Roll the Dice (FtM/M, Queer, LGBTQ Erotica, vaginal, body worship, natural body)

A small bag with several gelatin caps sat between them on a beat-up coffee table. Rory sat across from Mike, a pillow of separation between them, a pillow of breathing room. Under his brightly coloured hair, perfectly groomed and spilling the scent of palm oil and shampoo, Mike inspected the bag himself. The caps were clear gelatin, and the crushed-up translucent, purple diamonds tumbled over themselves, with just a little air in either cap. “So, this is it." Mike regarded them as “free-range, organic, farm-raised, fair trade—Bonafede Molly."

The ribbing tease made Rory’s eyes roll. He was a taller but far more svelte creature, almost willowy in his oversized sweater, the very same one that ate up his short shorts, almost like he wasn’t wearing a pair at all. His long legs were pale and admittedly chilly in the apartment air. Rory pulled his sweater over his knees and adjusted in the couch seat. “Something like that.” Agreeing, yes, it was the Molly they’d be doing tonight.

While Rory had dressed for comfort in a crewneck and shorts, Mike didn’t know the meaning of dressing for comfort. Rory was sure he’d never seen Mike off, which was to say, he was always very well dressed, groomed, and set for the scene. He set the bag down on the table, back where he’d found it, and nodded.
In his time, there were brightly coloured pills with fun logos; the 90’s and 2000’s were. . . different. He never knew what he was getting, and sometimes the fun was in the fucked-up biproducts that went into an e-pill. Rory insisted those days were over and pure MDMA was the way, Molly. Pulling his hands through his dyed beard, the short man prepared himself mentally; it had been so long. He asked for this, though; he asked Rory.

I need to escape for a night, trip balls. Will you come with me?

With heart in chest and hope abounding, Rory did just that: “Yah.” The bag opened, and two caps fell out into Rory’s waiting palm. He pulled back his sleeve and fingered one into Mike’s hand, who held it up like a shot.

“Cheers!” He chuckled with a certain amount of jolliness and whimsy; it wasn’t just an escape; good sport that Mike was; he made it a fun game too. There was no clink from the two gel caps as their fingers bumped together, but they each made a dramatic sounding “Ahh!” once they’d swallowed their respective cap, chuckling after they washed it down. It didn’t taste like anything, and the high was not immediate for either of them; in fact, they’d planned for exactly that.

Both were savvy enough with MDMA to know how to navigate a night, and they’d come prepared, each of them. Mike had drafted a mini-module of sorts for a sans-dice D&D experience, something of a small set of social interactions between Salvador and a roving circus. The theme was not uncommon lately; they’d both had their eyes on the opening of The Amazing Digital Circus.
Aside from activities planned, they had intentions to order food that were easily bypassed. They had bottles of water and chewing gum; they had comfortable clothes; well, one of them did. Layers to shed.

With the premier come and gone, The Amazing Digital Circus is only the beginning of their YouTube algorithm-guided evening, with the playlist eventually settling into a constant circulation of old D&D content, critical role-type streams, and the like. No surprise, the DM’s previously watched videos would be so on the nose.
Sweat began to prickle up the lowest reaches of Rory’s spine, with a particular warmth he enjoyed wrapped around his mind. Mike regarded a tingling sensation somewhere he couldn’t place, like on the tip of his fingers or just before his cheeks. They were getting there. For some time, they spoke; they didn’t just speak like they did from time to time after sessions when the rest of the group had gone to smoke or order food, pee breaks, and whatever other opportunities left them in a position to chat.

Insecurities, fears, hopes and reasons to frown, reasons to smile, faith, experience, hope.

They talked on a deeper level; they talked at a pace and from a place that only Molly and other rollercoaster-like trajectories could launch a person on. They didn’t just go through what happened last Sunday; Mike told him about stories that shaped him and who he was. Disarmed and intrigued, Rory shared his own journeys in kind, with the same excitement, the same flashing of his hands, or rolling expressions of excitement and joy.

Who would have thought? The flared-out, brightly coloured, and beyond interestingly dressed man would have something in common with the shamelessly queer brunette across from him. They were indeed two of the very same variety sitting across from each other; they truly were kismet in a painfully obvious way.

As the night progressed, so too did their state of undress. Rory had shed his oversized band-sweater in exchange for his much more breathable tank top and shorts; he looked so much smaller and petite compared to Mike, even if Mike was shorter. The two complimented each other like that. Mike, too, had unbuttoned his pinstripe vest and removed his bowler, begging the question, Where did you find a bowler hat in the 2020’s?

“You have it made.” Mike said in his persnickety way, likely a purchase from a steam fair or renaissance of some sort—maybe Etsy though. His hair had a radiant sort of look to it; for someone who dyed it so often, he managed to keep it, well, healthy; it looked soft. Rory nearly commented on wanting to touch it, wanting to feel its green and purple tones under his pale digits. A desperate huff took him to a water bottle, taking him to assuage the heat bubbling up his throat with a long few swigs from the bottle.

They both did drink. A bead rolled down Mike’s beard, and Rory watched the journey in detail, watching the drop soak into his T-shirt under the vest. The vest, which is not long for this world, Mike removed too. “I’m getting so fsk’so-hot.” Mike confessed, and for a second, Rory let it mean more than it did.

“Huh?” The brunette asked under his sweaty, matted hair.

