Crispin and I don’t get to hang out much in the week before prom. There’s some brief fondling in the art classrooms after school, but all his girlfriends want him to shop with them and plan for fucking after parties, and I’m busy trying to figure out how I’m going to take a cock up my ass for the first time in my life.
I wonder if Crispin did all the same kind of research before he came over that first time. All the sanitary and safety issues—I have a new respect for the porn stars who manage to do this all day without prolapsed anuses right and left. What did he had time to do in the bathroom, then, when he jumped up and was all, "Gotta go get ready!" I wonder?
My getting ready might have been different from his, but I think I've psyched myself up enough that I'm at least prepared for when Crispin walks in at 11:30 on prom night. I greet him with a wolf whistle.
"Da-yum, Viera," I say appreciatively, and motion for him to turn around. He obliges. "I like that ass in them pants."
Crispin smiles shyly. He really does look like a pint-size GQ model with his velvet tuxedo jacket, slim-fitting pants, and his hair somehow pinned up so that it doesn’t seem long enough to reach his back. I guess I won’t be pulling on it tonight.
He gives me a quizzical look. “Hello, I guess?”
Shutting the door behind him, I explain, “No, I’m just saying I don’t get how people don’t see you like I do.”
Crispin’s expression softens in a way that makes my chest warm, and for a moment we just look at each other. Yeah, I do like you that much.
“I feel overdressed,” he comments, eyeing my tearaway pants and T-shirt.
“Just you wait,” I retort as I hand him a glass of bourbon.
Crispin sniffs the dark liquid and makes a face. “Acquired taste?”
Clinking my glass against his, I suggest, “Let’s find out.”
Crispin takes a sip, raises his eyebrows, and gently spits the bourbon right back into his glass. I can't stop laughing.
"It'll take me a bit," he says tartly.
"I did get hints of caramel and peat moss in there."
Reclaiming the glass, I push him onto the couch.
"What are you doing?" he laughs.
I down my bourbon in one gulp. God, that burns. Burns so much. Burning. "Wait for i-i-i-i-it."
I turn the ceiling light down and hit the remote. The Village People's "YMCA" blasts through the speakers, and I rip off my pants. Crispin starts laughing so hard he can't even see just how terribly I dance—I have no rhythm and no moves—and only laughs harder when he notices that I made myself boxers out of gift wrap and tape. Right as the chorus sounds I give him the really big reveal: I rip off the paper boxers to show my only clean black jockstrap.
Crispin grabs his chest with a groan. "Oh, my god, Aaron. Oh my god."
I give him a few off-beat pelvic thrusts. “You like?”
He rolls his eyes to the heavens. “You fulfilled a fantasy I didn’t even know I had. Oh, Lawdy.”
“How about some of this?” Turning around, I do my best to booty pop, but it feels all wrong.
Crispin is clearly having trouble breathing through his laughter. “What the hell is this?”
“You’re definitely not.”
“You’re right—this is definitely making it clap.” I think I pulled a glute.
"The hell it is!"
He pulls back immediately. "Sorry, is that too weird?"
"Do that again or risk losing a limb," I threaten. We move in sync: Crispin turns to lean back against the arm of the couch, and I straddle his legs so I'm facing his knees. Crispin's fingers are less tentative but still gentle as he parts my cheeks. I feel a plump-lipped kiss in the space between hanging sack and puckered hole, then Crispin’s warm wet tongue trails from there to his goal. He wastes no time diving in there, tongue darting quickly inside me only to retreat again. My cock strains against the pouch of my jockstrap, but I can’t unclench my fingers long enough to do anything about it. Every lick makes me shake, and I have to press my forehead into the couch between Crispin’s calves.
“Why have we never done this before?” I ask breathily. I mean, it’s in all the porns. It’s not like I was unaware that it was an option, or anything.
Crispin’s mouth leaves my ass with a pop. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Does it really feel that good?”
“God, yes,” I reply.
He chuckles a little as he strokes the wet area with his fingertips. “So if I do this now…” A finger slides into me with only the question mark in his voice as a warning. My toes curl. I don’t know if it hurts or if it feels good; I’ve been trying my own fingers, but I can only reach so far. Crispin’s small, callused, slender digit is all my body needs to seize up in terror and anticipation.
“Whoa,” he says. “Try not to clamp down like that.”
I know what he means because I’ve been in his position, but now I get just how hard our first time must have been for him. Crispin’s expression is almost comically surprised when I turn around, finger still inside me, and grab his face to kiss him. He laughs against my mouth, and my lips press against his even teeth.
“Am I seriously that good?” he asks when I pull back.
It’s time for him to be unclothed. “Not yet,” I answer truthfully as I undo his bow tie, “but I get why you were so nervous about your first time.” How is it that the knowledge only makes me like him more?
"Are you really that nervous?" he asks, draping his free arm around my shoulders.
"Um, yes." His little white shirt buttons are next to fall prey to my hands.
"You'll be the biggest notch on my belt; I'm going to brag so much about this in college."
I laugh. "That's just mean."
"I'll change your name, of course,” Crispin comforts me as I unbuckle his pants, “but all the juicy details will stay the same."
I run my fingers over the front of his briefs. "Then you'd best make this the best I ever fucking have."
It’s weird to still be basically sitting on his hand, but at least I’m getting used to the feeling of having a foreign object inside me. The Village People finally shut up, and I grab my phone to change the soundtrack. Crispin takes the opportunity to pump his finger a couple of times, I think as an experiment to both of us. He’s watching my face.
“How are you doing?” I ask, pressing back against his hand. It’s not that it feels amazing, but his dick is starting to look huge by comparison. I need the practice.
With a blush that turns his cheeks a rosy bronze, he replies, “Okay? I mean, whenever you’re ready…”
“I’m ready,” I lie with a kiss. Hopping off the couch, I order, “Get nekkid, you.”
Crispin strips while I grab the condoms and lube, and I’m so tempted to tell him to leave the bowtie on. Oh my god, but with his MMA-worthy abs and his caramel skin, silky black hair and dark eyes…it’s only his honed reflexes that keeps us both from knocking heads when I jump him.
“Aaron!” Crispin exclaims, only slightly muffled by my mouth on his face.
He probably thinks that I’m super excited about getting fucked up the ass. I don’t know how to properly tell him that’s not it. I’m excited that Crispin will get to feel what I’ve felt and vice versa, but even I’m not sure just what is making me so hungry for him tonight. Do I have a tuxedo fetish?