"Jacob and SF"
Standard disclaimers: this story describes consensual sexual activities between adult, fictional men; if this sort of material is illegal for you to view or possess, don't. Do, though, donate to the Nifty Archive: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html.
While I've both written lots of erotica before on other platforms (RIP Tumblr) and have been a religious Nifty reader for years, this is only my second story on Nifty (the first was "All American Boy Next Door," at https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/all-american-boy-next-door), so I'd love to know how it struck you. Please do email me at booksmut@gmail.com if you enjoyed it, hated it, or had any reaction to it at all!
This is an odd story, because I didn't write it for myself.
I was ordered to write it to please another man--a man named SF, in fact, whom I met online during the pandemic and who spent the early months of the summer of 2020 tormenting me with insults, tasks, and the occasional rare but precious glimpse of his cock. (Unlike the sub in the story below, I was never deemed worthy of seeing one of SF's face pics.) At one point he asked me to write a story to turn him on, a story about him fucking the kind of twinks he loved in the way he loved to fuck them, and so I did, and this was the result. Because it was written to cater to someone else's tastes, there are parts of what follows that would be different if I'd written it on my own--for example, I'd never have a dom refer to someone else as "beta," but SF did, so the story's SF does. But it didn't feel right, somehow, to make changes to this. It's my story, sure, but in many ways it really belongs to SF.
And naturally, it's dedicated to him.
Jacob was sure that everyone else on the train knew.
He knew that was silly, that that was stupid, in part because what exactly it was that he suspected everyone on the train knew, what it was that he feared that they knew, wasn't even really clear to himself. That the reason he kept checking his phone over and over again was to see if he'd gotten a message? Everyone else was on their phones, too. That he was on his way to suck, service, and hopefully get fucked by a man he'd never actually met? I mean, this was San Francisco: he doubted he was the only guy in the train car about whom that was true, much less the only guy on the train.
Part of him knew he must just look like any other twenty-two year old college kid headed from Berkeley into the city. And after all, Chrissie, his roommate, hadn't known. When she'd caught him looking at himself in the bathroom mirror in different outfits all afternoon until he settled on what he was wearing now---a black v-neck t shirt that hugged his trim, muscled frame, and a pair of baby blue shorts that gripped the swelling curve of his ass---she'd known he was preparing to meet a guy, and gave him shit about it, sure. But she certainly hadn't acted like someone who knew how he'd spent the last week, every since answering that ad on Reddit: in various stages of splayed undress on his bed, fingering himself and fucking himself and filming himself for an older man he only knew as "SF," and whom he only ever referred to as "Sir." He checked his phone again, but there weren't any new messages since SF had sent his address, his apartment number, and a time. Jacob looked up and caught the reflection of his face in the BART window, his mousy brown hair and nondescript green eyes and the lips he hoped were full.
When he pressed the buzzer for SF's apartment building twenty minutes later, he thought he might hear SF's voice through the intercom, telling him to head on up or something. But no: Jacob buzzed, and then the door buzzed, and then Jacob was out of the lobby and walking through the building to the unit SF had told him to go to. He stood outside the door for a minute, staring at it. He didn't know what he expected to see; he hadn't had any actual reason to think it would look any different than any other apartment door, but somehow he didn't expect plain wood. He expected something special, somehow, some sign that the man who lived there had kept him waiting on his every text for the past week, had kept him hard, had kept his asscheeks spread and his dick leaking and his head feverish until even though he hadn't really wanted to meet up, even though he didn't like to meet up with guys so quickly, even though he was theoretically looking for a relationship and not just to get fucked by some guy across the Bay, here he was. He could hear music coming from the other side, though, and that--the knowledge that SF was there, on the other side, and that soon Jacob would be there too--made him swell in his tight shorts. He knocked.
