As I prepare the first CRANK story arc for publication in novel format, I cannot resist sharing with you, dear Readers, a little of what was left behind in this arc. Third person POV has its benefits, but some weeks I do miss getting deep into Mike’s head while writing. This Interlude chapter, which will likely consist of at least four weekly posts, will be written in first person POV, from the secret thoughts of Michael Vranken. ~PV
I want you to fuck me.
Dear God, I loved when he talked like that, and Crandall, he loved to talk dirty. For all the complaining he’d done about Beryl’s sexual expectations, Crandall embraced that and more with me. He’d gone from “We just did it Friday” with her to “Sleep is overrated” just about every night, and while I wouldn’t be the one to point it out to him, the acceptance of his gay side must have been what turned those raunchy, orgasmic tides. I still found it hard to believe he’d never considered being anything but straight until the night we sat around smoking and talking, and the memory of his brother, Sam, returned. Crandall had been young when his brother got kicked out of the house for being gay – too young to fully understand why Sam left – but that night, he remembered Sam’s last day in the family, and wondered if he, too, might find men a more viable option.
I’d kissed him then, telling myself I did it for him — to help him decide — but the truth was, I had wanted to kiss him for a while, and though it had scared the crap out of me to step out of the closet to do so, I was glad I did.
In that moment of wandering memories, Crandall sat up. The cool air of his bedroom washed over my bare skin, chasing away the heat his body had left behind. I peeked up at him through half-closed eyelids, watching him move as he opened the square wrapper of a condom and then inched back to sit on my thighs. Oh, God, he’s going to make me come if he wraps me himself.
Instead of rolling the condom down my prick as it stood up straining toward him, he cocked his head to one side and said, “What are you thinking?”
“About fucking you,” I answered. My voice husky and low, almost breathless, I resisted an urge to roll my eyes. He loved to hear me vocalize my desires, the more vulgar the better. To say it turned him on would be a gross understatement. I wouldn’t admit it, but it was growing on me too, simply because Crank would get revved up, aggressive and hornier than before. Plus, if I said I wanted something, he’d do it. That didn’t work in any other aspect of our lives, except in bed.
“That’s it?” he asked. His grin was wicked as much as his gaze was hungry. In other words, I was in trouble, but I eagerly accepted.
“I was thinking–” The need for brain power to string a sentence together distracted me from that sliver thin edge I’d been teetering on, so close to blowing my load. He probably could roll the prophylactic over me now. Probably. “—that you’re in an interesting position.”
His lips fell open and his tongue darted over his teeth. “You want me to ride you?”
I nodded. My fingers flexed, digging into his thighs. They wanted to curl around my shaft, and his, and jerk us both off, but I knew if I could fight the urge and wait him out, the sex would be a hundred times more mind-blowing than simple masturbation.
“C’mon, man, stop teasing.” I whispered the words, but they held no hint of the desperation to be touched building in my groin.
Crandall laughed and leaned over me to smother me with a messy, open mouthed kiss. His stomach and cock collided with my own, and I threw self-control to the wind, arching up against him, rocking my hips and clutching at his ass to grind our hard shafts together. Moaning into his mouth I almost missed his faint whimper. Pulling away, throwing a net over my lust, I grinned up at him. He balanced on the verge of control, but he hid it better than I did. I knew that sound. It was a fraction of the song he’d sing just before he came – a whimpering groan of wanton lust and pleasure.
“Tell me,” he said. I couldn’t be sure, and I wouldn’t have suspected had I not heard it, but he seemed to suck in control simply to torment me further.
“Ride me,” I whispered, intentionally soft and quiet.
“What?” He toyed with the condom and I vaguely wondered if playing with the rubbers compromised them.
“Ride me,” I said louder. “Impale yourself on my cock, and ride me until you sing.”
Yes, sing. Better than any birdsongs I’ve ever heard, the keening moans of Crandall Jacobson coming with my cock sheathed in his ass were like dirty angels taunting the devil himself to raise his eyes toward Heaven one more time.
Up Next: Mike’s Interlude, part two