Alone at home

By BigLutris  and Daenotis 
More Like This

• Latest update: 7 December. Next update: 21 December. (Submissions welcome.)

• Latest post: Saturday Flashback: December 2015.

• Latest from BRK: “Flashmob”, Parts 9‑10.

 

Quiet, bright. He looks down on himself. He is standing in the kitchen. The floor cold against his bare feet, his feet hot on the cold stone. Arching, gravity pulling him down, shivering skin rippling, muscles pulling, curling the toes. He sighs. It takes too long for the in-floor heating. The settings need to be changed. The sole’s skin’s quiver moves up, the hairs on his legs rising. A shiver shakes his form and he steps forward, out of the kitchen, into the living room.

Huge windows, no walls, light flooding, flowing over and around him. His skin golden, radiating. The sun deep, landscape dusted, white. Quiet. Trees huge, looming.

He is still cold, welcomes it, waking him up, more than the coffee he just made. He looks down at the mug, a present. He can’t remember ever having bought a mug. For some reason people give him mugs. Smiling. He tends to break off the handle. No reason, it just happens. Careless, probably. He never uses it. Always surrounding a mug with his hand, hot, searing, smooth, flawless.

His brother is gone, left their bed early, working, fixing, determined. Reluctantly he had left the now cold bed, made a coffee, now tries to decide what to do. The window shows him his life, future. Snow. Faceless, shapeless. Waiting to be formed or washed away. Cold, unforgiving, there. Covering, killing and protecting. Waiting for renewal. Beautiful. Blinding. He can’t see much, the sun is too bright, fractals piercing his eyes, his skin.

He shakes his head and takes a sip from his mug, his palm dry, skin pulled together against the heat. Thick against the mug, rough on the even surface. Another step, two. He stands in front of the window, the sun hot, the glass cold. His nipples harden. Small, dark buds. He shivers, feeling each bump. The glass seeping his warmth, the sun giving it back. He raises his left hand and brushes his thumb over his right nipple. He smiles, supple lips moving over hard teeth. Eyes closing, sharp needles of hot blue running through his chest, a crack of lightning under his skin. He sighs, thumb rough against his sensitive skin. Stirring, eyes closing. His brother’s hand. Relaxed, prone on the table, thick. Fingers large, strong, movement slow. His lips part and his head leans back, sighing, almost a moan. Fingers moving, hand tight around the mug. Opening his eyes he flinches, too bright. Eyes already adapting to the darkness behind his lids. Another sip, more coffee. Bitter and hot, the surface of his tongue contracting, tiny papillae moving, rubbing together, saliva pouring into his mouth, muscles moving, swallowing, warm.

“Ahh…” The palm of his hand against his jaw, stubble scraping over his skin, hairs pushing into it. Shoulder straining, muscle tensing under tight skin.

Click.

He smiles, freedom, tension released.

A picture in his mind. Laying on a massage bench, arms hanging left and right, legs spread. Big hands pushing against his spine. Hard, force. Stroking up, his vertebrae pushed apart, inter-vertebral discs sighing with relief. Click. Same feeling, tension released.

Back to the kitchen, floor warmer, feet firm. He smiles. The sound of skin hitting the tiles, moving, splat. Coffee. Almost gone, mug on counter. He turns around, pupils pinpoints, guarding against the glare, not enough.

He raises his hand, head straight, muscles straining, no bone supporting the weight. Click. Pushing, exhaling. His head turns, he turns it. Over his shoulder. Right hand on his neck, fingers brushing over his skin, taut. Coming apart. His head turns, next shoulder, one turn. Skin parts, splits. Black string around his neck. Ray of light, reflecting. Steel.

Hand cupping his pectoral muscle, kneading his flesh, rushing, parts expanding. Eyes closed, his brother’s face. Smile. The tongue. Wet. Red, smooth. Shining in the light.

He moans, skin scraping over skin, nail scratching the nipple. Flesh thickening, his cock grows, skin tightening. Swelling out of his foreskin, new skin in cold air.

Another turn of his head, balancing against his hand. Another turn, lips smiling, eyes closed, dreaming, remembering.

