Chapter 13: Dante’s First Time with a Guy
The city had become a carpet of cold lights by the time Kenny finally moved from the sofa. Dante’s world had narrowed to the persistent, throbbing ache between his legs and the rigid discipline required to keep his hands clasped behind his back. Every minute had been an eternity of silent, straining anticipation.
Kenny stood, his silhouette cutting across the cityscape view. He didn’t speak. He simply glanced at Dante, then turned and walked down the hallway toward the private wing of the penthouse. It wasn’t a request. It was a silent command woven into the fabric of the entire day.
Dante unclasped his hands. The muscles in his shoulders screamed in relief and fresh protest. He followed, his bare feet silent on the polished floor, the hard evidence of the day’s torment leading the way. The hallway felt miles long. The hum of the central air conditioning was a low buzz in the walls.
Kenny’s bedroom door was open. Dante entered the spacious, shadowed room. The scent was different here—jasmine, clean linen, and the faint, expensive trace of Kenny’s cologne. Before Dante could register more, he saw Kenny cross to a panel on the wall. With a soft click, the steady hum of climate control ceased. A new silence, thick and expectant, descended.
Kenny then went to the broad balcony door and unlocked it, pulling it open just a few inches. The night air, warmer and carrying the distant murmur of the city, seeped into the room. It was a deliberate act. The heat would build. The air would grow close.
Turning, Kenny finally approached. He walked into Dante’s space with a possessiveness that made Dante’s breath catch. His hands, cool from the metal door handle, came to rest on Dante’s hips. They didn’t stay there. They traveled upward, a slow, mapping ascent over the ridges of his abdomen, the defined planes of his chest, the column of his throat. Dante stood perfectly still, a statue awaiting its destiny.
Kenny’s fingers slid around to the back of Dante’s neck, curling into the short hair there. He applied gentle pressure, pulling Dante down those few inches until their mouths met.
The kiss was not soft. It was a claiming. Kenny’s lips were demanding, his tongue sweeping in to taste him. Dante, after a stunned second, yielded. A low groan vibrated in his chest as his own hands came up, gripping Kenny’s biceps, not to push away but to anchor himself. The spark that had been smoldering in his gut all day erupted into a wildfire. His cock, already heavy and sensitive, jerked against Kenny’s clothed thigh, hardening to an almost painful degree in an instant.
Kenny broke the kiss, his own breathing slightly ragged. He searched Dante’s face, his thumbs stroking the pulse points under Dante’s jaw. The city’s glow lit the amusement and dark intent in his eyes.
“Have you ever had sex with a man before?” Kenny asked, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.
The question hung in the humid air. Dante’s professional history, his personal life, everything he understood about himself, collided with the acute, humiliating proof of his arousal pressing between them. He forced the word out, raw and honest. “No. I haven’t.”
Kenny’s smile was a slow, wicked thing. “Hm. I guess tonight will be the first of something for you.”
Before Dante could muster any reply—a protest, a confirmation, a plea—Kenny kissed him again, swallowing any sound he might have made. This kiss was deeper, wetter, a preview that left them both breathing hard.
Then Kenny stepped back. His eyes never leaving Dante’s, he began to undress. It was not a seductive strip. It was methodical. The soft sweater pulled over his head. The trousers unfastened, shoved down his hips. He stood finally as naked as Dante, his own erection evident, the power in the room tilting on a new, terrifying axis.
“Lie on the bed,” Kenny said.
Dante moved to the vast expanse of silk and linen. He lowered himself onto his back, the sheets cool against his overheated skin. He felt immense, awkward, laid out like an offering.
Kenny climbed over him, knees bracketing Dante’s hips, his weight settling. He kissed Dante again, a slower, more exploring kiss that tasted of wine and control. Then his mouth began to travel. He kissed the hinge of Dante’s jaw, his tongue flicking out to trace a tendon pulled tight with tension. He moved down the strong column of Dante’s neck, sucking a mark at the base of his throat that made Dante arch off the bed with a sharp gasp.
