So this sucked. Big time. Lying on his back, naked, eyes tightly shut, covered with only a really unreasonably small-feeling towel, while an unfeasibly hot muscly guy in a tight red t-shirt rubbed oil into his feet? Not okay.
Not okay for a lot of reasons, one of which was that Stiles was having trouble keeping the noises internal. The guy was just digging his thumbs into the arches of his feet, for christ’s sake, nothing sexier than that, and yet the noises Stiles kept making were practically pornographic.
He should have started face down. That was a mistake, he now realised. Face down – much more natural position in which to be massaged. But when the guy had given him an even smile and said, “I’ll leave you to get undressed. Get on the table and cover yourself with the towel,” Stiles had been too tongue-tied to ask which way up on the table.
Plus trying to cover himself with a towel whilst face down? Actually pretty difficult.
So face up it was. On his back. Ass to the soft cottony sheet thing covering the massage table, and with only a single layer of aforementioned towel between his so-far thankfully-soft cock and the magical hands of Hot Red T-Shirt Guy.
“Mmm,” Stiles said, involuntarily, as the guy took his foot in both hands and squeezed. Jesus, that felt good. So good he didn’t even care about the noises. Wait, no – he still cared about the noises. But less. It was still not okay, though.
It wasn’t that he didn’t need a massage – he did – but he’d been hoping it would be from an ancient Thai lady with hands of steel, not a dude who could probably be a stunt-double for actual Adonis in this summer’s Hollywood blockbuster. Was it hot in here or something? How tight did a red t-shirt really need to be?
And here was another reason that being face-up was not okay: every time Stiles got an overwhelming urge to peek – which was often – he got an eyeful of the guy’s ridiculous chiselled face or enormous hairy arms. Sometimes the guy would even be glancing at him at the time, and then Stiles would have to slam his eyes shut and pretend he hadn’t been peeking after all, despite the fact that they both clearly knew he had been. If he were face down, none of that would be happening. God, he so wished he were face-down!
“That pressure okay?” the guy asked, his hands smoothing up Stiles’ calves, and Stiles swallowed hard and managed a nod. The pressure was variable, sometimes a little too light but mostly more than okay. He didn’t trust himself to speak, though, because if he opened his mouth he’d be equally as likely to propose marriage as to give massage-related constructive criticism.
“You’re very tense,” the guy said, as his hands smoothed their slow wonderful way up the back of Stiles’ legs.
Stiles immediately tensed up even more, and could have sworn he heard the guy snort under his breath. The hands didn’t stop moving, though, repeating long warm strokes up and down the backs of Stiles’ legs, and that brought him to the third reason that being face-up was beginning to suck right now.
Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, screwing his eyes as tightly shut as he could in an effort to pretend this wasn’t happening…
It was pointless, though: he knew it, and the hot guy knew it, and the poor towel definitely knew it.
His cock was refusing to stay soft.
The guy’s hands reached the backs of Stiles’ thighs and slid around to the front, then mercifully swept back down his legs again.
Go soft! Stiles ordered his cock. You’ve got about 10 seconds! And then his massive oiled hands will be stroking back up and he’ll be forced to notice and—
It didn’t improve the situation. The thought of the guy’s firm, broad hands travelling back up his thighs was fuel on the stupid, helpless fire in his groin that had sparked the moment he’d shaken hands with the guy – and been building ever since. Stiles felt the towel actually move as his cock twitched, and oh, god.
The hands reached his ankles, gave them another wonderful squeeze, and then started sliding back up.
Stiles considered rolling off the table onto the floor and calling it a seizure. It wouldn’t be that far from the truth: just the feeling of the guy’s palms sliding over his skin was calling up what felt like an electrical storm in his brain. He did his best to shut it out, focusing on instead on the soft music being piped through some tiny speakers near the ceiling, but that was more and more difficult as the guy’s hands moved higher and higher.
Then they lifted off him completely, and Stiles had to look, in case the guy was reaching for a red button to call security or something.
He was getting more oil.
Well, that was not a helpful thought.
Stiles’ eyes snapped open. “What?” he croaked, focusing on the hot guy’s face with difficulty.
And oh jesus fucking christ: the hot guy was indicating Stiles’ erection with a small, informative nod.
Stiles felt himself get warm and panicky all over, face pinpricking with sweat. “You mean…”
“Don’t worry about it,” the hot guy said, pouring a measured stream of oil into his palm. “It happens to lots of guys.”
“Right! Right,” Stiles said hurriedly, grasping at straws. “Yeah, I guess it would, given you’re—how you look, it must happen all the time.”
The hot guy seemed to have frozen.
“Because you’re so hot,” Stiles elaborated, waving his hands and then stopping that sharpish because it made the massage table wobble. “I mean, I’m not surprised if most people, uh… I mean.”
The hot guy still wasn’t saying anything.
“I guess it’s a lot of people’s fantasy?” Stiles tried, feeling his eyes widen with panic. “A massage from a big hot—Not mine! Hastening to add that, haha. Not mine, uh, but some people’s, you know, masseurs and… all that.”
