

Sweat poured down both our bodies now, the apartment's heat amplifying every sensation. Jacobi's chest glistened, his muscles relaxed and fluid as he moved. Another punch landed in the pit of my stomach, just below my sternum, compressing my diaphragm.

"Hold on," I said, which came out sounding more like an ask, as I stepped back to hook my thumbs into my shorts. I shoved them down along with my underwear, my cock springing free, hard and already leaking. (Not that it takes much – play with my guts and my cock becomes a faucet.)

Jacobi's eyes widened, drawing a deep breath as he took in the sight of me. Without hesitation, he pushed his own shorts down, revealing his thick erection curving upward against his stomach.

"Fuck," he whispered, his gaze traveling hungrily over my naked body.

We stood there for a moment, both of us naked and sweating in the heat. The air between us sat unmoving with the scent of our bodies.

"Get back over here," I commanded.

Jacobi didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his cock bobbing with the movement.

I spat into my palm and wrapped my hand around his cock, stroking slowly. Jacobi moaned, his eyes never leaving my body as I stroked him. The slick sounds of my hand working filled the space, accompanied only by our heavy breathing.

Jacobi groaned, leaning in to bury his face in the hollow of my underarm again. His nose pressed deep as he inhaled my scent – summer must be his favorite season with a fetish for armpits like this.

His free hand formed a fist at his side. I saw the muscles in his arm flex, the tension building in his shoulder.

"Yeah, hit me," I said, keeping my abs only half-flexed – enough to show off my definition to him, but still soft enough to take the impact deep. "You won't hurt me." 

He drew his fist back. This time when it connected with my navel, there was real force behind it. His knuckles plowed deep into my gut, disappearing into the soft flesh below my half-tensed abs.

"UUNGH," the sound was torn from my throat as his fist compressed my intestines deep into my body. The impact sent a ripple through my gut, forcing the air from my chest.

"Gooood boy," I moaned. "Show me how strong you are."

"Oh, fuck," Jacobi moaned into the side of my chest.

"Hit me again," I told him, my voice rough with desire.

I took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled, deliberately releasing all tension in my abdominal muscles. My stomach softened visibly, the defined ridges of my abs nearly melting away as I completely relaxed.

Jacobi's eyes stayed fixed on my now-unprotected midsection. He licked his lips, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side. I stopped stroking his cock and let myself relax against his wall.

"Come on," I said. "Fuck me up."

Jacobi planted his feet wider, twisting his hips as he drove his fist forward with his full weight behind it. His knuckles buried themselves deep into the soft shape of my relaxed navel, undoubtedly giving Jacobi his first experience of really punching a guy's intestines.

The impact was more brutal than I expected from the timid guy. His fist plowed through my relaxed belly, crushing my intestines against the wall behind me. 

"UGH," I resisted doubling over. For Jacobi, he must have been surprised by how soft my thick, muscular body can be; how deep his fist could plunge into my guts; and how unprotected those intestines really were. There was an almost imperceptible moment where Jacobi's fist churned in my guts, as if for a moment he was considering continuing his torture after realizing I hadn't tensed my abs at all, not even after impact. Instead, he withdrew his fist from my guts.

"FUCK!" Jacobi shouted, his voice cracking. His free hand grabbed my shoulder, steadying me as I struggled to regain my breath. "You're fuckin' tough."

He was panting now, his cock throbbing visibly between us.

I watched Jacobi's face – flushed crimson from both the heat and his arousal. Sweat trickled down his temples, catching in his dark curls.

"On your knees," I said, placing my palm on top of his head. I applied just enough pressure to guide him downward, not forcing but directing.

Jacobi sank willingly, his knees hitting the hardwood with a soft thud. He began working his own cock, stroking with a steady rhythm that matched his heavy breathing.

"Fuck," he murmured, his face now level with my abs. His free hand reached up, fingers grasping my quad, squeezing the thick muscle there. "Your fucking body."

I threaded my fingers through his damp curls, guiding his mouth toward my cock. He needed no further encouragement. His lips parted, taking me in with a hungry moan.

"Mmm," I growled, my head falling back against the wall as the wet heat of his mouth – now cooler than the apartment, actually – enveloped me.

Jacobi's left hand continued its worship, sliding up from my thigh to massage my obliques. His fingers dug into the muscle, kneading and exploring while his mouth worked my cock with surprising skill.

When his hand reached my belly, he paused his oral attention just long enough to look up at me, his eyes questioning. I nodded once, relaxing my abs completely.

His fist pressed into my soft gut, knuckles sinking deep below my navel. The pressure against my lower intestines grew more intense the deeper he churned his fist, as he learned just how free he was to explore my bowels.

"Ugggh," I groaned as his fist twisted slightly, pressing my guts while he took me deeper into his throat.

Jacobi moaned around my cock, relishing what his knuckles were feeling inside my relaxed muscle gut as his fist pushed deeper, finding a sweet spot just above my pubic bone where the pressure against my lower bowels and bladder began to build.

"Fuck yeah," I gasped, one hand still tangled in his hair while the other braced against the wall. "Right there."

His fist pumped in and out of my lower belly, along the trail of hair between my navel and cock. His knuckle pumping was gentle at first, but as he realized that I was refusing to flex my six pack, I could tell he wanted to test my limits. He began gently pulling his fist back, letting my bowels press against his fist, then, over the next few pumps, began shoving his fist into my lower guts harder and harder, performing a more aggressive pump into my guts with each passing moment.

"Ohh – fuck," I moaned, giving Jacobi permission to keep going.

Jacobi pulled his fist back, muscles tensing along his upper back before he slammed his knuckles deep into my lower gut. 

"UGH!" The punch folded me, his fist disappearing into the soft guts just above my cock. His knuckles ground into my bowels, bladder, prostate – all my soft organs I'd left unprotected for him.

My cock pulsed in his mouth as the first jet of cum hit the back of his throat. My body curled forward involuntarily, my chest and arms tightening as he swallowed my load – but I resisted the urge to tighten my core. His fist felt too good buried in my guts.

"Mmmmm," Jacobi moaned around my cock, the vibration of his throat intensifying my orgasm. His fist remained buried in my gut, knuckles pressing firmly against my bowels as I emptied myself down his throat. I groaned, one hand gripping his curls while the other braced against the wall to keep from collapsing on him.

Jacobi straightened his posture, sitting up taller on his knees. His throat worked rhythmically as he swallowed, not missing a drop, as I finally caught my breath, which had been equally punched out of me and stolen from me in orgasm. His eyes locked onto mine. His right hand moved frantically between his own legs, stroking with increasing urgency.

As the last pulses of my orgasm subsided, Jacobi's own body tensed. He pulled back from my cock, a strand of spit connecting his swollen lips to my head. His mouth fell open as he came, thick ropes landing on the floor between us.

"Fuck," he finally gasped, his voice wrecked. "Fuck."

We stayed like that – me leaning against the wall, him on his knees looking up at me – both of us panting in the sweltering heat of his apartment. Sweat glistened on his chest and face, both still flushed crimson. His eyes were glazed, almost reverent, as they traveled over my body.

I reached down and gave his cheek a playful slap – not hard, just enough to make him smile.

"Mmm," he moaned, leaning into the touch like a cat seeking affection as my thumb found his lips.

"Good boy," I said, my voice rough and low. "Very good boy."

Jacobi smiled up at me, still breathless, his body slick with sweat in the oppressive heat of the powerless apartment.