Lower. Kenny’s lips closed around one peaked nipple. He didn’t just suck. He worried it with his teeth, laving it with his tongue until it was a hard, oversensitized peak of raw sensation. Dante cried out, his hands flying to Kenny’s head, fingers tangling in the soft curls. He didn’t know if he was trying to pull him closer or push him away. Kenny gave the same treatment to the other nipple, biting just shy of true pain, turning the once-ignored nubs into twin centers of blazing, shocking pleasure.
Kenny trailed lower, his tongue dipping into the shallow well of Dante’s navel, making the muscles of his stomach quiver violently. But he didn’t go further. He moved back up, returning to the ravaged nipples, sucking them deep into his mouth again, and now the sensation was too much, a direct line of fire to Dante’s cock, which lay thick and leaking against his own stomach.
Dante was panting, a broken litany of “fuck… oh god…” escaping his lips. Every coherent thought, every shred of his military discipline, was being systematically unraveled by a mouth and a relentless, playful will. He was floating in a haze of need, the heat of the room and the heat in his blood becoming one indistinguishable, consuming thing.
He was floating in a haze of need, the heat of the room and the heat in his blood becoming one indistinguishable, consuming thing. Kenny sat up, straddling his chest, and looked down at him with a gaze that was both tender and merciless.
“You taste like sweat and restraint,” Kenny murmured, shifting his weight. He reached for the nightstand drawer, the wood sliding open with a whisper.
His hand emerged with a sleek, unlabeled bottle. “Japanese lube,” he said, as if naming a fine wine. “I’m gonna apply it onto your cock…make it nice and lubey and I’m gonna ride you, okay?”
Dante just stared up at him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His silence was his answer, his surrender. He kept quiet as Kenny did what he said he would do.
Kenny squeezed a generous amount onto his palm. It was clear, with a viscous, stringy quality. He took Dante’s throbbing length in his hand, and the touch was electric. The lube was different—it was sticky at first, clinging to his skin with a gelatinous warmth before it smoothed into a slick, seamless glide under Kenny’s practiced strokes.
“Oh, fuck,” Dante hissed, his head pressing back into the pillow. The sensation was unreal, the friction replaced by a wet, perfect slide that made his hips jerk upward involuntarily.
Kenny coated him thoroughly, from root to tip, spreading the excess with his thumb over the swollen head. He watched Dante’s face the entire time, noting the clench of his jaw, the helpless roll of his eyes. “Look at you,” Kenny breathed, a note of awe in his voice. “All that control, just for me.”
Then Kenny moved. He rose onto his knees, positioned himself, and guided Dante’s slick cock to his entrance. He claimed it, sinking down in one slow, inexorable motion.
He took him in completely, sheathing him to the hilt. Kenny’s body was a tight, blazing hot vise, and he witnessed Dante’s reaction.
Dante’s eyes flew wide open, a guttural, shattered sound torn from his throat. It was a raw noise of penetration, of shock, of overwhelming fullness. His hands flew to Kenny’s hips, his fingers biting into the skin as his entire body seized.
“Breathe, baby,” Kenny commanded softly, his own breath hitching. He began to move, setting a deliberate, rocking rhythm. His hands braced on Dante’s chest, feeling the hammering heart beneath.
Kenny rode him with a fluid, hypnotic grace. Up and down, his hips rolling, each descent a deep, taking plunge. The sticky lube created a wet, obscene sound with every connection, a slap of skin and fluid that filled the humid room.
Dante could only take it, his world narrowed to the sensation of being buried inside a tight, clutching heat. His prior stiffness melted into a shaky, unraveling tension. Pleasure, sharp and foreign, built with each drag along his oversensitive flesh.
This went on for what felt like an eternity, a rhythmic torture that had Dante’s toes curling into the sheets. Sweat gleamed on both their bodies. Then Kenny began stroking his own cock while riding Dante, his fist moving in time with his hips.
The visual was devastating. Kenny, lost in his own pleasure, milking himself while being speared on Dante’s cock. Dante’s breath came in ragged pants. A deep, instinctual possessiveness cut through his subjugation.