“It’s a normal physiological reaction during the massage process,” the hot guy said, and his tone was very even; Stiles had no idea if he was laughing or judging or condemning him as a hopeless pervert or what.
He wondered if he should offer to leave, but then the hot guy took another step up the table and put both oily hands flat on Stiles’ stomach, and Stiles sucked in a breath and shut his eyes and tried not to react to anything, at all. Playing dead, that was the mature way to deal with a situation like this, right?
An overpowering urge to explain surged through him anyway. “Look, um,” he said, keeping his eyes closed. “What’s your name?”
There was a micropause. “Derek.”
“Right,” Stiles said, putting on his most reassuring, mature, trustworthy voice. “So, look, Derek, the thing is, I want you to know I’m not trying to hit on you or enjoy this too much or anything, I’m just – a guy who plays sports, here for a sports massage. That’s all this is.”
“Yes,” Derek said.
“So, uh, yeah,” Stiles said, and fell silent as Derek’s hands swept up his chest, spreading the oil so that every inch of him was covered. He felt his nipples harden as Derek’s palms rubbed over them, every touch sending rapid-fire darts of heat shooting down to his cock. Stiles bit his lip and tried not to push up against his hands.
“Pressure okay?” Derek asked again. His voice sounded throatier, though maybe that was Stiles’ imagination. Stiles’ cock jumped anyway, and he bit his lip harder. He was going to draw blood at this rate.
“Mm,” he said, with a hasty nod.
Derek’s hands wandered over his chest—it felt like being systematically groped. There were firm squeezes of his pecs, thumbs swiping slowly along the lines of his muscles, and deep stripes of pressure with the heels of Derek’s hands. He didn’t think his nipples were getting more than their fair share of attention, but jesus did it feel good whenever the heat of Derek’s hands covered them. When his palms glided over them. When his fingertips brushed them on the way past.
Stiles’ cock was beginning to throb.
Derek’s hands moved on to his shoulders and then down his arms, and that was a relief until he got to his hands; the deep slick kneading of his palms made Stiles’ mouth open in a silent groan. Derek’s hands were much bigger than his, and felt several degrees hotter, and as he worked his way between Stiles’ fingers and over the base of his thumb it was impossible not to imagine those hands around his cock.
Stiles forced his mouth closed and tried to concentrate on the stupid music. Jesus! Who’d ever thought this would be a relaxing experience? Lying here with a raging hard-on that Derek was steadfastly ignoring – this had to be the least relaxing experience of Stiles’ life. He just wanted to be not face-up.
Derek had finished with his hands. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to turn over?”
“Yes!” Stiles said, and then, “I mean. Um,” as he realised how that sounded.
Derek didn’t respond, just carefully lifted towel for him. Neither of them drew attention to Stiles erection, hard and flushed against his belly; Stiles rolled over, feeling the towel settle lightly over his butt, and tried to ignore how good it felt to trap his cock underneath him against the warm cottony sheet. Felt really good, though. Not as good as Derek’s hands, but… really good, and then Derek’s hands were on him as well, and Stiles heard himself make another of those noises, a groan this time.
The hands paused for a millisecond before continuing.
Stiles had been right. It was better to blush facedown where no one could see.
Derek was starting with the oil again. It pooled at the base of Stiles’ back, neither warm nor cold, just liquid slipperiness. Derek’s hands ran through it as he started massaging Stiles’ back, using more of his weight, pressing him hard down onto the table. A couple of times it forced Stiles’ breath out of him, and that—that was pretty hot. Stiles scrunched up his toes, trying not to let his hips move; it would feel so good to thrust against the massage table, but that was obviously a bad idea.
“Mmm,” Stiles said involuntarily, as Derek’s thumbs dug into the space between his shoulder blades, carving out curves of sweetly aching pressure. He felt like his whole body was beginning to melt, apart from the bright points of his nipples and the ridge of his cock, and his balls, heavy and softly aching.
“Mm,” he said again, as Derek’s hands stroked hot over the back of his neck, and okay, yeah. At some point he’d stopped stopping himself make noise.
Derek wasn’t responding, though. He was just working methodically over Stiles’ body, ignoring Stiles’ grunts and sighs: shoulders, backs of his arms, then up his neck and down his spine again in one smooth arc. He focused on Stiles’ lower back for a while, pushing and pressing until Stiles felt like a tenderised steak on a block, and then there was a drizzle more oil and his hands went under the towel.
It was a perfunctory touch, but Stiles couldn’t help but stiffen. Everywhere. Derek’s hands felt huge and hot, covering his ass, kneading it with gentle rhythmic strokes. The pressure rubbed Stiles’ cock back and forth beneath him, friction making his toes curl. If Derek would only—
He didn’t even know exactly what he wanted him to do. Just, touch him more. Stiles wasn’t a virgin by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d never had anyone go near his ass: the experiences he’d had with guys were strictly of the hand-jobs-and-no-eye-contact variety. So he didn’t have a plan, beyond a vague idea that if Derek wanted to pay more attention to his ass then he’d be, y’know, in favour of that. Except not! Because Derek was his masseur, nothing more. Yeah.
