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A double bed and a stalwart lover, for sure
These are the riches of the poor
"I Want The One I Can't Have," The Smiths
“Do you want breakfast?” the man asks.
All that Meng Yao had dared to want was a decent fuck in a dark corner of the park from someone who agreed to wear a rubber when he asked without too much grumbling. But, unusually for him, he’s on a run of good luck. He had ended up receiving a very good fuck—two orgasms’ worth over a few hours with a nap in between—from a good-looking man in a real bed, and he didn’t have to walk home in the cold after. So he’s going to ride this out. See how long his luck can hold.
“Yes,” he says. “Please.”
The man kisses his shoulder blade, and Meng Yao sinks into the mattress and squeezes the pillow, contorting it into a more comfortable shape. It’s soft and weighty—real down feathers.
“You like tacos?”
“For breakfast?”
“Trust me.”
The man’s mustache tickles as he continues his trail down Meng Yao’s bare back. Meng Yao squirms again, wrinkling his nose.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay, sure.”
The man presses a smacking kiss right on top of a big purple hickey, and then he gets out of bed and jumps to his feet. They are in a loft—tall windows, no curtains, bright morning light gilding his body. Meng Yao turns over to look. Between the streetlights and the solitary bedroom lamp, he had only gotten the vaguest of impressions of what the man looked like. Big. Healthy.
He takes a good accounting now. The man is tall—over six feet—and built. Thick arms, thick legs. Tapered waist, but enough fat on him that Meng Yao thinks he probably does manual labor, not one of those guys where it all comes from the gym. The hair on his chest is starting to go grey, which is probably premature—there is no grey in his coal-black hair and only the faintest of fine lines around his eyes and his forehead. Thirty, maybe. He has a strong, square chin but strikingly delicate cheekbones.
There are other parts of his body that Meng Yao is much more familiar with, but he reacquaints himself anyway. The thick steel rings in his nipples—they left a metallic taste on the tip of his tongue. A tattoo of a crooked Chinese pine tree on his right bicep, and an ox on his left inner thigh. Meng Yao had tasted that, too, dragged his tongue up it, up the crease of the man’s sack, nuzzling his face in the dense, dark pubic hair. He’d put the condom on with his mouth, a handy little trick that was more difficult last night than it usually is. He eyes the man’s cock in daylight and is no longer ashamed of the fact that he had to stop and unroll most of it with his hands. Even soft, it is plump enough to make a good mouthful.
The man steps into a pair of navy blue briefs. He catches Meng Yao looking and leans down to brace one hand on the mattress and steal another kiss.
“Is your name still A-Yao in the morning?” he murmurs against Meng Yao’s lips.
“For you, yes it is,” Meng Yao says, with a nip of the teeth. The man laughs, a low rumble in his chest.
Meng Yao hasn’t asked for his name. He doesn’t particular want it, and the man respects his not-wanting.
The man straightens and goes downstairs. Meng Yao waits for a moment, and then he gets out of bed. He shivers. Last night, he had been hovering in the park for over half an hour, and the apartment had felt plenty warm in comparison. But it’s January, and these shitty industrial lofts are hard to heat—the one advantage of the little prewar shoebox he shares with Xue Yang.
As quietly as possible, he snoops through the man’s wardrobe. There’s a lot of leather—pants and chaps, two kinds of vests, a jacket—which doesn’t surprise him. The man wasn’t wearing gear last night, but he seems like the type. He thinks he’s right in his assumption that the man isn’t white-collar, because there aren’t many of those. One obligatory black suit and an accompanying dress shirt for weddings and funerals, but mostly t-shirts and jeans. There’s a pair of jeans crumpled on the floor—light wash, with rusty smears of what looks like blood just below the pocket. He wonders.
Another violent shiver interrupts his investigation. Meng Yao rummages through the drawers and finds a Raiders sweatshirt that covers his ass and a pair of heavy woolen socks. He looks at himself in the full-length mirror and frowns. Too scrawny. Finger-shaped bruises on his thighs and his wrist that make him look like the victim in a PSA about battered women. But there isn’t much he can do about that, so he goes downstairs.