He paused Kenny with a firm grip on his hips. Without a word, Dante sat up, the movement driving himself even deeper inside, making Kenny gasp. He carried Kenny with him, his arms hooking under Kenny’s thighs, and moved back until his own back was against the carved wooden bed backboard.
He settled there, Kenny still impaled on his lap, and motioned for Kenny to continue with a look that was no longer just surrender. It was a challenge.
Kenny grinned, a wild, approving flash of teeth. He took one of Dante’s arms and put it behind Dante’s own head, folding it at the elbow. He took Dante’s other hand, the one scarred from old fights, and wrapped it around his own leaking cock.
“Stroke me,” Kenny whispered, guiding Dante’s grip, showing him the pressure. “Like that. Yes.”
Dante did so, his large hand moving clumsily at first, then finding the rhythm Kenny’s hips were still setting. He stroked Kenny’s hard flesh, feeling the silken skin and the fierce pulse beneath. Kenny started kissing him then, a deep, messy kiss that tasted of shared salt and surrender.
Kenny started kissing him then, a deep, messy kiss that tasted of shared salt and surrender. Dante met it with a ragged hunger, his hand still working Kenny’s cock in the rhythm they’d found. The dual sensations were unraveling him—the tight, slick clench around his own shaft and the heavy, living weight of Kenny in his fist.
He tore his mouth away, a strangled confession ripping from his chest. “Oh god this feels so good I wanna cum.”
Kenny’s hips stuttered, but he didn’t stop moving. He leaned his forehead against Dante’s, his breath hot. “This lube increases sensations and delays orgasms, remember?” His voice was a thick, pleased rasp. “It’s like your nerves are wide open but the finish line keeps moving.”
A desperate, broken sound escaped Dante. His hips jerked upwards, seeking deeper friction, a release that danced just out of reach. “For how long more?”
“I’m not sure,” Kenny murmured, sliding his lips along Dante’s stubbled jaw. He resumed his slow, grinding ride, each lift and drop an exquisite torment. “But I’m not complaining. I’m enjoying myself.” He punctuated the statement with a deliberate, rolling thrust that made Dante’s eyes roll back.
Dante kept quiet, the only sounds now the wet slap of skin and his own ragged breathing. He surrendered to the rhythm, letting Kenny use his body, his hand on Kenny’s cock becoming automatic. Pleasure built in a relentless, cresting wave that broke and re-formed without yielding, a maddening loop of almost-there.
After five minutes of this, Kenny stilled completely, pressing down to seat Dante to the hilt. A full-body shudder wracked Dante at the sudden lack of motion. Kenny kissed him again, slow and deep, swallowing his gasp.
To his surprise, Dante’s hips automatically moved, a small, abortive thrust trying to continue the rhythm. It was instinct, a physical plea beyond his control.
Kenny smiled against his lips and pulled away from the kiss. “Eager,” he breathed, the word a dark compliment. He began moving again, that same infuriatingly perfect pace, and moved his hands to Dante’s nipples. He plucked and rolled the sensitized nubs between his thumbs and forefingers, sending fresh, electric jolts straight to Dante’s core.
Dante cried out, his back arching. The combined assault was too much. His discipline, his resistance, the last vestiges of his straight, professional identity dissolved into a single, blinding need to finish. To be finished.
This continued for ten agonizing, rapturous minutes. Dante’s world was the twist of fingers on his chest, the searing grip around his cock, the sweat-slick slide of their bodies. He was a live wire, every nerve screaming.
His hand on Kenny’s cock moved faster, his grip tightening, his strokes becoming urgent and uneven. He was chasing it now, desperate to give Kenny what he himself was being denied.
Kenny’s rhythm fractured. “Fuck, Dante—yes, just like that,” he choked out, his hips losing their perfect cadence to shallow, frantic jerks. His nails bit into Dante’s chest.
With a raw, guttural shout, Kenny came. Thick, hot stripes of cum painted Dante’s torso, landing on his stomach and across his heaving chest. Kenny shook through it, his inner muscles clamping down in rhythmic pulses around Dante’s still-thrusting length, milking him brutally.
Kenny collapsed forward, spent, his forehead resting on Dante’s shoulder. His breath was a hurricane against Dante’s neck. The scent of sex and salt and that peculiar, sticky lube filled the space between them.