“Yes,” Stiles said fervently, before he could stop himself.
“Mm—that’s good,” Stiles mumbled, and tucked his face determinedly deeper into the hole in the massage table. No more talking! Definitely no more moaning while the hot guy’s hands are manipulating your ass. God.
Nevertheless, as Derek’s hands became firmer on his ass Stiles couldn’t help but shift against it, his hips tilting up of their own volition—and then Derek was moving on, down the backs of his thighs in sleek, smooth strokes. He didn’t replace the towel.
Stiles realised he was holding his breath. He exhaled as quietly as he could, but it still turned into a sort of moan because Derek’s hands were on his ankles now, and Stiles had never even thought ankles could feel good but Derek’s hands were making them feel amazing.
Stiles had a vague feeling that the hour would be up when Derek reached his feet again, but he must have been wishing the time away because although Derek seemed to spend a very long time massaging each of his toes, and then laid his feet down and paused for several silent seconds, Stiles then felt a hand on the back of his knee again. The music, he noticed, had stopped.
Slowly, Derek’s hand moved up his leg, the pressure halfway between firm and soft. It reached the crease where Stiles’ leg met his body and paused there again, then slid up over his ass once more.
Stiles shivered, his heart beating faster. He lay as still as he could, as one of Derek’s hands closed on each cheek, shaping the curve with his palms. He wasn’t speaking; neither of them were. Stiles swallowed, hearing his own pulse very loud in the silent room.
Derek gave his ass a slow, deliberate squeeze that spread his cheeks apart, holding it for a long couple of seconds before relaxing his grip again.
One hand lifted off for a second, and then Stiles felt the unmistakable soft drip of oil, trailing across his ass and then drizzled directly across his asshole.
Stiles shifted his legs apart enough to feel the oil run down his balls, and had a hard time not moaning. Derek’s hands closed on his cheeks once more, squeezing and kneading before spreading him again, and the sensation of being looked at, there, took Stiles’ breath away. He could barely imagine what Derek was seeing – his asshole exposed, gleaming with oil – and then Derek’s thumbs slid slowly up from the backs of his thighs, up the crack of his ass, spreading him even more.
Derek paused, the tips of his thumbs resting just next to Stiles’ asshole, pressing steadily firm, and Stiles’ hole started tingling even as the rest of his body pulsed with hot druggy waves of sensation. Jesus, fuck, he needed to be touched. He needed something inside him, needed Derek to take this to the next level right now, please, please. He was breathing hard, he realised, dragging in shallow puffs of air, dizzy with the sensation of being spread open like this and looked at.
And then Derek was letting go of him, completely, and Stiles felt his ass slowly close again, slick with oil and tingling like crazy.
“That’s the hour,” Derek said, nothing in his voice giving anything away.
Stiles opened and closed his mouth several times before finding his own voice. “Uh huh,” he said, without moving. His head was spinning, and he felt drunk with the need to be touched. “How much for um, another hour?”
“We’re closing,” Derek said.
Then why the hell did you do that? “Yeah, I know,” Stiles said, and deliberately shifted his hips, pointing his ass slightly more at the ceiling. He held his breath.
He almost shuddered as a hand lighted softly back on his leg.
“If you can’t get up yet,” Derek said, his voice nothing but professional, “you can lie here a while longer.”
Stiles swallowed hard. “Mm?”
The hand was moving up his leg, Stiles’ skin breaking out in gooseflesh in its wake.
“Until you’re ready to walk,” Derek said, and then oiled fingers were resting against Stiles’ asshole again, a light but steady touch.
Stiles held his breath and tipped his hips back, opening his legs, shifting his knees towards at the edges of the massage table. His cock was so hard. Derek’s fingertips brushed a circle around the delicate skin, and then there was another splash of oil, right onto his asshole, and Stiles gasped, unable to hold it in. He felt drenched: obscenely wet and all on display.
Stiles felt a gentle fingerprint of pressure against his asshole. Just—resting against him, pressing softly, with almost no force at all. It probably shouldn’t be enough to push inside and yet Stiles was so wet that, within seconds, Derek’s fingertip was sliding into his ass. Stiles shuddered out a breath, almost silent. This was – god – this was actually happening. It kept going, slow and frictionless; all Stiles could feel was an unfamiliar silken stretch that seemed to be hotwired to his balls.
The push kept going, and Stiles bit down on a groan, and then wondered why the hell he was still trying to be quiet: they were clearly past not acknowledging this. Or maybe they weren’t. Derek wasn’t saying anything—he was just sliding his finger deeper, until it felt like it was in to the furthest knuckle, and then he pulled out again and Stiles heard him exhale, quiet but rough.
