Quickie: Yearning in New York

Quickies are a new addition to the Louche Lothario page. While most entries on this site are first person from Leo’s point of view, Quickies are shorter stories, in third person, from other characters’ points of view – often without Leo.

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Sweat trickled down my back under my white collared shirt. It was the kind of New York night where the air outdoors feels more like the inside of someone’s mouth, thick with bodies packed into this rooftop party.

Laughter bounced off the skyline, glasses clinked, but my eyes locked on him across the crowd. Tall fucker, easy six-four, broad shoulders filling out a simple white tee that clung just right to the heat of his virile body. Buzz cut, sharp jaw, those piercing blue eyes catching the city lights as he smiled at some guy mid-conversation. I thought I heard a hint of a drawl drifting over faintly. Slow and warm, delivered in a baritone. Who the hell is he? Didn't matter. My cock began to get rubbery in my jeans just watching him shift weight, one arm lifting casual to scratch his neck, exposing a flash of that hairy pit, damp and dark.

God, those arms. Thick, veined, and probably powerful. What’s he bench? I imagined grabbing one of those arms, squeezing the bicep as he flexed it under my fingers, hard as stone while he grinned that pleasant grin. I’d worship it slow… lick the sweat from the curve, taste the salt of his sweat on my tongue. 

Bury my face in his pit next, inhale deep that jock’s sweaty musk, probably strong and earthy and mixed with the summer sweat. He'd say to me with that deep murmur, “Yeah, get in there." Poppers would hit then. I’d press the bottle to his nose first, watching his thick chest heave as the rush flushed his skin. Then mine, that heady euphoria loosening everything, making my fists itch to move.

His gut. Fuck, from here I could see it relaxed: faint ridges of abs under the shirt… thick, real muscle, soft bulge when he breathed easy. I wanted to peel that tee up, expose the whole thing: trail my fingers over the faint six-pack lines, press my palm flat against the warmth of his pleading guts, and feel the willing give as he goes fully slack, presenting to me that vulnerable swell of his bowels pooling forward in his gut. My knuckles would sink in first, testing him. A jab right into the navel, watch his belly cave in around my fist. Thud — deep into his intestines, those jellied tubes sloshing against my knuckles. He'd grunt, blue eyes locking on mine, breath punched out in a rough "Ugh." But he’d want more. "Deeper," he'd drawl.

I'd hook next, curve my fist into the center of his stomach and fuckin’ churn those bowels deeper, feel them twist under my knuckles. I bet his gut would sound so fucking hot. Every impact into his guts would be percussive and deep in tone. No jiggle, I don’t think; just the immediate flattening of the swell of his pooled bowels. Sweat would slick his skin, pit musk would fill my nose when he puts his hands behind his head to open his belly up more.

Maybe then a worship break: Me dropping to my knees, my tongue tracing the trench from his pecs down to that navel, lapping the salt while my hands roamed the thick meat of his chest, thumbs digging into the slabs of muscle. Poppers again, both of us inhaling, the rush tuning every nerve, his gut loosening further – and begging. An uppercut then, driving up from below, smashing his lower intestines up into the pit of his gut. He'd try not to double over, but fail. And fuck, the solid grunt I’d force out of him with that one. He’d moan right into my shoulder, with his cock straining against his shorts. "Fuck, Julian,” he’d say as he leans on me. I'd grind in deeper, feel his insides sliding, flattening, and pulsing hot around my fist.

God I could play with this hot jock all night. I'd make him hold a vacuum for me. He would exhale everything and suck that belly hollow, his navel pulled toward his spine. Fuck. I’d slam a cross straight in, full force, his slack wall giving way and my fist smashing into his spine, destroying the intestines smashed between. The sound of meat on meat. He'd groan loud in agony, knees buckling, but he’d manage to stay upright because he needs me to do it again, as would be evidenced by his hard cock.

I'd flex my own arms for him, let him grab my chest, worship the power. I’d let him do it while I hammered his core. Yeah, while I plow crosses into the pit of his gut until every fucking inch of his intestines gets churned, sloshed, and smashed.

He smiled across the crowd, laughing at something, oblivious. But in my head, he was mine. Muscles taut, pits ripe, gut ruined. Oh, what’s… then he saw me, made eye contact. Was that a polite smile or an invitation? I couldn’t tell. I shifted, cock throbbing against the confines of my briefs. The night was suddenly too damn hot.