Dante was left pinned, unbearably hard, his own need a frantic, throbbing cage inside the very man who had just found his release. Kenny’s cum cooled on his skin, a stark, tactile reminder of his service. Of his unfinished state.
The humid room seemed to press in on them, holding its breath.
The humid room seemed to press in on them, holding its breath. Kenny’s weight was a warm, slack heaviness on Dante’s chest, his own cum a cooling patch between them. Dante’s own cock, still impossibly hard and buried deep inside that clinging heat, throbbed with a demand that was a physical agony.
Kenny stirred, lifting his head. His eyes were dark, sated pools. He studied Dante’s face—the strained cords of his neck, the parted lips, the sheer undiluted want. A slow, knowing smile touched his mouth.
“You’re still so hard,” Kenny murmured, his voice husky with use. He shifted his hips, a tiny, internal clench that made Dante gasp and his hands fist in the sheets. “That lube really is something else, isn’t it? All that feeling with nowhere to go.”
“Kenny,” Dante breathed, the word a plea and a curse woven together.
“I know, baby. I know.” Kenny pressed a soft, almost chaste kiss to his lips. Then he braced his hands on Dante’s shoulders and began to move again.
It was a different rhythm now, languid and deep, a relentless, rolling grind. There was no frantic chase for his own finish. This was pure administration. Dante cried out, his head thrashing side to side on the pillow. The overstimulation was brutal, a gorgeous torture, each drag along his shaft a lightning strike straight to his spine.
“Just take it,” Kenny whispered, his breath hot against Dante’s ear. “You’ve been taking it all week. All those days of watching, of standing there with your hands behind your back while you ached. This is what it was for.”
Dante could only groan, his hips lifting to meet every downward plunge. The room, the city, his past—everything dissolved into the synaptic fire of this friction. The special lube amplified every minute sensation, turning the slick clutch of Kenny’s body into a universe of textured, wet heat.
Ten minutes unfolded in a timeless, sweat-slicked haze. Kenny rode him with a hypnotic, devastating steadiness, his eyes locked on Dante’s unraveling. Dante’s breath came in shattered, rhythmic sobs. He was trembling, a fine, constant vibration in his limbs.
Then he felt it—a coiling deep in his gut, a tidal pressure building beyond the point of containment. It was different from anything he’d ever known, a seismic wave gathering from seven days of denied release, from a lifetime of rigid control.
“I’m— fuck, I’m gonna—” The warning was torn from him, raw and desperate.
His back arched violently, his torso lifting completely off the mattress in a bowstring-taut curve. Every muscle seized, defined and rigid, a statue of imminent eruption. Kenny saw it, felt the internal clench beginning, and his languid pace vanished.
“Now,” Kenny commanded, and he pistoned himself up and down with a frantic, slapping speed.
The world went white.
Dante came with a sound that was ripped from the root of him, a guttural, broken shout. It wasn’t a release; it was a detonation. Seven days of edged, accumulated tension erupted in one cataclysmic surge.
His cock pulsed violently, each jet a convulsive shock that racked his entire frame. It felt endless, a torrent emptying him of everything—seed, will, thought. His vision sparked at the edges, his hearing drowned in the roar of his own blood.
Kenny didn’t stop. He kept fucking him through it, his movements turning sharp and brutal, milking every last spasm. Dante’s body jerked and shuddered beneath him, completely beyond his control, a puppet of raw nerve endings. A second, weaker wave hit him, a sob wrenching from his chest as his oversensitive flesh was ruthlessly stroked inside and out.
Finally, with a ragged groan of his own, Kenny stilled, collapsing forward. His full weight dropped onto Dante’s heaving chest, driving the last of the air from his lungs.
They lay there, a tangled, sweating mess. The only sounds were their ragged, overlapping gasps for air, fighting to slow the frantic pounding of their hearts. Kenny’s face was buried in the sweat-damp hollow of Dante’s neck. Dante’s arms, somehow, had come up to circle Kenny’s back, holding him there as the aftershocks quietly trembled through his veins.
