Nautilus

He bent over, touched his toes, a high-pitched defiance from his thighs. He did it again. And again. Tips of fingers into the hair on his toes. Then against the wall, one leg back, the foot forward and flat, leaning. This muscle complaint more subtle, more of a groan than a shriek. Pulling, pulling. Then the other foot, the other shin, his cheek pressing into the wall. Onto the floor then, his legs apart, toes pointed. He leaned over one leg, grasped his foot in two hands and pulled until he could kiss his leg. It hurt. Terribly. He had to anyway. To the other leg, foot held, nose down, pain and dismay against the mat. A few rotations of his torso, left, right, left right, his elbows in the air. His arms pulled behind his back, across his front, balance in the distortion. His fingers were loosened, his forearm taking the brunt shock. Finally, his reward. He dropped back into a half somersault and remained there, his legs in a triangle above his face, his cock there. He opened his mouth and sucked it in.

He licked the tip, felt the instant sensation given to him, the shock in his balls. He bent his neck more, dropped his knees a little. Around the tip, now, beyond the tip. He rocked, bouncing his knees, pulling his shins up. Inside, out, in, out, like he was teasing himself. A bottle of lube was just off the mat and he reached for it. His lips pressed hard into himself, knew where his spots were, rubbed them cautiously. He opened the bottle and poured some lube into his hand, difficult at this angle, but he was practiced. Enough to coat, not so much that he would get a lot in his mouth. He wrapped his hand around the his cock and rubbed. It was all about his tongue now, the tastebuds against the skin, a glow encouraged out of him. He tasted his own precome, something he’d gotten to love, and sucked for more.

His neck ached, but it was a familiar ache, one that meant sex to him. His back complained, but that’s just what it did. The pleasure was more than enough to suffice, this kind of gratification, intimacy with oneself, and the knowledge that he could. Of course, he could never take his time here, and rubbed quickly at himself, the lube taste mixing with the precome in his mouth, sweet and chemical. His tongue rocking and holding, rocking and holding.

And there, a light beginning to be coaxed out of his balls, and his body wanted to straighten. He forced himself to stay. He stroked faster, his legs bending at the knee. He sucked a farewell to the tip of his cock and let it go, his mouth open, teeth exposed. He let his strokes cover more, moving up. There was a low note in his body, the beginning of anything by Beethoven, then a climb and more fighting his muscles. His mouth let out a gasp but his eyes weren’t closed long. They watched, fascinated, as he shot out, heard it against his teeth, felt it on his lips, one shot directly at the back of his throat and swallowed before it gagged him. The taste, a full one now and everywhere, tart and savory and organic. And his. All his, his own funk and his own delight.