It was the first indication he’d had that Derek was at all affected by what he was doing, and Stiles swallowed, still not totally able to process that Hot Red T-shirt Guy was fingering him, on a massage table, in a not-at-all-seedy-seeming Physical Wellbeing Centre recommended by his coach. And yet: a finger. In his ass. God. It was an incomparable sensation, like nothing he’d ever experienced, and he wanted to move back against it, take more—but also to hold as still as he could, because he had a very real suspicion that if he moved it would quickly become overwhelming.
Stiles swallowed and let himself acknowledge something else: that he was pretty much at Derek’s mercy, and that that was hot as hell. Lying here, wordless, naked and oiled, and taking a finger up his ass – he felt like an extra in a dodgy Greek play. Or maybe the hero, if it was a play about stoicism in the face of extreme stimulation. Or—
Derek pushed his finger as deep as it would go and Stiles choked out a breath, slamming back to the present. That hurt, but Derek was already pulling out again, slow and smooth, and the sting of it faded fast. Stiles felt a vivid sense of being watched, could imagine how his ass was clinging to Derek’s finger as it withdrew, and then Derek was pushing back in and although that was exactly what he wanted he couldn't hold back a pained grunt.
Derek stilled, but didn't say anything. His other hand was resting on the top of Stiles' ass, his thumb drawing little patterns over the oiled skin; now he started stroking Stiles' back again, long smooth strokes, his palm sliding firmly up between his shoulder blades and causing a delicious deep rush of tension-release.
The pain suddenly felt like nothing more than distant discomfort, and Stiles actually found himself relaxing back into the table. He was still hard, and the movement nudged his cock against his stomach, and that – what even was pain, anyway? He couldn't remember. Derek repeated the long slow stroke up his back, pausing to squeeze the back of Stiles' neck – Stiles couldn't decide if that felt affectionate or domineering but he liked it – and then smoothed down again, right back to the curve of his ass.
In the same movement Derek was withdrawing his finger, and Stiles must have got used to it without noticing because now he was clenching down in a helpless effort to keep it inside. He made a soft whimper as the sensation disappeared and his ass closed on nothing, and then whimpered again, less soft, more eager, as Derek's finger pierced him again.
Just the tip, which Derek began rolling from side to side, stirring in a tiny circle against the tight grip of Stiles' ass. The movements seemed to send out pulses of syrupy heat, rolling up Stiles' body, making him gulp and sigh and angle his hips back for more.
He heard Derek make a noise somewhere between an exhalation and a grunt: a repressed, unwilling noise. He was already getting a sense that Derek didn't talk much, but an image of what Derek was seeing flashed up in Stiles' head: himself, face down and pliant, his oiled up asshole admitting just one fingertip but moving on it, eager for more.
He wasn't getting more, though. Long seconds rolled by and Derek seemed content to be teasing just his fingertip in and out of Stiles' hole, slow and almost reverent. And... Well... Stiles had seen enough gay porn to know this wasn't how it normally went down. Virgins usually got stuffed with at least one cock within minutes of their first kiss—not the Derek had kissed him yet. And hopefully, Derek hadn't picked up that he was new to this either. Still, even presuming he had figured out the pitiful extent of Stiles' experience with ass-fucking, the pace here still felt glacial.
Two obvious explanations sprang to mind: either Derek was being a very patient, nice, considerate guy... or he was really getting off on playing with Stiles' ass.
That thought made Stiles shut his eyes tightly, feeling his cheeks heat even as his brain grabbed that thought and ran with it: maybe Derek loved teasing his ass, was mesmerized by it, how it looked and felt as he toyed with it again and again.
Stiles shifting needily, seeking more, and was rewarded with a slow swipe of Derek's finger around the edge of his hole. The circle went on and on, around and around. Stiles swallowed, furious heat tingling deep inside, and almost panted with relief when Derek finally pushed in again.
"Mm," Stiles heard himself say, thankfully managing to clamp down on the noise before it could turn into anything as embarrassing as an actual word. He turned his head, resting his ear against the massage table, and then swallowed again as he opened his eyes: there was the ridge of Derek’s cock, visible in his sweatpants, almost level with his face. And maybe it was just the angle, or the low light (or his own hysteria), but it looked seriously huge. Like, enormous. A package straight out of porn.
Stiles found himself staring, mouth going dry. Such a big, hard dick and he was going to get to touch it, or at least watch Derek touch it—or it was going inside him.
He squeezed down on Derek's finger at that thought, grinding his own cock against the massage table, and that felt so amazing that he had to do it again. He was falling into a rhythm without even meaning to, hunching back and then grinding forwards, rocking between the friction for his cock and the slippery tight stretch of his ass. He started panting, thinking More, please, more and then Derek added a second finger and that was—fuck. Too much, a shock of pain through the hazy pleasure, but really fucking exciting at the same time.
The extra width made it easier to imagine Derek's cock, and Stiles knew now with the sudden dirty clarity of desire that he wanted it. In him. Tonight. So he pushed back onto Derek's fingers, gritting his teeth, and realised he didn't care how much it hurt—he'd put up with a lot if it meant he could go home tonight with the memory of Derek coming in his ass.