His jeans are strewn across the bottom step, his shirt across the back of the couch, and his jacket puddled just inside the door. He retrieves them all and folds them neatly, laying them on the arm of the couch. His host is bent over, rooting around in the fridge. A coffee maker on the counter hisses and gurgles.
“You want coffee?” he asks.
“Thanks.”
“How do you take it?”
“Just a bit of sugar.”
The man pours him a cup. He adds a full teaspoonful of sugar, which is too much, but Meng Yao doesn’t complain. He takes a sip and wraps both hands around the mug.
“Can I use your phone?” he asks. “I need to check in with my roommate.”
“Sure,” the man says, pointing at the end table by the couch. “It’s good you look out for each other.”
“You don’t know him.”
Meng Yao curls up on the couch and dials. It rings a few times, but then there is a beep as the machine picks up.
“Hey, it’s me,” he says. “It’s…” He cranes his head, looking around for a clock, but doesn’t see one. “…morning.”
“9:30,” the man calls.
“9:30 in the morning. I’m in the Village—I’m going to grab some breakfast and be back later today. In case you gave a fuck.”
The man snorts. Meng Yao drinks deeply from his too-sweet coffee, and then he turns around and sits up on his knees, leaning over the back of the couch.
He watches the man cut tomatoes. It is delicate work—he angles the knife carefully, catching at the smooth skin of the fruit before slicing. Meng Yao never hears the knife touch the board. He slices two, and then dices them and sweeps them into a bowl, juice and all. Next he dices a red onion. Hard and fast, sharp thwacks of the knife, cutting it into pieces so fine they sparkle like broken glass when he adds them to the tomatoes.
Garlic after that—Meng Yao can’t quite see the little bulbs, hidden by the man’s big, square hands, but he smells the pungent odor from the couch. Herbs, something milder. A green chili plucked from a can. Then a lime. He rolls it against the cutting board first, kneading it with the palm and the heel of his hand. Meng Yao remembers how good it felt to have the man’s hands on his lower back, massaging as he waited for Meng Yao to adjust to the sensation of being speared open on his cock. That’s it, baby, in his deep voice. Good boy, take it just like that.
He takes a sip from his coffee so that he will have a reason to be blushing.
The man cuts the lime in half and squeezes it generously over the bowl. He tosses in a few shakes of salt and cumin, then turns the whole mixture over with a spoon before setting it aside. He’s humming to himself, slightly off-key. Take On Me, Meng Yao realizes, and he smirks, but the man’s deep voice fades out before he has to attempt to hit the falsetto.
Next, he flips open the lid on a carton of eggs. He cracks them into a fresh bowl—one-handed, whacking each against the flat expanse of the counter rather than the edge of the bowl. There is a pint of half-and-half sitting next to his own coffee cup. He dumps some in the eggs, along with salt and pepper, and whisks it all together with a fork. There are people who would pay good money to watch this man whisk eggs. His prodigious arm muscles bunch and flex, and his entire chest jiggles, nipple piercings catching the sunlight. Meng Yao hears the low hiss of gas.
“Is there something in the oven?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’ve got meat reheating. Shouldn’t take long.”
The man reaches into a cabinet above the stove and takes down a wok, and Meng Yao can’t stop his surprised snort.
“What are you chirping about, little chickadee?” the man asks, looking over at him with a grin. He has dimples when he smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle.
“You need a wok to cook tacos?” Meng Yao asks in Cantonese. The man’s smile flickers, his lips pulled tight. Meng Yao is wondering if he should apologize when the man jerks his head at the stove.
“C’mere. I need help for this part.”
“I can’t cook,” Meng Yao says warily as he unfolds himself from the couch. This is the main way in which his mother spoiled him; she couldn’t buy nice clothes or new toys, and they didn’t have the money for Boy Scouts or vacations, but she would be damned if her son ever had to lift a finger in the kitchen.
The man tugs him closer, and presses a kiss to his temple.
