Free The Hardest Thing by James Lear Page A

thing in the world.
    And my dick was ready. Boy, was it ready. It was like an iron bar in my pants, and if I didn’t give it some freedom soon it was going to hurt.
    My fingers found the button on Stirling’s shorts, and with one quick twist it was open. I tugged at the waistband, he shifted his ass on the rock and down they came. Underwear? Come on.
    Stirling’s cock was as stiff as mine—as stiff as a fuck-hungry 23-year-old’s dick can be. It wasn’t the biggest in the world—he loved comparing it to mine, pressing our rods together in his hand and saying something like “You’re so big ! ” knowing exactly what effect those words have on a man. But it sure was pretty. I’m not a great one for poetry, but sometimes when I looked at Stirling’s prick, I thought about roses and ivory and all
the usual bullshit. It tasted as good as it looked, and I’d even begun to think—yeah, this is how far gone I was—that I might let him try sticking it up my ass. Romantic fool, right?
    He kicked his shorts over his feet, and they disappeared somewhere down the hillside far below us. We didn’t care. I just wanted him naked, and the sooner I got him impaled on my cock the better. If anyone in the woods had powerful binoculars they were about to get a world-class sex show. I pulled his T-shirt over his head; all he had left on were his trainers and socks.
    I moved myself so I was sitting behind him, legs on either side of his ass, holding him with one arm, pinching his tits and gently stroking his cock. I knew that Stirling liked nothing better than for me to keep fucking him after he’d come; this time, he was going to have to give me one load before I’d even enter him. He seemed to understand. He stretched his arms up and back, clasping his hands at the back of my neck, and closed his eyes. Looking over his shoulder I could see every ridge of muscle, every glisten of sunlight on pale hair, could see the pearl of precum gathering at the tip of his prick. I kissed him, scratching his face with my chin, and he tensed. The first volley shot out into the void, landing with a splat on the leaves below; two, three, four followed it.
    I lay him down gently on the rock, inhaling the yeasty smell of his sweat and semen, and fished around in my pants pocket. One thing I’d learned from a few days with Stirling McMahon: never go anywhere without a condom. I unzipped and pulled my dick out. One, two, three downward strokes and it was sheathed with its
second skin, the latex crinkling behind the flared head. All that remained was to decide which way I wanted him. One position was all that was needed; this was not going to take long.
    I glanced down at his face, and decided: that was what I wanted to see as I fucked him. His back’s very nice, the long trapezius muscles leading up from his ass to his shoulders, but right now I wanted to stare into his eyes and kiss him on the lips and see the mixture of pain and pleasure moving across his features. I knelt, grabbed his knees and swiveled him around. Stirling’s agile, especially when he knows he’s going to get fucked, and he practically jumped into position, pulling his legs back and showing me his pink hole. I spat in my hand, plastered it over my cock and lined up the target.
    I slid into him, feeling the smoothness of his ass against my dick, watching his brows contract as he bit his lower lip. His dick was small and soft, shrinking back into his body, the last few drops of semen oozing out into his trimmed bush. With most guys, this would be unfair—they don’t like to get fucked unless they’re as hard as I was, otherwise it hurts too much. Not so for Stirling. For him, it just heightened the sensation. I let myself rest inside him, feeling my dick swelling to its maximum size, stretching him from inside.
    I started to fuck him, slowly at first, all the way out until only the head was engaged, then all the way in.
    Remember those old-fashioned balloon pumps that we used