SF had sent him a face pic, and in Jacob's downtime the past week--that is to say, in between SF's messages, while scrolling through the old ones and waiting for the next one to come--he'd studied it, poured over it, jacked off to it, but it was still different seeing him in the flesh. He smiled at Jacob--and that was new; he hadn't been smiling in the pic--and let him in, closing the door after him. Jacob walked through the front hallway and into the living room, and couldn't help but smile himself as he turned back around to face SF.
But SF wasn't smiling any more. "Get on your knees, beta."
Jacob's smile fell as he did. He dropped to his knees on the wood floor and something in his stomach dropped at the same time, dropped at the way SF called him "beta" so casually, the way he said "get on your knees" so coolly, as if he were offering Jacob a glass of water.
SF stared down at him. He was barefoot, wearing lounge pants in green wrinkled cotton under a black shirt of his own. Jacob licked his lips, both out of hungry instinct and because he wanted SF to know how eager he was, but also because he wanted SF to want him, too. SF cocked his head, and reached down and ran his hands through Jacob's hair, stroking it--not quite affectionately, not warmly, but curiously, the way you handle something you're thinking about buying.
"What are you, beta?" SF asked, furrowing his brow.
Jacob froze. It was a question that expected a certain answer, and he wracked his brain thinking of what it could be, running through his conversations with SF frantically in his head until he found the answer. When he did, he could feel the flush break out across his face and neck.
"I... I'm a faggot, Sir." He throbbed in his shorts.
SF smiled again, widely, and then he swung his hand just as wide, and the slap almost knocked Jacob over.
"That's okay," SF said, and it took Jacob a minute to realize it hadn't been a question, hadn't been "that's okay?", hadn't been SF checking to make sure the slap was within Jacob's limits. (Jacob wasn't sure it was.) Instead it was a simple statement: "That's okay," excusing Jacob's faggotry, as if SF knew Jacob was a faggot and was doing him a favor by using him anyway. Jacob's face burned harder, along with his dick.
SF sat down on the couch and pushed away the coffee table with his foot. There was a drink on it--just the one, Jacob noticed--and a remote control and a small bottle of poppers and a larger bottle of lube. SF spread his legs and nodded down at the floor, and Jacob knew--he wasn't sure how--that he should crawl over between them, rather than stand up and walk.
Once there he sat back on his ankles. SF reached a hand out to him, and Jacob flinched; SF cooed.
"Shhhhh..." he said, stroking his thumb across Jacob's cheek. "It's okay, beta. It's okay. I've got you. You're gonna be a good boy for me, beta, right?" He nodded encouragingly, and Jacob nodded along. "Yeah you are. That's it. What're you gonna be?"
"A... a good boy, Sir."
"Attaboy, beta." He patted his cheek--more gently than he'd slapped him, but less gently than you'd pat anything but livestock. "Now why don't you strip."
Still kneeling, Jacob pulled off his tshirt in one fluid motion, baring his chest--entirely smooth and topped by two nipples that were pebble-hard and the color of cotton candy. When he reached down to undo the fly of his shorts, though, he paused and looked down at himself, watching his stomach move as he took ragged breaths. SF had seen him naked before. SF had seen him naked all week, as he'd ordered Jacob to strip and perform for him and as Jacob had tried to keep SF's interest with unbidden selfies and videos when SF's attention lagged. SF had seen every inch of him, but still, he paused before unbuttoning his shorts and sliding them off along with his briefs. This, in person, was different. There was no hiding anything, no fiddling with angles or any possibility of coy dissembling. His dick--his "beta dick," he reminded himself; that was how SF had ordered him to refer to it in their conversations--made secrets impossible, made the thought of lying to SF impossible: as it bobbed there, hard, ramrod-straight and smooth, each drip of precum weeping from the head made plain just how much Jacob wanted SF, and how much he wanted SF to want him in return.