“I think you’ll manage.”
There is a second pan on the stove, a flat, square one. The man turns on the burner and puts a spatula in Meng Yao’s hand. He points at a bag of small flour tortillas.
“Just put those in there. A minute, maybe 45 seconds per side, then onto the plate. It’ll soften them up, and once we start assembling we’ll have to go quickly.”
“Okay.”
The man turns on the burner underneath the wok, too, and adds a stream of oil with what seems like unnecessary flair. Meng Yao heats the tortillas. He tries to fit three on the pan, but there is too much overlap. Two at a time, then. The man adds the eggs to the wok and swirls them around with a pair of chopsticks, but then he lets them sit as he nudges Meng Yao aside so he can take the meat out of the oven.
The smell of cooking meat makes Meng Yao’s stomach rumble. It’s rich and smoky, with a hint of spice. The man pokes at it and makes an approving sound. He gives the wok another swirl and a toss, and then he picks at the meat with his chopsticks and it falls apart.
“Look at that,” he says, satisfied. “Barbacoa. Beef cheeks. Four hours in the oven on Friday—I kept a couple pieces whole so they wouldn’t dry out.”
“Smells good,” Meng Yao comments. They work in silence for a moment. The man turns off the wok burner, and Meng Yao asks, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” the man says, raising an eyebrow.
“Girlfriend?”
“No,” he drawls, mockingly.
“Nobody spends four hours cooking anything unless they have someone to impress.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” the man asks with a smile.
“No.”
“Be honest with me, A-Yao,” the man says, hooking an arm around his waist. “Your roommate?”
“I mean, I’ve fucked him,” Meng Yao says with nonchalance as he tosses fresh tortillas on the stove. “But he’s not my boyfriend.”
“I’m a butcher,” the man says. “I take my meat very seriously… and my brother came over for dinner Friday.”
He picks up a piece of the shredded beef and holds it to Meng Yao’s lips. Meng Yao opens his mouth to take a bite, but the man doesn’t let it go. Meng Yao’s eyes flicker up to meet his. He opens his mouth wider, takes in the barbacoa and the tip of the man’s index finger. A burst of flavor on his tongue: smoked chipotle and garlic, fatty beef. It melts in his mouth and slips down his throat, and then he’s just standing there with the man’s finger in his mouth. He sucks at it, slurps off the last bit of grease, and flicks it with his tongue.
“Hungry?”
“Mm.”
The man takes the spatula from his unresisting fingers. He flips the tortillas, and then he takes down a second plate and starts to distribute them. Meng Yao is no longer necessary. He is free to watch as the man assembles each taco: spoonful of scrambled eggs, chopstick-bite of barbacoa, sprinkle of crumbled white cheese, dollop of sour cream, spoonful of salsa. He picks up both plates.
“Get the coffee,” he tells Meng Yao.
Meng Yao refreshes his own mug first, then he picks them up and follows after him. There is a kitchen table, but the man goes back to the living room instead. He puts the plates down on the coffee table, which is made of four wooden crates, on their sides and nailed together. He tosses two enormous throw pillows on the floor and takes a lumpy Mexican blanket out of one crate. There are condoms and lube in another, Meng Yao notices. There’s a coffee table book, too—the cover is a black-and-white photo of a man dressed in a suit with his hands behind his back. Respectable, but staring out at the camera with a hooded gaze that sends a tingle up Meng Yao’s spine and makes him take a second look; the model is hard in his nice dress trousers.
The man pats the pillow. Meng Yao sits down and the man tosses the blanket over their legs.
“This is cozy.”
“Heating in this place is a pain, I know,” the man says with a shrug. “I run hot, so I usually don’t notice. Sorry.”
“I don’t mind the cold,” Meng Yao lies shamelessly, curling up so his knees are covered by two layers, both blanket and sweatshirt. “I’m tougher than I look.”
The man doesn’t take the bait. He sips his coffee and gestures at the plate.
“Maan maan sik.”
