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No Words I kissed him. Deeply, tenderly. And he never said a word. Roughly, bruisingly. Still, he never said a word. I ran my hands down his sweat-slicked chest and pushed him down on the bed. I asked him if what I was doing was alright, but he just nodded. I hesitated, unsure. But he just pulled my head down and pressed his lips against mine, opening his mouth against mine, rubbing his tongue against mine. The first time, I wasn’t gentle. Neither was he. We rushed to get our clothes off -- the faster the better. We both tripped while trying to get out of our jeans. It would have been funny if the mood hadn’t been so desparate, so wanting, so NEEDING. Having had more experience, and an endless supply of hope where he’s concerned, I located the lube in my sock drawer and squeezed some of the cool liquid onto my fingers, warming them a bit before approaching him where he lay on the bed, legs spread wide in both dare and invitation. With one hand I grasped his already hard length and stroked slowly. With the other I plunged a finger past the ring of muscles and into the warm heat of his anus. His back arched with the invasion -- whether with pain or pleasure I will never know, most likely some unequal combination of both. But he never made a sound. We both wanted to fuck and be fucked. We didn’t want this to be beautiful or touching or sweet and tender. We wanted the mindless, completely physical release that two bodies can give each other. I plunged another finger into his tight sheath and his face contorted with pain and pleasure. Not wanting to wait longer, I stroked his arousal faster and inserted a third finger, stretching him, making him writhe. He grasped the tube I had left lying on the side of the bed and spread some of the liquid onto his own hands. Not caring to warm the liquid first, he grabbed my own cock and pulled me closer, positioning it for entrance into him, not hearing or not caring as I hissed at the cool liquid that touched my burning arousal. Removing my fingers from inside him, I brought his legs up over my shoulder and thrust inside. For a moment it seemed as if we were suspended timelessly in that moment. That first enveloping moment lasting forever as his muscles clenched tightly around me in pleasure and protest. Both in welcome and rejection. But there was no way we could have stayed motionless in the pleasure of that first moment. We were both eager for the end, and trying to get there as fast and hard as possible. He lowered his legs and rolled his hips and the movement sent me back into that vortex of sensation. I pulled out -- almost all the way out -- and his slick hands grabbed my ass in a bruising grip and *pulled*, pushing me back inside him with bruising force. But it only excited us further. I pumped in and out fast and hard and I could almost *hear* him moaning, wanting it faster and harder, although he never said a word. My teeth clenched, I could feel myself approaching climax. I reached down and grasped his own erection, and began to stroke it slowly but very firmly in counterpoint to our wild thrusting. His face contorted into a grimace and I knew he, too, was on the verge of coming. I ran my thumb around the head of his penis and pressed into the slit at the tip, wiping away the moisture there at the same time as I thrust deeply into him, hitting his prostate, and pushing us both over the edge. I screamed his name as I came. He voiced a gutteral moan that turned into a sigh of immense satisfaction. He still hadn’t said a word. That was the first time. It hadn’t been the last. Not by a long shot. But somewhere along the way, it changed. Even when I was fucking him, I was also making love. I don’t think that it was mutual, though. When I was being fucked, I was being *fucked*. Without words.
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