Easier said than done, admittedly. Two fingers felt okay at the tips, but as they pushed deeper… It was tough going. But he was concentrating so hard on the pain that he noticed the exactly moment it started to ease off—and with it came a glittering rush of mingled relief and pleasure. He could do it. He was going to do this. And it was going to be awesome.
Derek was pulling away, though, lifting his hand off Stiles' back and easing his fingers almost completely out.
Stiles whined in anticipated frustration. Derek made another dark noise and pushed in deep again, and Stiles' whine dissolved into a sigh. God. He liked this. He needed this. It still hurt, but the pleasurable feelings were getting stronger, and so was the urge to thrust.
Stiles started moving on Derek's fingers, and Derek actually groaned, a soft noise as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. It gave Stiles another image of himself – humping the massage table and fucking himself increasingly vigorously on Derek's fingers while Derek watched – and suddenly he was fighting not to come. It was just too much, the pictures and the feeling and the filthy thrill of the whole situation, and he couldn’t help it, it was building, coming, almost—
Stiles forced his eyes open again, and his gaze locked on to Derek's free hand holding the front of his sweatpants: gripping, knuckles white. He wasn't jerking off, just holding himself tightly as he watched Stiles take his fingers over and over, and the sight was enough to make Stiles grit his teeth and try to stop moving, because the alternative was getting off right fucking now. He stilled with difficulty – his heartbeat ringing in his ears, his ass throbbing, his cock aching to thrust – and slowly the crescendo of sensations relented a little.
"Uh," Derek said, after a moment, his voice sounding a lot grittier than before. "Too much?"
"No," Stiles said, and experienced a sudden flash of excitement: they were actually talking? This was the best move ever. "That's just… getting too good, if you know what I mean."
Derek's fingers twitched in Stiles' ass, and he cleared his throat. Twice. "Really?" he said eventually.
Stiles was holding very still. "Mm."
"So if I do this…" He pushed his fingers right in.
"Yeah," Stiles gasped, catapulting right back to the edge.
"You're… really tight," Derek said.
Stiles couldn't tell if his voice was appreciative or disapproving. He found himself starting to babble: "Well I… You know… I don't do this a lot, but God, don't stop, I really really really don't want you to stop! Though having said that, uh, if you do much more I'm gonna come, and I don't—I don't want that either?"
"You’re saying you could come from being fingered," Derek said, somewhat hoarsely, and hearing the words out loud made Stiles blush hard.
"Uh, I—yes. I am," he made himself say, trying not to cringe.
"God," Derek said, twisting his fingers so that Stiles inhaled sharply, and then he gave a half-laugh and said, in a low-voiced rush, "I just want to hold you down and play with your ass until you're begging me to fuck you."
"Okay," Stiles said, his voice losing volume as Derek's words hit him like a wall of heat. "I'll, um, I can do that, I can definitely do, uh, that." Beg you to fuck me. "Not a problem. Ah."
Derek was withdrawing his fingers again, resting them against the entrance to Stiles’ body, a light touch that he rapidly couldn't stand. He held his breath, trying not to blurt out anything stupid. Waiting. Waiting.
"Please," Stiles said, pushing back to feel Derek’s fingertips on the verge of penetration, his voice breaking. "Please, do it, please—"
Yeah, so begging came pretty easily to him, who knew?
Derek’s free hand folded over the base of Stiles’ back, pressing him down into the table, and then he began to pump his fingers. Slow, steady, deep. It felt dirty as hell, being held down with a firm hand, magnified by the sheer idea that Derek was holding him still so that he could more easily watch his fingers sliding in and out of Stiles’ ass. Stiles could feel how slick and hot his asshole had become, and part of him was embarrassed, but there was almost no energy left for feeling things like that; all his energy seemed to be rushing to the base of his stomach, a tidal heat building higher and higher.
“Please,” he said again, his voice thick. He wanted—god, anything, just more, please, more.
Derek made a sudden, harsh noise in his throat, and stopped. His voice sounded dazed: "When you move like that—I want to fuck you."
Stiles hadn’t even realized he was moving. He nodded, almost out of his mind, the edges of his vision going hazy. "Please," he said, the word slipping out as a whisper. "God, please. Do it."
There was a moment’s pause. "Not on the table. It won’t take the weight."
Stiles paused. "What?"
"Not on the—"
"Yes, I heard, I just—" Despite everything, Stiles almost burst out laughing. "Seriously? You've been holding back because I'm on the table? I can get off the table. Jesus, can I ever. Watch me." He scrambled down, and his feet had barely touched the cool tiled floor before Derek was yanking him around and kissing him, hard. Stiles almost moaned as Derek's tongue pushed into his mouth, and then Derek started groping and squeezing his ass, and he did moan, an uneven drawn-out sound.
"So fucking hot," Derek muttered, rummaging frantically and pushing down his sweatpants before closing the space between them again.