Smiling to himself, Meng Yao picks up a taco. He folds the tortilla and takes a bite. It’s delicious—the eggs are fluffy, melting with the meat and the cheese. The sour cream is cool, the salsa fresh and bright. He can’t believe he’s never thought to have tacos for breakfast before—what the hell is wrong with him?
“Fuck,” he says as a droplet of juice runs down his wrist. He swallows and puts the taco down. “I’m getting your sweatshirt dirty—sorry—”
“Don’t worry about it,” the man shrugs around a mouthful of his own. “There’s a laundromat in the building next door. It’s fine.”
He grabs Meng Yao’s hand and licks the shining line. Meng Yao snatches it back.
“Get your own,” he teases.
The man laughs. They eat in peaceful silence; Meng Yao realizes only now that he is ravenous, and he barely remembers his manners as he wolfs down the three tacos on his plate. He sits back against the foot of the couch and realizes, embarrassed, that the man hasn’t even finished his second yet. The man notices and pushes the plate towards him.
“Here.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You want it?”
Yes.
“I can’t take your taco.”
“A-Yao.” The man rolls his eyes. He reaches over and wraps his arms around Meng Yao’s waist, then hauls him into his lap. “You feel this?” he asks, shoving his stomach against Meng Yao’s back. “You think I’m hurting for a meal?” He hooks his chin over Meng Yao’s shoulder. “There’s leftovers. Eat the damn taco.”
Meng Yao gives in. He savors it, and on the last bite he lets out a sigh and leans back against the man’s chest.
“Good?” the man murmurs in his ear.
“Mmm.”
The man’s hand travels under the sweatshirt and settles on Meng Yao’s stomach. Meng Yao squirms a little; he is very aware of his soft cock brushing against the thick, rough cotton of the blanket, his bare thighs against the man’s lap. But he forces himself not to care. The man rubs his stomach, slowly back and forth, and Meng Yao settles with a soft sigh.
“Too skinny,” the man mumbles.
“’M poor,” Meng Yao says, because if he doesn’t he knows there is a chance the man will settle on one of the other easy explanations, like I’m a junkie or I’m sick. But then, inexplicably, he keeps talking. “My job sucks. Benefits got cut. I—”
He closes his mouth.
“You on your own?” the man asks.
“Yeah.”
He wants to sit up and reach for his coffee, for something to do with his hands. But he’s warm and comfortable, so instead he keeps talking.
“My mom’s dead,” he says.
(He knows that when people hear he’s not in contact with his parents, they think it’s because he’s been cut off. He doesn’t like them thinking about her like that. He is adamant in his belief that his mother would still love him if she had known he was gay. This may be a lie, but there are worse lies he could tell himself.)
“Dad’s just a deadbeat. A rich one, no less.”
“Worst kind.”
“Yeah,” he huffs.
“My parents are gone, too,” the man says. “Mom when I was a kid. My dad…” He blows out his cheeks. “Twelve years ago now. Almost thirteen. That’s why.... My dad didn’t speak much English. My brother and I were born here, but he was worried if he spoke to us in Chinese too much, it would hold us back. I’ve got bits and pieces, you know, but I haven’t used it much since he died. It goes away.”
Meng Yao puts his hand over the one on his stomach. He interlaces their fingers.
“You still haven’t asked my name yet,” the man says.
“No.” Meng Yao turns and kisses his jaw. “Won’t do much good at this point, though. I should be heading out.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“Because I have an apartment. Which is where I live. So I should… live there.”
“Mmm,” the man says. His other arm comes around Meng Yao’s middle. “No rush, though, right?”
He has nothing to say. The man’s nose trails up the side of his neck. He bites the lobe of Meng Yao’s ear, then the shell, presses a sloppy kiss to the cartilage.
“You know why we’ve been having such a good time?”
“I’m very charming.”
“You are. And because we get each other. Don’t we?”
“We don’t know each other,” Meng Yao says. “All I know about you is that you’re a good fuck and a good cook.”
“And all I know about you,” the man says, his deep voice a comforting purr against Meng Yao’s torso, “is what I knew as soon as I saw you lurking around that park last night. You were a boy looking for his daddy. Isn’t that right?”
