Abel Pedersen || Kinktober Day 8: Face-sitting

The air in Abel’s apartment was thick with the humid warmth of too many bodies and the bass-heavy thrum of a playlist Hector had put on. Empty red solo cups littered every available surface, and the scent of cheap beer and microwaved pizza hung in a familiar, college-party haze. Abel was wedged into the corner of the worn-out sectional couch, his long legs folded awkwardly to fit, his entire left side pressed flush against the warm, solid presence of his best friend. The contact was a constant, grounding hum beneath the alcohol buzzing in his veins.

On the other end of the couch, two of Hector’s friends from his engineering program were locked in a frankly impressive display of tonsil hockey. A low, appreciative whistle slipped past Abel’s lips before he could catch it. He tilted his head toward his friend, his voice a warm, slightly slurry murmur close to their ear. “Whoa. Look at ‘em go. They’re not even a couple, you know,” he confided, the words feeling loose and easy. “Just, like... friends. With benefits. Super casual.” He took a slow swallow from his own cup, the beer tasting like nothing but cold now. He let his gaze drift back to their profile, his thoughts turning syrupy and bold. “You ever had somethin’ like that? Just... no strings? Seems kinda nice, right? Just having someone you can... y’know.”

The idea, once spoken, took on a sudden, dangerous life of its own in the hazy space between them. His heart gave a hard, hopeful thump against his ribs. The warmth where their bodies touched seemed to intensify, spreading through his hoodie. He leaned in a fraction closer, the freckles on his cheek almost brushing their shoulder. “I mean... we could... if you ever wanted to... try that...” The sentence hung there for a breathless second, a fragile, foolish balloon he’d just let go of. Then, the reality of what he’d just suggested to his best friend crashed into him, cold and sobering. His eyes went wide.

“Pffft, nah, I’m just—I’m messing with you,” he backtracked, the words tumbling out in a rushed, nervous laugh. He forced a grin that felt too tight on his face, the blush already creeping up his neck in a tell-tale blotchy red wave. “Dude, I’m so buzzed. Speaking of drinks!” He seized on the excuse, his movements suddenly jerky as he untangled his limbs and stood up, the couch groaning in relief. “You need another one? I’m getting another one. Beer? Or, uh, I think there’s some gross soda left. I’ll find you something good.”

As he turned toward the kitchen, his eyes accidentally met Hector’s across the room. His roommate was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a single dark eyebrow arched so high it was nearly in his hairline. Hector shook his head slowly, a long-suffering, knowing look on his face, and rolled his eyes so hard Abel was surprised they didn’t fall out. The silent judgment was like a splash of ice water. Abel’s stomach dropped. Yeah, yeah, I know, he thought, mortification burning hot under his skin. He gave a weak, dismissive wave in Hector’s direction and practically fled into the relative sanctuary of the kitchen, his mind already racing to find a way to laugh the whole thing off as just drunk, stupid nonsense when he returned.

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The cheap digital clock on the nightstand cast a faint red glow over Abel’s bedroom, illuminating the swirl of dust motes dancing in the air. It was late, the only sounds the distant hum of a refrigerator from the apartment next door and the ragged, wet rhythm of Abel’s own breathing. His world had narrowed to the singular, overwhelming sensation of {{user}}’s tongue.

He was straddling their face, his hands braced against the wall above the headboard, knees sinking into the worn mattress on either side of their head. His own arousal, thick and heavy between his legs, was a secondary concern, a dull throb overshadowed by the exquisite torture happening just below it. A fresh, cool wave of saliva slicked over his balls and he bucked, a high, broken whimper tearing from his throat. "Oh, fuck, dude... ngh..."

This was their third time, this friends-with-benefits arrangement they’d stumbled into a month ago, and it was wrecking him in the best way possible. He’d offered it as a joke, half-hoping they’d say no so he could bury the longing again, but they’d agreed with a casual shrug that had sent his heart into a frantic tap-dance against his ribs. Now, here he was, presenting himself like an offering, his ass on their face and his dignity long gone, all for the devastatingly skilled mouth of his best friend.

He felt the flat, warm press of their tongue drag slowly, deliberately, from the very base of his sac all the way up the sensitive seam of his perineum. The journey was agonizingly slow, and Abel’s knuckles were white where he gripped the wall. "Mmm, right there... ah, shit..." he moaned, his head dropping forward. His long, coppery hair fell around his face, sticking to his sweaty temples.

Then the tip of their tongue found its true target: the tight, nervous ring of his asshole. It circled once, a teasing, gentle pressure that made his entire body jolt. He was hyper-aware of every detail: the scratch of his own sweatpants, bunched around his thighs, against his skin; the way his left knee, the bad one, was starting to ache from the strain of holding the position; the clean, soapy scent of {{user}}’s shampoo mixing with the musk of his own arousal. The tongue pressed inward, not demanding entry but tasting, exploring, and Abel felt a shudder wrack his broad frame. A string of incoherent praises and pleas fell from his lips, a mix of English and the Spanish his mother used when soothing him as a child. "Sí... por favor... don't stop, please don't stop..."

He was so exposed, so completely vulnerable, and the trust that thrummed beneath the arousal was almost as dizzying as the physical sensation. This was the person who’d seen him at his worst, hobbled and hopeless on crutches, and now they were seeing—and tasting—a different kind of raw need. The intimacy of it was a live wire. His cock, neglected and dripping, twitched against his stomach, a fresh bead of precum smearing onto his skin. He was whimpering constantly now, a soft, desperate sound that was utterly at odds with his large stature. He was putty in their hands, or rather, under their tongue, and the sheer loss of control was the most thrilling thing he’d ever experienced.

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