The humid air carried the thick, unmistakable scent of sex and spent lust. Neon from the skyline painted a faint, shifting blue across the ruined sheets, the glistening skin, the still-joined heat of their bodies.
Neon from the skyline painted a faint, shifting blue across the ruined sheets, the glistening skin, the still-joined heat of their bodies. Time dissolved into the rhythm of their slowing breaths, Kenny’s weight a solid comfort on Dante’s chest. The world was this room, this sweat, this strange, quiet aftermath.
A few minutes passed. They hadn’t moved from their position. Kenny’s cheek was pressed to Dante’s sternum, listening to the hammering heart begin to steady. Then he felt it, a slight but undeniable fullness, a persistent hardness that hadn’t softened within him. The peculiar lube was doing its lingering work, keeping the nerves alive and singing.
Kenny sat up, the movement making Dante inhale sharply. He looked down at the man beneath him. Dante’s eyes were closed, his breathing just starting to even out, his body lax in a way Kenny had never seen. A faint tremor still ran through the muscles of his thighs.
“You’re still hard,” Kenny whispered, the words a hushed revelation in the quiet.
Dante’s eyes opened. They were dark, blurred with spent pleasure and a dazed confusion. He seemed to assess his own body, the undeniable evidence still buried inside Kenny. A low, disbelieving groan escaped him. “That fucking…lube.”
“Mhm.” Kenny began to move again, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. The slide was still slick, still perfect. Dante’s hands came up to grip Kenny’s waist, but not to guide him. His fingers dug in, anchoring.
Then Dante stopped him. His grip tightened, stilling Kenny’s motion. There was a new intention in the pressure of his hands, a decision cutting through his haze. With a surge of strength that was purely instinct, he shifted their combined weight.
He moved Kenny, flipping their positions with a controlled force that left Kenny on his back amidst the tangled silk. Dante hovered over him, his cock still seated deep inside, his arms caging Kenny’s head. The city lights framed his broad shoulders, his expression unreadable in the shadows.
This time, he was on top.
He started thrusting. It was not the playful, grinding rhythm Kenny had set. These were deep, measured, powerful drives of his hips, each one punching a soft, wet sound from Kenny’s lips. Dante lowered his head and captured Kenny’s mouth in a kiss.
It was nothing like before. It was deep, consuming, and messy. A raw claiming. Kenny wrapped his arm around Dante’s neck, his fingers tangling in the short hair at his nape, and held the kiss. He opened for it, letting Dante’s tongue explore with the same relentless intent as his cock.
Dante fucked him like a man trying to outrun a ghost. Every thrust was a solid, breathtaking impact. Kenny met each one, his heels digging into the small of Dante’s back, pulling him in deeper. The wet, slapping sounds of their connection filled the room, a filthy, honest cadence.
“Is this—” Dante broke the kiss to gasp, his forehead damp against Kenny’s. “Is this what you wanted? All those fucking days?”
“Yes,” Kenny hissed, arching beneath him. “This is exactly it.”
Dante kissed him again, swallowing the words. He settled into a punishing, sustainable rhythm, his body moving with a brutal, efficient grace. Ten minutes unfolded in a relentless, sweaty continuum. There were no more questions. Only the slick friction, the taste of salt, the solid weight driving the air from Kenny’s lungs.
Kenny’s hand slid between them, grasping his own cock, stroking in time with Dante’s thrusts. The dual sensations blurred. He was being split open and wound tight all at once.
Dante’s control began to fracture. His rhythm faltered, becoming ragged, desperate. The kisses turned into open-mouthed pants against Kenny’s shoulder. “I can’t— I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” Kenny urged, his voice ragged. “Come inside me. Now.”
The command shattered the last of Dante’s restraint. With a ragged, broken shout that was almost a sob, he drove in once, twice more, and then stilled, buried to the hilt. Kenny felt the hot, violent pulsing deep within him, a second, shocking flood that seemed to draw every remaining ounce of tension from Dante’s body.
Dante collapsed, his full weight a crushing, perfect pressure. He trembled violently, a long, silent shudder that seemed to go on forever. Then, finally, he went utterly still.