Meng Yao shivers. Not from the cold. From… he’s not sure what. He feels like he is being offered something he has never even considered—like when he was fifteen, when Xue Yang snuck a water bottle full of vodka to school and they mixed it with a can of grape juice from the vending machine. Had he liked it? Hard to tell. He had liked being bold enough to try it. He had liked the fact that Xue Yang looked at him and thought him worthy of offering.
“I don’t really do… long-term,” Meng Yao says when he can be sure his voice is steady.
“Not yet, you haven’t. Are you telling me you don’t want to be spoiled, A-Yao?” He laughs to himself. “A-Yao. Don’t tell me the last guy who bent you over in the bushes got to call you A-Yao.”
The last guy hadn’t gotten a name. He hadn’t been as good, either. Meng Yao reaches up and runs his hand over the back of the man’s head, playing with his hair.
“You’d spoil me?” he asks, which is really two questions. He wants a yes or a no, and he wants details.
“Yeah. Take care of you. Buy you presents. Fatten you up,” he says, pinching his stomach. “Four-hour slow-cooked meat just for you, baby. Show you a good time so you don’t have to go out shivering in the dark to get some good dick. I’m not rolling in money—I’m not saying it’ll be champagne and caviar, but I make a decent living and I’d treat you right.”
Meng Yao thinks about the papers he’ll pick up on the way home and read at the rickety table in his kitchen (which is also his living room, which is also Xue Yang’s bedroom). There’s going to be an article about his father putting up some gaudy new building somewhere and photos of his half-brother cavorting around town with the young, the beautiful, the rich. There’s going to be obituaries. His neighbor is going to be complaining loudly to her husband that the hot water is already out, and Xue Yang is going to be trembling on the couch, coming off his high and retching at any breakfast that isn’t Cocoa Puffs. They might be out of Cocoa Puffs. He needs to get groceries on the way home, but not too many, because he doesn’t have his coupons and he doesn’t qualify for food stamps anymore.
When Meng Yao was first on his own, when he first got out of foster care, conditions like these only made him more determined to claw his way up. He wanted money, respectability, respect, the family name. Now he’s not so sure. His envy has been curdling into resentment. He has spent so long suffering the negative consequences of being the underclass that he’s started to revel in the unique pleasures, too. Cruising. Smoking in dive bars. Getting drunk on cheap whiskey on the fire escape. Going home with strangers and helping himself to a little souvenir on the way out—sometimes to pawn, sometimes to keep. (He’s thinking of walking out in these socks.)
But he’s never had a proper lover before. That’s a strange concept to him, somewhere in between decorous and scandalous, and he’s not sure what to do with it.
“Monogamous?” he asks.
“What’s mine is mine,” the man says firmly. Meng Yao isn’t sure if that was the answer he had hoped for or feared, but he kind of likes the growl in the man’s voice, the way his hand wraps around Meng Yao’s thigh. “But… I could be willing to share, on occasion. With someone who asks nicely and lets me watch.”
It’s not a bad offer.
“What else?” Meng Yao turns around. He settles himself firmly on the man’s lap; the sweatshirt rides up, and he can feel the man’s cock stirring in his briefs. “What are your kinks? I’ve heard some of those daddies in the Meatpacking District are real perverts,” he says, looking up from under his lashes.
The man laughs. His hands find Meng Yao’s hips, fingers spread wide.
“Well, I like a bit of leather,” he says. “You found that in your snooping, didn’t you? So yeah, I’d want you to come with me to some of those scary pervert bars… the ones that stick around, anyway,” he adds, almost to himself, and for a moment there’s a flicker of sadness and tiredness in his eyes that does make him look older. Thirty-five, maybe, instead of thirty. It doesn’t seem important enough to ask. He cups Meng Yao’s chin. “Don’t worry, baby—I’d protect you. Beyond that… my kink is finding out what my boy likes. We come up with the rules together. I enforce, you follow. It’s that simple.”
“What if my kink is breaking rules?” Meng Yao pouts, and the man smirks.