"Oh, God," Stiles said, as he felt the hard length of Derek's cock rubbing against his stomach, sliding alongside his cock. It felt as massive as he'd feared - or should that be hoped? - and it was hot, so hot, and velvety smooth and thick and incredible. He pushed against it and then gasped because Derek was lifting him, still kissing him, both hands on his ass, picking him up like he was made of feathers.
"Oh god," Stiles said again, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck, feeling the hot line of Derek’s cock rub along the cleft of his ass. They were doing this; they were doing it right fucking now.
Derek’s hands felt huge, holding him up: one spreading his ass, the other lining up his cock against Stiles’ hole. Stiles clung to Derek’s shoulders, biting down on his lower lip as Derek’s cock started pushing against his hole, trying to squeeze up into his ass in a series of short firm nudges.
“Fuck,” Stiles panted, feeling his ass start to open, a long slow burning stretch as the tip of Derek’s cock finally pushed inside. The pain was back, lancing though him and making him sweat, but he couldn’t find his voice to say stop – his brain felt like it was shorting out under the sheer erotic intensity of taking a cock in his ass for the first time.
He felt it get wider and wider, and then Derek kept pushing and the painful stretch relented slightly, and Stiles realized the head of his cock must be fully inside. His ass was clenching down on the shaft, the head a dull fat pressure inside him, and then Derek was pushing deeper and Stiles couldn’t hold in a groan.
“Put your… legs—god, you’re so tight,” Derek muttered, feeding his cock into Stiles’ ass one jerky inch at a time. He was supporting him with both hands, mouth hot against Stiles’ neck.
Stiles tried to follow the half-instruction, moving on instinct and crossing his ankles behind Derek’s ass, and that—that helped. That opened him up or improved the angle or something, because Derek was sliding into him steadily now, and his dick was thicker at the base so it was starting to hurt again but jesus fuck it was hot to have him that deep inside. Both Derek’s hands were on his ass, holding him up but also squeezing, pulling him onto Derek’s cock and forcing in the last inch with a hard controlled shove.
“God,” Stiles gasped, throwing his head back, and Derek made a noise in his throat that sounded not unlike a growl.
“So. Tight,” he muttered, his oiled fingers sliding over the stretched skin of Stiles’ asshole, and that threw another rush of heady sensations into the mix, making Stiles shudder and squirm.
“Yes,” Stiles said, and then there was a stab of pain.
Derek’s fingertip had pushed in alongside his cock.
Before he could stop himself, Stiles was moaning, “Too much,” and to his surprise Derek gave an acknowledging grunt and slowly slid his finger out again.
To his surprise, Stiles found the rest of the pain was diminishing as well –dissipating into a warm glow, as if something crucial had relaxed deep inside. And without the pain there was just… pressure. God. Gorgeous, filthy-slick pressure, hot as hell, and Stiles found himself shifting in Derek’s arms, rocking almost, to make the thick root of his cock tease in and out of him.
“That’s it,” Derek said, his voice strained, “there you go,” and shifted his hold on him, starting to grind his hips.
Stiles moaned and his forehead fell forwards onto Derek’s shoulder; he buried his face in Derek’s neck and held on for dear life as Derek started to move. Slow and steady, holding Stiles still and thrusting carefully into him, pulling out just halfway before sliding back in.
“Ah, fuck, fuck, god,” Stiles muttered, gathering the collar of Derek’s red t-shirt between his teeth and biting down as the sensations rolled over him: there were still flashes of discomfort, but mostly there was just the satiny rub of oiled skin, the insanely intimate stretched feeling, and his brain chanting away in the background that this was sex, he was being fucked, he was being held up and fucked by this ridiculously hot guy, being fucked like something out of a porn film. Well, not exactly – it was still slower and more deliberate than any porn Stiles had ever seen, and he’d seen a lot – but it felt like porn, like it should be: a glorious Technicolor pornography that Stiles was now dearly wishing he owned.
“Still with me?” Derek’s voice murmured, against the side of Stiles’ head, and Stiles suddenly realized he was providing a soundtrack of endless, pitiful little moans.
“Yes,” he said, tuning back into Derek all at once: he could feel his heartbeat through the t-shirt and hear his breathing, soft and fast. He started kissing Derek’s neck, and felt Derek’s hands twitch; and the next three thrusts were harder, giving him more of the length of his cock, making him see stars.
“Oh god, yes, keep—keep going,” Stiles managed to say, though the haze of pure lust that conjured up: Derek had definitely been going easy on him. Those thrusts had felt strong, strong like Derek definitely was, and the thought of him holding back was simultaneously kind of sweet and intensely frustrating.
Stiles kept kissing his neck, nibbling up to his earlobe and sucking on it, and Derek made a soft noise and swung around, backing Stiles up against the wall.
“Don’t—wanna—drop you,” Derek said, between thrusts, which were getting harder again.