A blind step towards the couch, head turning again, stroking himself, shaft raising.

He shivers, steel against steel, whispering, brushing. Hard and smooth. Throbbing. Another turn, biceps bulging, holding his head. Almost off. Thick collar of steel, glistening in the too bright sun, unseen, just felt. Cold and hot. Smooth and hard. One more spin and it tumbles, head pushed against his palm, feeling his ear, small in his large palm. Warm and soft. Hair, fingers brushing. His hand moves away from his chest, now tight around his cock. Squeezing, veins pulsing. Need. Hot.

He shivers. More, feeling his skin. The weight of each hair, gravity pulling, insides pushing against his surface.

Another shiver, hard, flexing. Need. Arching against himself, stroking himself with his skin, his hairs, gravity, the sun’s fingers stroking his body. Uncontrollably, endless movement. Stroking harder, shaft exploding against his skin, again and again, feeling bigger and bigger, more and more feeling rushing into his hand, all there is, his skin against his skin.

He sinks down, forward. His free hand fumbling, searching, needing his head. Holes. His cock aching, body painful pushed apart by his insides, the air and the sun heavy against his skin, holding him together, containing himself.

Hands flexing, digging into skin, compressing his cock, grabbing his head.

Hard, fast, spearing into his neck. Body hard, every muscle flexed, exploding. Held together by his skin, the pressure of the light against his body. He sinks into himself, his throat swallowing, constricting around him. Tight around his cock, veins pushing and pulsing against his own wet flesh. Deeper and deeper, inching forward, pushing, parting, forcing to accept.

The back of the tongue stroking his glans. Leaking, rushing, his body pulsing with need, pushing grinding. Deeper, tighter, more. Hot around himself. Suddenly room, the cave of his mouth, tongue coiling, wrapping around himself, stroking his skin, digging into his pre leaking slit. Soon coated, slick, rough, soft, velvet silken tongue around his cock.

One hand against the back of the couch, smooth cold leather, anchoring him. Reality, leather and his head around his cock, milking his shaft. Lost, guided by himself and the sun pushing against his back, urging him on, driving his hips forward.

Legs shaking, groin pressed against his steel, hot cold hard smooth. A tremble.

Hand digging into the leather, other hand digging into his head. Keeping, holding. Hips moving, lips around his tip, drawing, pulling back. Ramming it back. Fervor. Faster, fucking his head, his mouth warm, throat hot around himself. Tight and tighter, leaking, fluids from both ends. His groin slick with his own slime. Pre and spit. Hot cooling on his skin, renewed, even hotter. Dripping as he fucks.

Toes curling, thick flesh pressed against the cold hard floor. Leverage, fucking again. Holding, trembling. Back arched, body hard, harder, trembling, fucking. Sweat hot, running down his skin. Tickling, smooth running. Cold, sun breaking. Glistening, man fractal moving, still in time. Just him, feeling himself, his skin, sweat heavy, head around his cock, thickening. Even tighter as he keeps fucking, dripping, drops hitting his thighs, slamming into him driving him on, faster and faster.

Pressure building, pushing outwards, tearing him up, cells growing, expanding, pushing and filling. Heavy, insides hot, hard, gleaming steel tearing through him, making and remaking, weightless gravity halo inside as he stops moving. Still. Perfect. Balance, hanging off of himself, compact, lined with silver, pouring through him, life, filling.

Exploding his cock stretches his neck, fills his mouth with his seed, wet, hot against and in himself. Pulling back, lips closing, mouth tight, stretching around his load.

Slow and slower, emptying himself into himself. Draining, no feeling. Overload, exploded, done, shut down.

Time oozes back. Slow, speeding up. Leaking silver, losing himself, reforming himself. Flesh around steel, feeling again.

He collapses, steel gone, no strength left, poured out and into himself. Laying on the couch, harder than the light, sore, painless pain.

For a moment, he rests. Neck pressed, steel against leather. Chest resting, ass raised, cradling his leaking head between himself and the couch, legs twitching, stretched out.

Rest.


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