“Then we should decide on punishments, shouldn’t we?”
Meng Yao thinks about it. Part of him feels chafed—the part that insists he can handle himself, that he is clever and hard-working and he can earn the comforts of an easy life on his own merit. The part of him that always believed his mother when she said things would get better. It’s one of Meng Yao’s guiding principles, that Mama was always right.
But… but. When was the last time someone made him breakfast? When was the last time someone bought him presents? When was the last time someone wrapped him in blankets and cuddled him until the goosebumps went away? When was the last time anyone did anything to help him out instead of kicking him when he was down?
(Kicking him down a flight of icy steps in front of a nice brownstone on the Upper East Side. That’s the sort of kindness Meng Yao has come to expect from a father figure.)
He rests his palms flat on the man’s bare chest and pouts. The man’s eyes zero in on his lips and he feels a pleasant tingle up his spine. It feels good, to get attention just like that—it feels like it can’t possibly be that easy.
“I haven’t said yes yet,” he murmurs.
The man’s eyes flash. He pushes the sweatshirt up, arm settling low on Meng Yao’s waist.
“When you do… remember to say ‘yes, daddy.’”
With a sharp crack, his hand collides with Meng Yao’s ass. The power behind that one blow is incredible—Meng Yao gasps and jolts forward. He can feel the heat rising where he was spanked, and in his face. He looks up at the man with glassy eyes and finds a satisfied smirk.
“Like that?” the man asks.
“I—huh…?”
The man spanks him again in the same spot.
“Do you like it?” he asks, slow and deliberate. He slaps him again on the other side. Meng Yao swallows.
“Yes. I—”
The man spanks him one more time, going back to his sore cheek, and Meng Yao cringes away from him—closer to him—and whimpers. He can feel his cock twitching between their bodies.
“Yes, daddy,” he breathes.
“Good boy.”
The man holds him by the neck and pulls him in for a kiss. Then his hand trails down and takes him by the throat.
“How about this?”
Meng Yao is hyper-aware of his pulse, fast and light against the man’s fingers. He’s frightened of this. He’s frightened of—men. He always has been. The things they can do, the power in their bodies, in their audacity, their willingness to hurt. He’s frightened of men and he desires them. He presses his throat harder against the man’s touch.
“Just hands?” he asks. “Some guys wear dog collars, too, right?”
“I think you might be a pervert, baby,” the man chuckles.
“Yes, daddy. I like it.”
He puts his other hand to Meng Yao’s neck. His thumbs push Meng Yao’s jaw up so he is staring at the exposed pipes of the ceiling, and he can feel it as his adam’s apple bobs, as he tries to get his pulse under control. He breathes shallowly and closes his eyes.
“You’d look pretty in a collar, A-Yao,” the man murmurs. “Pretty in a lot of things. What about bondage? What if I wanted to tie your wrists and ankles to the bed—make you take whatever I wanted to give you?”
“I would hate that,” Meng Yao blurts without thinking. The man yanks at his hair and pats his face—not exactly a slap, but almost. He gasps.
“What do you say?”
“It’s… not a no, daddy. I…” He licks his lips. He feels like he’s floating, like he’s high, and putting his thoughts together is like speaking a foreign language and pulling the words from a dictionary one by one. “I want you to decide. I want you to… know what’s best for me.”
“Mmm.”
The man kisses him, brutally, powerfully, tenderly, prising his mouth open and stealing the breath from his lungs. Meng Yao is hard—he feels absurdly small in the man’s lap, in his oversized sweatshirt and the wool socks slumping around his ankles. He grinds down against the man’s erection and feels hands on his thighs, lifting him up and dropping him, bouncing him in his lap.
“That’s it,” the man pants in his ear. “You want it?”
