The Heat of Borginian Summer

After that night, Daryan’s so sure he’s never going to do that again. Klavier would kill him, for one thing. Besides, no matter what else Machi might be (sexy, beautiful, pure), he’s still a boy, and Daryan’s not gay. It’s not wrong to experiment but this clearly can’t continue.

Those thoughts are out the window by the next day. He can’t even remember why he’s looking for Machi, though he started out with an excuse. He finds the boy in his room. He knocks but Machi’s got some Vivaldi or other snore-inducing dead composer playing on his stereo. What choice does Daryan have? He walks in.

Machi’s splayed on the bed, naked, beating off like tomorrow isn’t going to come. Immediately Daryan’s pants tighten. Machi’s cute red mouth is hanging open. He pauses when Daryan walks in the door. Daryan’s surprised Machi could hear the door open but couldn’t hear his knocking. Must be some sort of blind-person super hearing.

“Uh, sorry,” Daryan says. What do you say when you find a teenager masturbating? Hard to know. Blood’s flowing to the wrong area. Machi hasn’t let go of his cock, but he’s not continuing, either. It’s flush in his graceful white fingers.

Daryan has no idea why he’s embarrassed. Why Machi seems calmer than him about the whole thing. And he’s just about to leave when Machi lazily gives himself another stroke, making a breathy little noise Daryan’s somehow able to hear underneath the soaring harpsichord. Drawn toward the sound, Daryan is walking towards the bed instead of walking away. He’s touching Machi all over, making the boy cry out without sounds. That lovely red mouth with its kittenish tongue hangs open again, gulping for air.

Everything about Machi is perfect. Daryan realizes he doesn’t miss the things he thought he’d miss. The line of Machi’s chest doesn’t seem lacking anything when he takes those tiny nipples in his fingers and pinches him. He doesn’t look pissed off like girls do when he’s rough like that. And his ass – it’s so amazing; Daryan wants to write a song about it. Just watching it lift up from the mattress like that, he can’t help it. He wants to grab it in handfuls. Never one to resist his impulses, Daryan flips Machi over on his stomach. Squeezes those creamy cheeks and parts them. “Do you ever do stuff like this when you’re alone? Ever stick your fingers in your ass?”

Machi is silent, offering neither denial nor agreement. Daryan pushes his fingers into Machi’s mouth and he sucks obediently. Funny how Machi has the sunglasses on even then, veiling his expression. The sweat is beading on both of them, even in the air-conditioned room. The heat gets through the walls of this place.

Daryan pushes those spit-slick fingers into Machi’s tight little asshole and the kid hisses out, just once, color flooding his cheeks. Daryan figures out pretty quickly that it’s not enough, he can’t finger-fuck Machi like he’d like.

“The, the dresser,” Machi says, like he’s read Daryan’s mind. There sits the Holy Grail for every horny teenaged boy: a big pump bottle full of unscented lotion. Daryan squirts more than enough into his hand, is enjoying just playing, stretching, seeing how much he can get in when his dick is like, uh, hi, are you forgetting something over here?

Daryan wonders if it will even all fucking fit, but he can’t say no to his manhood. He’s slicking himself with the lotion. Machi’s bracing a pillow, biting his knuckle. And Daryan shoves in all at once – didn’t miss the mark the first time, thank god – and Machi must be made of heat and light, must be some kind of angel from heaven with that golden hair, because Daryan has never encountered anything that feels like that. Heaven. He’s definitely going to write a song about Machi.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Daryan growls. And he’s actually gentle with Machi. Fucks him slow, and Machi undulates. They get at it at a very gradual pace. Daryan’s admiring how big and strong his hands look on Machi’s tiny hips. They’re rough where he’s smooth. Machi moves like an animal in heat, seems desperate to get more of Daryan’s cock in him, ass in the air. He’s resumed touching himself, but this is more fun, isn’t it? Daryan bites his shoulder blade, and knocks Machi’s hand away. “No. I get to say when you cum.”

Machi gasps, his most genuine emotion yet. “Mr. Crescend,” he murmurs.

Daryan grunts at that, quickening, and if he could see Machi’s face, he’d see smirking.

“Mr. Crescend,” Machi whimpers, meeting each thrust, voice quaking a little as Daryan hits him deep inside. “Mr. Crescend, please, I want to cum. Mr. Crescend….”

“Fuck,” Daryan says, and if Machi goes on like that he won’t be able to hold on. He’s going faster, jerking Machi in time to his thrusts that are quickly losing rhythm.

“Mr. Crescend!”

“Go, baby. Go.” And when Machi does, he’s tensing and arching and Daryan follows in those trembling aftermath seconds, filling Machi so much it makes a mess on his ass pulling out. Daryan’s sort of laughing giddily. Endorphins. Machi curls to his side, trying to avoid the wet spot. Daryan grabs the tissue from the bed stand and gets to cleaning up the evidence. Machi dozes. The music’s still playing.

“Was that okay?” Daryan suddenly asks as he’s zipping up his jeans.

Machi shrugs. “Sure, Mr. Crescend.”

“You can call me Daryan if you want.”

Machi shrugs again, turning onto his back to gaze sightlessly at the ceiling. “That’s not professional,” he says after a moment. Then yawns. Tiny, flawless hand to those exquisite lips.

The CD Machi’s listening to ends. Silence is blooming between them like ugly flowers. Daryan wants to say more, or maybe apologize (and he never does that!), but no words come out when he opens his mouth. Machi’s closing his eyes. Daryan stares at him for a long moment, then tousles his hair before standing and leaving the room.