Decoded

By Eric Del Carlo

I breathed these words against his nape: "I'm going to make sweet lovely love to you." Yes, treacle. Romantic blather--or maybe it didn't even rise to the level of that. This wasn't a romance. This was a hookup app thing that had somehow repeated itself.

But there was Asher, on hands and knees, facing away from me, presenting. I gazed on the undeniably lush globes of his ass, his lube-glistening hole awaiting. I beheld the knobs of his backbone, the twin outthrusts of his shoulder blades; skin tight on his body. Really, everything about him was physically desirable. Even the spray of freckles across his pale shoulders further aroused me.

Certainly my cock wanted him. Its condomed length pulsed in my hand, waiting for me to slide it into his anal gateway to ecstasy.

This was our fifth time together. I was 37, and Asher was twelve years younger. I'd thought myself fantastically fortunate when he chose me. A hot mid-twenties male who wanted me! I knew I was past that age when pickups were effortless, when I could hit a bar or club and walk out with a worthwhile guy; hell, I was even beyond the sell-by date for cruising the park. One look at my burgeoning crow's-feet in the faint sodium light and a potential trick would turn away. It was very fucking demoralizing, which was why Asher's interest in me (I hadn't lied about my age on the app) so thrilled me.

I was further delighted when we hooked up subsequently and repeatedly. Apparently he had no hang-ups about our age difference. I was grateful. I sometimes wincingly thought of how I had handled guys of my present years coming on to me when I was Asher's age.

And the sex--it was awesome. He wasn't squeamish, finicky or fastidious. The four times we'd been together before this had rocked my world...

...but had they rocked his?

I was unsure. And my doubts had only increased with every sex session we had. Plainly he enjoyed himself on some base level: he got hard, he shivered and squirmed, he ejaculated. But I sensed something was withheld. Or some key need of his was going unfulfilled. He wanted something, and he wasn't getting it from me. But whatever it was, I couldn't decode it; and I was too skittish to ask outright. I didn't want this setup to end. But neither did I want it to go on in unsatisfactory fashion for Asher. That was already eroding my own pleasure. I was beginning to feel like the bumbling guy sliding gracelessly into early middle age who couldn't handle his younger lover.

And so I ended up saying shit like I'm going to make sweet lovely love to you.

As I was about to put my straining cockhead against his asshole, his head turned. One eye looked back at me, over his freckly shoulder; it burned with a strange intensity. His profile was quite handsome. In a low, almost guttural voice, he said, "You don't have to be so nice to me."

And just like that: the decoding. The clue. The much-needed instruction. I understood. Gratitude flooded through me.

I held stock-still for three thick heartbeats, as the glorious knowledge shone its mystical light on me. I reached back into memory, into the deep recesses, those scenes of my sexual past which I cherished most and kept carefully catalogued.

After all, it had been a while since I'd topped anybody.

I put out a hand. Where I moment ago I had whispered sickly sweet nothings against the back of his neck, now I closed my fingers on him. He grunted as I sank my digits around the stalk of his throat from behind. My knuckles whitened. I let out a long, ominous breath.

"Who do you think you are, punk?" I fairly matched his own guttural tone, but laced it with a timbre of menace.

He was no longer looking back at me over his shoulder; my grip--quite strong now--pointed his face straight forward. I felt and saw his body tense. His palms, knees and toes pressed down into the bed. His back subtly arched, making a concave curve. This was his bed, his apartment; but I knew that if I did this right, this would be my domain; I the master, he the subject.

The idea excited the hell out of me.

I growled, "You think I'd waste my time fucking your punk ass?"

He made a strangled noise that had nothing to do with the pressure on his neck; I certainly wasn't choking him. I knew how to exert physical dominance without causing any serious hurt.

"Why should I bother with a bitch pussy like you?" I spoke louder, with threatening confidence coming into my words. They felt right in my mouth. Once upon a time I'd done a lot of play like this, but I'd figured that it, like freewheeling hookups, had gone by the wayside for me. Getting onto the "dating" app had been a kind of last-ditch effort on my part, a way to stay in the game.

Asher made another noise. This had the sound of an attempt at actual speech. Breathlessly, he tried again and managed, "Puh...please--"

I grinned, still holding his neck. "Please what, punk?"

"Please...please fuck my ass. Please!"

It was sweet music. Because now I clearly heard the satisfaction in his voice, even as it trembled in excited fear. This was what he wanted. It was what he needed. And I could give it to him.

I released my hold. I swayed back on my knees. My cock throbbed. I desperately wanted to plunge it into his eager hole. But I held back. We had a little ways to go yet.

The next thing, however, I would have to gauge carefully and on the fly. Asher and I, after all, hadn't talked this out ahead of time, establishing parameters and nailing down preferences. I'd need to trust my own experience and instincts, and the fact that I truly wanted this to be good for him. And for me.

I lifted my hand, opened the palm. Anticipation buzzed hot in me. I said, "You mean this ass?" And with that, down came the hand with a whistle of air, and smack went the medium impact of the spread-wide palm and fingers, directly onto the ripe hemisphere of his right ass cheek.

I monitored his reaction closely. First he went stiff, head up like a hound dog that's found the scent; then his shoulder muscles loosened, he sagged, and a drawn-out sigh issued from him, a sound rich with wonder, relief, pleasure. I hadn't struck hard, just a quick stinging strike, though certainly something more forceful than a love tap.

"Yes," he murmured, head hanging now. "Yes, that ass. Please. Make sure I'm worthy before you fuck me."

With that I raised my other hand and delivered a spank to his opposite cheek. I let him absorb it. He sighed again, a rawer sound, filling with darker joys. After that, I traded back and forth. I upped the severity, enough that I was leaving red marks on his lovely swells. Old excitements rekindled in me. I felt that beautifully obscene urge to hurt and comfort, to deliver punishment and pleasure.

I spanked Asher until he cried; but it was a wail of bliss amidst the tears. Then I couldn't--and didn't need to--stand it any longer. I seized his hips and thrust my cock into his hole. I was none too gentle about it, but he didn't want gentleness. He wanted its reverse.

I fucked him hard, pounding him enough that his knees went out and he fell flat onto the bed. My cock didn't disengage from him. I pressed down onto him, spearing him deep. I locked my hands over his wrists, pinning him to the mattress. He squirmed. He thrashed. But all the while he was grunting, "Yes, yes!" so I kept it up.

He shuddered under me, and I realized I'd made him come. That was more than enough to set me off, and I filled the tip of the condom with spurt after thick spurt of my jizz.

We lay there, spent and invigorated. This hookup of ours had evolved this day, and there would be so much more to explore.

About The Author:

"Eric Del Carlo, under an avalanche of pseudonyms, has been selling his porn for 30+ years. He sees it as his means of putting joy into the world."