“Daddy—” He’s clumsy with the word. It tastes strange on his tongue. “Daddy—”
The man dumps him on the couch. Meng Yao’s torso is hanging over the arm, knocking all of his clothes to the floor, and the sweatshirt slips so everything below his collarbone is exposed. The man bites his thigh and holds his cock in the flat of his palm; he kisses the head and down the shaft, sucks Meng Yao’s balls briefly in his mouth. He pulls Meng Yao’s cheeks apart to expose his hole to the chill morning air. Meng Yao is bracing himself for a finger—hoping for lube but not that picky—and he gasps at the press of lips.
“What are you— oh my God.” The man laps at his hole with such insistence that he almost feels foolish at his own astonishment. “I can’t believe you’re— oh, fuck. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
It is obvious the man is as experienced and skillful at this as he’s been at… everything. His tongue spears Meng Yao and then softens, teasing at his rim. He kisses and licks and fucks him open, hands massaging his ass as he growls and rumbles like this is good for him, too. Like he loves it.
“What do you think, baby?” he asks.
“What do I—?”
The man spits on his hole and Meng Yao whimpers, burying his face in his folded arms. His face is on fire but he is canting his hips back, begging for it.
“Want me to stop, boy?”
“N-no— no, daddy, I like it.”
“You like it when daddy eats your asshole?”
He twists the cuffs of the sweatshirt in his hands.
“Yes. Fuck, yes.” He looks over his shoulder and swallows, trying to get a handle on the situation. “Fuck me, daddy. Please. I want your fat cock splitting me open.”
“The mouth on you,” the man laughs. He cups Meng Yao’s chin and kisses him; Meng Yao squeaks but he can’t protest, held there as the man plunders his mouth as thoroughly as he’s just kissed his hole. “Dirty boy. Told you I was going to take care of you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“Hold yourself open for me.”
Meng Yao puts his head down and spreads his ass. And then he waits. And waits. And waits. He hears the crinkle of a foil packet and the faint sound of a cap coming off a container. He feels the man kneeling on the couch behind him and the air stirring.
“Look at that,” the man breathes, uneven, like he’s jerking off. “Greedy little hole begging for this dick.”
He slaps his heavy cock in the crease of Meng Yao’s ass. Meng Yao jumps, caught off guard, but just as quickly he’s shifting his hips back, ready to sink on the man’s cock. The man slaps him again, lazily. Lets his cock drop. Picks it up again, strokes it so his knuckles brush Meng Yao’s cheeks. Meng Yao shoves his hips back more insistently, and the man grabs his waist and holds him still. He makes a mockery of fucking him, rolling his hips so his cock slides between his cheeks. It catches on the rim once and Meng Yao sucks in his breath—but the man only lets it slide through his crack, slippery with lube.
“Please,” Meng Yao begs. He’s shocked to realize there are tears in his eyes. “Give it to me, daddy, please, please—I want it—I want it so bad—”
“Shh, sh, sh.”
The man leans over him. He’s so tall that he brackets Meng Yao completely with his legs and his arms, looms over him and presses a tender kiss to his temple.
“Relax, baby. I told you I was going to take care of you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah…”
“Gonna give you what you need.”
He reaches down and grabs his dick, toying with Meng Yao’s rim, pushing just the tip past the tight ring of muscle. Meng Yao’s lips are clamped tight, stifling his moan.
“Uh-uh.” The man scrapes teeth against the side of his neck. “Open up, A-Yao. I want to hear you.”
“Ah—ahhh,” Meng Yao whines as the man slowly and deliberately pushes inside. His voice goes high and breathy. “Fuck. Fuck. So big. Fuck, you’re so big, daddy—”
“Can you take it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, give it to me.”
“Good boy. Good boy, look at you—fuck, so pretty. So pretty opening up on my cock.”
Finally, his hips are flush with Meng Yao’s ass. Meng Yao feels like his whole body is trembling. He doesn’t know why he’s so on edge—this isn’t anything they didn’t do last night—but it feels like more, so much more, when the man is grabbing onto purple bruises and his spit is cooling on Meng Yao’s ass and Meng Yao is stuffed full and warm and calling him daddy.
“I’m gonna come,” he mumbles dazedly. “I’m gonna come.”
The man reaches around and gives his cock a fond squeeze. Meng Yao feels so small in his hand, in his arms.