He could see that at least part of SF wanted him, though. There was a bulge in those green pants, curled along SF's right thigh, and SF reached down to run his long fingers along it and to pull the cotton tight against its length, to outline for Jacob what exactly was waiting for him. Jacob whimpered and bit his lip. SF chuckled.
"Fuck yeah, beta. You want this?"
Jacob nodded, wildly, his cock bouncing as his head did.
SF chuckled again, and then slowly--slowly, too slowly, too fucking slowly, Jacob thought--pulled his pants and briefs down over his cock. Jacob had seen it in pictures before, too--it's what he'd come to every time he'd jacked off for the last week, at least whenever he wasn't coming to the face pic SF had sent, or even just to his messages--but it was different in person, more real, more substantial, thicker and heavier and angrier. It wasn't the biggest dick Jacob had seen, but it was the rawest, the ugliest, the one that looked the most dangerous and bestial. It looked mean: a blunt and weeping head on a gnarled shaft straddled with bulging veins, the whole thing rising out of a dense, dark thatch of pubes.
Jacob started by burying his nose right where SF's thigh met his crotch and breathing in, deeply. The smell was rich and potent, dark, musk and perspiration and a smell that Jacob couldn't identify but that swept his brain clean of any desire but the desire for more of it. He reached out his tongue and lapped at SF's balls, tasting the sweat on them before licking up the shaft, pressing his tongue flat against it to catch each vein. He looked up at SF's face as his tongue reached the mushroom head--he knew what that kind of look could do--but SF's eyes were closed. He swirled his tongue around the tip and then took it into his mouth, his jaw stretching around the head as he pressed his lips tight to the shaft and moved down. He bobbed, sucking first slowly, then softly, trying to get SF to look at him, and then finally SF did. He opened his eyes and stared down at where Jacob was spearing his face on his cock, and Jacob tried to put on his best cocksucker eyes, his best look of need and desperation--which was what he felt, anyway--and yes, SF reached out to touch his hair, to stroke him, and something clicked deep inside Jacob, some switch was flipped as he saw SF's smile, as he knew he pleased him.
But SF's smile continued, went on, twisted into a grin as he twisted his hand in Jacob's hair and used it to pull Jacob down, his cockhead knocking steadily at the back of Jacob's throat and demanding entrance. Until it wasn't knocking anymore, until SF was forcing it, was fucking Jacob's throat and all the boy could do was gag and sputter and cry, his hands pressing against SF's hairy thighs to try to get some leverage, some purchase to unfuck his face from SF's meat. And then suddenly he knew he really couldn't take any more, because pain was exploding from his crotch, bright purples bursting behind his eyes in synesthetic bursts of agony.
SF had kicked him in the balls.
Jacob pulled off of SF's cock with a choking cry and reached down instinctively to cradle his sack as he whined, hanging his head and screwing up his face in pain.
SF leaned back and spread his hairy thighs even further. His dick lurched up and over, swinging as he shifted, and he reached down to take it in his hand, wrapping his fingers around its veined, hairy length, now gleaming with the wet sheen of Jacob's spit and its own pre.
"Go on," he said. "Show me your hole."
Jacob sniffled, and shuffling around on his knees bent himself over in front of the couch. He couldn't use his hands to support himself--they were reaching behind him to spread his ass open for SF's appraisal--so he rested his cheek against the rug that lay between the couch and the coffee table, the full weight of his prone and vulnerable form on his knees and his face. He felt the cool air hit his asshole and he shivered, and felt it clench; he imagined what it looked like, vulnerable and exposed as the two pale globes of his buttocks were pulled taut away from his center. He reached in toward it with the index finger of his right hand and played with it, danced his finger around its margin; he could feel it, tight and pink and winking. Each time the rounded tip of his finger brushed over it he groaned a little, or whimpered, or whined, and the sound of his own mewling would temporarily drown out the slow and steady sound of SF fucking his own wet fist.