“God,” Stiles breathed: there was a mirror on the opposite wall, and the sight of them took Stiles’ breath away. Somehow it was even more real, to see himself at a distance: being held against the cold wall by Derek’s body, his face sheened with sweat and glazed with pleasure; his arms wrapped around Derek’s massive shoulders, legs spread around Derek’s toned waist; and Derek’s hairy ass pumping obscenely between Stiles’ pale thighs.
He started kissing Derek’s neck again, watching himself in the mirror, and Derek’s cock seemed to grow thicker and harder inside him. Any more and he’d be split open, he thought, his own cock flexing, and that was fucked up, sure, but god was it hot, god did it make him want to come.
He sucked on Derek’s neck and Derek made an anguished noise and slammed in deep, right to the hilt, once, twice, the force of it causing a delicious friction across Stiles’ cock, trapped between their stomachs—and then Derek seemed to catch himself and went back to shallower thrusts, rhythmic and controlled, though still with an extra little thud of pressure at the end of each stroke.
“Please,” Stiles said again, sawing his hips in an effort to get that friction back, curling one hand into a fist in Derek’s hair. “That feels good, I can take it, go on, please, please.”
“If I let myself go,” Derek rasped, “this will be over pretty quickly.”
Stiles swallowed hard. Even the idea of it made his head swim and his balls draw up. “Yeah, but if you come in my ass,” he said, unable to meet his own eyes in the mirror, “I’m—I—I’ll be right there with you.”
Derek gave a low groan, and Stiles felt him let go: he pushed Stiles’ hard against the wall and grabbed his hips in both hands, fucking up into him with all the repressed power of someone who’d been storing this up for hours. His cock hammered into Stiles’ ass, making it burn hot and igniting violent sparks deep inside, whilst his stomach slid over Stiles’ dick, again and again, the fabric of his t-shirt staining damp and dark with Stiles’ pre-come.
“Fuck,” Stiles was gasping, over and over, clawing Derek’s back, and then an idea struck him and he blindly hauled up Derek’s t-shirt, so that his cock was being rubbed against bare sweaty skin.
Derek made a dark noise like a growl and fucked him harder, nosing Stiles’ hair and sliding his teeth against his neck, and the whole world turned tingly and hot.
“I’m gonna—“ Stiles panted, “fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—“
“Yes,” Derek muttered, against his neck, and then he was shoving right in and grinding his hips, Stiles impaled on the thickest part of his dick, and Stiles shouted out as his cock spurted hot and sudden between them. He felt his come coating Derek’s stomach, rubbing ever-more-slippery over his cock, and then Derek was fucking him again, short hard focused strokes that felt primal and utterly selfish.
Stiles melted into it, after-shocks of his orgasm still rolling over him, and then he remembered how it seemed to drive Derek crazy when he kissed his neck, so maybe that would be a good idea right now too. He opened his mouth against Derek’s throat, letting the jolts of being fucked dictate the lapping of his tongue, and Derek’s chest reverberated as he growled loudly into Stiles’ hair.
“Damn it,” he snarled—and pulled out, sliding Stiles down the wall and pushing him to the tiled floor, flipping him over facedown and pushing his legs apart, pinning him.
Stiles almost started hyperventilating at the dual shock of the cold hard tiles under his naked body and the raw heat of Derek’s weight on top of him, and then Derek’s cock was pushing right back into his ass from behind, all the way in, thick and unyielding as Stiles squirmed beneath him.
“Oh god,” Stiles panted, against the floor, “oh god, oh god,“ because this - this was real porn.
Derek was still growling, under his breath, as Stiles pillowed his forehead on his arms and pushed up on his knees, and then Derek was seizing his hips in both hands and fucking him hard. No patience or mercy or holding back now: his cock was ramming in to the hilt every time, heavy balls rhythmically slapping Stiles’ ass, Derek’s fingers digging into Stiles’ hips, moving him to take his cock deeper on every thrust.
The noises Derek was making were almost animal, harsh and possessive—and then all of a sudden it was over, and Derek was groaning and collapsing shuddering on top of him, his cock pulsing in Stiles’ ass, deep and hot. It seemed to go on for a long time, for thrust after increasingly unsteady thrust, before Derek slumped on top of him, squashing him back against the floor, knocking the wind out of him anew.
In the heart-pounding silence that followed, Stiles tried to catch his breath, but it was impossible. Derek’s weight on top of him, for one, but also—
His head was playing the last few minutes over and over in his mind’s eye: so that was what it felt like when Derek really let go. Hot and wild and kind of… brutal, sure, but, so sue him, Stiles had never felt so alive.
“That was, uh,” he started, licking his lips, face still buried against his arms, “incredible?”
His voice seemed to startle Derek back to the land of the living; he lifted abruptly onto his hands and knees, making Stiles hiss as his cock pulled out of his ass.
“Fuck,” Derek said, in an undertone, and then Stiles’ shoulder was being stroked, shaken almost, and he felt Derek crouch down next to him, peering to see his face. “Are you okay?”
Stiles nodded and rolled onto his side, barely feeling the floor beneath him. He was more than okay, apart from feeling like he’d run a marathon, naked; he swayed as Derek helped him stand up, because hello, head-rush again.