“Go ahead, baby. Go ahead, come for daddy.”
He punctuates it with a hard thrust, and Meng Yao gasps. His hole is squeezing the man so tightly that he can barely withdraw, but he still fucks Meng Yao, grinding in with short, deep thrusts that make him wail. Meng Yao shakes when he orgasms, almost as quickly as he had threatened. He clamps down and then he relaxes, and has barely a moment to catch his breath before the man is riding him with renewed vigor.
“Look at you,” the man growls. “Fuck, baby, you should see yourself. You were made for this.”
“Yes, daddy,” Meng Yao slurs. “Mm—mm—”
“Fuck.”
The man pulls out. He breathes heavily for a minute, sweating despite the chill in the room, and then he sits back against the couch, his legs spread wide. He strokes his dick, root to tip, and pats his thigh.
“Come here, baby.”
Meng Yao climbs into his lap on shaking legs. The man kisses him lazily for a long time, and then he turns him around. He works his cock into Meng Yao’s hole again and leans him back against his chest, and then he fucks him. Meng Yao feels like a doll, his legs held together as he is bounced up and down on the man’s cock. His head lolls on the man’s shoulder and he drifts, moaning wetly against his neck.
“Just like that,” the man breathes when he’s close. “Yeah, just like that, baby, fuck—”
He growls in Meng Yao’s ear when he comes, jerking against his ass and squeezing his hips hard enough to leave fresh bruises. They lie there together for a long time, breathing deeply. Meng Yao turns his head and kisses him, and the man brushes hair off his forehead.
“What now?” Meng Yao asks. The man huffs.
“Still not satisfied?”
“I mean…”
“I know what you mean.” The man kisses his nose. “You wanted to go back to your place.”
“Yeah.”
“Shower first?”
“Yeah,” Meng Yao sighs, running a hand over his sticky stomach.
“I’ll walk you back. And after that… got dinner plans?”
Meng Yao shakes his head.
“Then I’m going to take you to dinner.”
The man stands and helps Meng Yao to his feet. He kisses him again, then points him towards the bathroom, with a firm pat on the ass and an assurance there are clean towels waiting.
“By the way…” he calls when Meng Yao reaches the door. “Nie Mingjue.”
“Hm?”
“My name,” the man says, his eyes sparkling. “It’s Mingjue. Just in case you were wondering.”
Meng Yao huffs and crosses his arms.
“Why would I need to know that, daddy?”
“Cheeky little brat,” Mingjue calls after him as Meng Yao closes the bathroom door behind him.
He turns and leans back against the wood, running a hand through his hair and trying to catch his breath. This whole morning is like a dream—on the other side of a door, he’s not sure he can believe in it. There’s luck and then there’s lucky, and Meng Yao isn’t lucky.
He turns on the shower and strips out of the socks and the sweatshirt. He sits on the edge of the tub, waiting for the water to warm, and thinks about the apartment he grew up in. Never enough hot water there, either, even when it worked. His mother made it into a game, a race—she would wait outside the bathroom door in her robe and shout “Go!” while Meng Yao took the fastest shower he could, threw a towel around himself and sprinted out on slippery feet. His mother dashed in after him. On lucky days, Meng Shi had enough hot water to rinse the conditioner out of her long, silken hair. On unlucky days, Meng Yao would be shuddering before the soap had even worked up a lather.
Mama, he thinks. I met a nice man last night. He let me borrow his sweatshirt and he’s a good cook. He made me go for seconds—he says he’s trying to fatten me up. But he made me help.That’s probably for the best, right? I’m a grown adult, now. I should know how to cook.
The water is running hot. Meng Yao steps in and tilts his face towards the warm spray with a happy sigh. He runs a hand down his stomach and feels water sluicing through drying cum, trickling over last night’s bruises. He grins wryly. He is confident that his mother would like Nie Mingjue—his skills in the kitchen, his kindness, and the superior good taste he has demonstrated by choosing to like her son. As for the rest… well, she doesn’t need to know.