He felt the cold splat almost as quickly as he heard the sound of SF spitting, and then SF was down on the floor behind him, kneeling with him. He grabbed Jacob's wrists in one hand and pinned them to the small of his back, driving Jacob's face gasping further into the carpet, as with his other hand he grabbed the gnarled length of his cock by the root and slapped it against Jacob's tight pucker.
"You want it, faggot?" He spat on Jacob's hole again, and when he slapped it with his cockhead it stung all the more because it was wet.
"I... yes Sir," Jacob said, half into the carpet. "I want it."
"Good," SF said, and pushed in.
Jacob yelled. He'd been fingering himself all week, but still he expected some foreplay, something other than SF just unceremoniously breaching him on his living room floor. He tried to squirm away, but SF's fingers were locked tight around his thin wrists, and so he couldn't pull away from his cock, just twist around it, which only made SF grunt.
"Fuck, you're a tight fucking faggot."
SF pushed forward, slowly, inexorably, groaning as he buried himself in Jacob's pink and silken heat until he bottomed out, until Jacob could feel the wiry press of SF's pubes against his ass and the elastic of SF's lounge pants against the backs of his thighs. He let go of Jacob's wrists and Jacob's hands flew underneath himself, pushing himself up, but before he could try to pull away SF had reached down and hooked an arm underneath him, pinning them together. His other hand twined in Jacob's hair, pulling his head back. He slid out, slowly, Jacob feeling each inch, every vein as his hole gripped SF's slick shaft, and then SF pushed back in, fast, until Jacob sighed like he'd just gotten the wind knocked out of him. Then again, faster, and again, faster still, until SF was pounding him there, quick and hard, rutting him like a dog, like a beast, like an animal, his furred hips slapping against the smooth skin of Jacob's ass. SF pulled him up, looping his arm around Jacob's neck and holding him tight against his older body. His other hand found Jacob's mouth, and as he slid his fingers in and out of Jacob's lips--still swollen from the facefucking--he kept up a steady stream of filth in Jacob's ear.
"Fuck you're a tight little bitch, faggot, aren't you? Aren't you? I'm surprised. Would have thought you'd be opening yourself up for a different guy every night." He traced the crown of Jacob's ear with his tongue. "Would have thought you wouldn't have been able to get enough of this, beta. This is what you're for, right? This the only thing you're good for? Getting. Fucked. By. Men." He punctuated each word with a sharp snap of his hips before settling back into his rapid, slapping rhythm. "You like the taste of that? That's what you like, huh? Giving it up to some hairy older guy you just met? Letting him rape that sweet fucking twink pussy? Letting his rearrange your guts for kicks? Letting him seed it? Then lick it up. You're gonna leave here with me leaking out of you, beta. Gonna leave here with my seed trickling down that faggot thigh. Gonne leave here... oh fuck... fuck... gonna leave here with my fucking... fucking load... oh fuck!"
He bit down on Jacob's shoulder as he seeded him, but Jacob couldn't hear his own cry of pain over SF's grunts as he pulled Jacob even closer, as he twitched against Jacob's body, Jacob's body that was red and already bruising with the marks of SF's rough handling. And then SF let him go, and Jacob slid off of him with a squelch. By the time Jacob caught his breath and pushed himself steadily off the ground, SF was already back on the couch, drink in one hand, phone in the other. His cock, still wet and somehow angry, lay softening between his furred thighs.
Jacob waited for--for he didn't know what. For SF to stroke him off, for SF to tell him he could stroke himself off, for SF to talk to him, for anything, but SF was smiling at something on his phone, at something that wasn't him.
Jacob stood up; he could feel SF leaking out of his pink and puffy hole and down his thigh.
"Thanks, Sir," he said, as he slid his shorts and t shirt back on, because he didn't really know what else to say.
SF just nodded, and said "Anytime, beta," and Jacob knew that if he had any balls he'd tell SF to fuck off.
But he knew he didn't. And he knew he wouldn't. And he knew he'd be back.