“Whoa,” Stiles said, under his breath, and kind of loved that Derek gripped him by both arms to steady him.
Derek’s eyes were searching his face, almost glaring. “Are you sure you’re okay?” His expression was tight. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I lost it there for a moment.”
Stiles looked into his handsome, disapproving face, and felt a surge of impertinence. “You mean you didn’t plan to throw me down and fuck me on the floor?” he asked, as mildly as he dared, and then, as Derek winced, a horrible thought crossed Stiles’ mind. “Or… you didn’t mean to have sex with me at all?”
Derek’s wince flickered, and the edge of his mouth curved up. “Oh, no,” he said, “don’t misunderstand me. The only part I didn’t mean to do was throw you to the floor.”
Stiles grinned up at him, then shrugged one shoulder. “Well, don’t sweat it, I’m good. I’m really good. It was all good. And you seemed pretty… into it, right that moment.”
“You came without me touching your dick,” Derek said, his voice soft but his eyes predatory. “I guess that’s something I’m… pretty into.”
He was leaning closer, his grip on Stiles’ arms relaxing into something more like a caress. Part of Stiles was aware that he was beginning to ache in deep rarely-used muscles, and that there was come trickling out of his ass, and that he probably needed to give himself a stern talking-to because rule 101 regarding sex with strangers was to use protection, wasn’t it? no matter how ridiculously hot they are – hell, especially the ridiculously hot probably-do-this-a-lot ones – but the rest of him just wanted to keep Derek talking.
“That thing you did where you—you put your finger in as well,” he started, and stumbled over the words, because despite everything the memory was still pretty overwhelming.
Derek’s eyes darkened, and his hands drifted from Stiles’ arms to his waist. “Yeah.”
Stiles licked his lips, looking up at him. “That, uh… why did you do that?”
Derek fanned his fingers on Stiles’ hips, gradually sliding his palms down over the curve of his ass. “Because it was hot, feeling how stretched you were,” he said, and Stiles felt like he blushed all over, and then Derek added, “and because when I took it out, you relaxed. Old trick. Works on virgins, too.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows, still blushing, but refusing to let that comment throw him. “I somehow can’t imagine you know many virgins.”
Derek ducked his head, smirking. “Generally not for long.”
“Oh god,” Stiles said, before he could stop himself, “you’ve got a thing for virgins? Is that your thing, your—your preference?”
Derek’s smirk turned mean. His voice was very soft as he said, “I have a thing for guys who shove their asses in my face, begging to be fucked.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, relieved even as he felt his face heat again. His mouth was seriously going to get him into trouble, one day... but Derek’s fingertips had reached the cleft of his ass again, and it was difficult to think about anything except what Derek would be feeling, finding it slippery with come. “Okay.”
“If they’ve never done it before, that doesn’t really – I don’t mind either way. What matters to me,” Derek said, and looked Stiles straight in the eye, “is if they want to do it again.”
Stiles nodded jerkily. “Right, okay,” he said, trying to find words when all his focus was on Derek’s fingertips, toying, exploring. It was like his nerves had been rewired so that everything Derek did reminded him of everything Derek had already done. “Uh… yeah. They… I’m pretty certain they do.”
Something flashed through Derek’s eyes, and Stiles had the weirdest sense that it was relief—and then he was being kissed, long and languid, and all other thoughts melted out of his head.
“The customers’ shower is through there,” Derek said, against his mouth, a few slow delicious moments later. “There’s a robe on the back of the door. I’ve just gotta… clear stuff up here.”
Stiles pulled back to look up at him. “You could shower with me,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
Derek’s mouth quirked into another of his quicksilver grins. “I could, but I want to get out of here before anyone from upstairs comes asking questions. And if I was in the shower with you,” he added, pushing two fingers deep into Stiles’ ass and then slowly sliding them out again, “we’d never leave.”
Stiles realized his mouth was hanging open. “Uh,” he said, swallowing hard. “Sure.”
“Anyway, the sooner we get going,” Derek said, kissing him again, his voice thick, “the sooner I can get you home and spread you out on my bed and see how else I can make you beg.”
Stiles shivered and licked his tongue, and then grinned against Derek’s mouth. “Taking your work home with you?”
Derek stilled. There was a pause, in which Stiles mentally kicked himself, and then Derek drew back and looking at Stiles sideways. “Did you just—?”
Imply you’re a prostitute. Uh, yeah. “Actually, forget I said that,” Stiles said quickly. “Forget it? Sorry! I just… my mouth gets me into trouble sometimes.”
Derek’s gaze rested on his lips. “I can believe that.”
“But I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear, I just say stupid stuff sometimes, as you've probably noticed by now, and I definitely want to do, uh, what you said? So I’m hoping, I mean, if you still want to take me home and—“ spread me out on your bed and see how else you can make me beg “—stuff, then I’d be up for that. Um. Please?”
There was another pause that felt like a lifetime before Derek grinned.
“Sure,” Derek said, and kissed him again.