"It's really freakin’ hot in here!” Mike gasped, ready to peel out of his pants—or at least socks for the moment. Off they’d come too.

Rory felt himself blurt something he couldn’t stop: “You’re freaking hot.” His hand didn’t shoot to his mouth, but there was a moment—a nervous laugh—that, oh fuck! Sort of moment. The cat was out of the bag for Rory, and Mike could only pour fuel on the fire by laughing, laughing with mirth, a jolly bone-shaking sort of dramaticism to his laughter.

They both tried to keep casual for a moment, but "seriously?" Mike finally broke their laughing fits, some insecurity creeping into the perfect gentleman’s expression and into his tone.

"Y'ah. . . like,” more nervous laughter bubbled up from Rory, his toes wiggling, tingling, and wriggling under his tennis socks; it was almost time for them to go too. “I just, I dig,” he could go on, “your hair, your whole vibe; you’re shamelessly charming without even trying it, y'ah, damn lug.” Rory puffed, and Mike blushed.

“You know, they can’t find out.” Comet. Mike’s partner, in fact, hinged on Comet not finding out about what they were up to. There was more than just a little trouble in paradise—more than just a reason or two. Comet couldn’t know they were high; moreover, they were flirting.

The jealousy of that trespass, the betrayal—it would come at a cost Mike wasn’t ready to pay, even if he wanted something more than friendly flirting over a couple caps with Rory. “Of course,” Rory agreed seamlessly; he knew that coming into this night, “nothing we do here gets back to Comet.” Slender fingers, manicured and soft, tugged a little at a set of jeans, straight cut and a nice navy. They could come off any time now.

“I feel safe with you, Mike." With a gentle smile, Rory continues to assuage the nerves of his bearded friend, rubbing his thigh and adding, “I want you to feel the same way, huh?” Suggestions were dripping off Rory’s tongue like the sweat on each of their brows. “I wouldn’t treat you like Comet, I'd. . . I’d do better by you.” While Rory only knew bits and pieces, he wanted to believe that was true. He wanted to believe he’d be a great partner to Mike.

Mike blinked and started to speak, but Rory took the words from him and resumed his sentiment: "I... you’re just, you’re so fucking cool, like the other side of the pillow type rizz, and I love your whole vibe really, Mike! I’ –I like get all fucking warm and ooey gooey thinkin’ about you, man." Well, the Molly probably did that for the most part, at least today, but the message was true and was out in the open now.

“I really fuckin’ like you, man.” Rory added that before Mike could speak a second time, Mike’s bearded face hanging open in a gob smacked sort of guffaw.

For a moment, Mike let the heat in the room simmer, a pregnant pause that left Rory all but crawling out of his skin in need of affirmation, in need of something, some sort of confirmation he wasn’t out of his mind, that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way! "You're a nerd. You wanna date me ‘n’ shit, like, kiss me? You probably think about me all the time,” Mike started to tease. “I’m just an innocent, well-dressed Dungeon Master, trying to make my way through life!” Dramatics, flash, and charm.

The DM did not just verbally rib Rory but added a few pokes and gentle shoving, “Aauh! Hey! Quiddit’!” Rory whined desperate for freedom from the pressure that was his undying attraction, his sexual tension, and the angst of 20-something-lust bottled up then, given purpose like a burning rag stuffed in the spout. Rory was ready to throw his Molotov cocktail ass into Mike, a flaming, gay cascade across his stout, squat body. He needed that.

Mike was teasing, but vulnerability, rawness, and chaffing cracked through the fun. “Rory?” He asked, deadly serious.

“Y’ah? – what’s up?” Rory responded, his jaw starting to tense uncontrollably. He needed something to occupy his mouth, lips, and tongue—lest he bite a hole in the inside of his cheek! It was at that moment that Rory started to realize just how high he was, how pliable he was, the starburst rippling over his skin, and the clammy sweat under his fingernails and on his palms. In a word, he was fucked!

Mike hesitated, visibly nervous. He was on the edge of words he couldn’t take back, his pie-eyed, lip-smacking expression likely just as fucked up as Rory's. Rory couldn’t help but think. They were both high, thank goodness. They were both ready to make mistakes. “They can’t find out." He repeated, but it was clear to Rory that he didn’t just mean about the caps or hanging out either.
Rory nodded, and before Mike felt like he had to spell it out for the world, Rory gave him a line. “You don’t have to say it." Rory’s voice took on a sultry sort of cooing, an undeniable amount of gravel in the sweetness, like cookie crunch in a caramel stream. Rory pushed forward across the couch, and his fingers went to work. Purposeful but gentle too, he started to undress Mike.

“Oh-uh, I,” The older gentleman stammered. It wasn’t going to stop the younger man, though; no, there was no stopping him now.

“Let me take care of you.” He insisted, and like that, jeans came off, and an enamoured brunette mop closed into hairy thighs. Mike unsurprisingly smelled more like his cologne than anything else, and while he was undeniably hairy and well groomed, it was almost like he brushed the treasure trail that led up his stomach and intermingled with his chest’s curls. Rory took a deep breath of that cologne mixed with natural Mike, loving every little bit of the moment but pressing further into the next.

Petrified and pleased if both could be true at once, Mike dared to assist in removing his underwear, and like that, he was nude on the sofa, an average but no less impressive cock on his crotch beckoning the young man forward. “I’m gonna--”

“Yeah, please.” He wasn’t so charming with his cock out; it was sort of endearing to Rory. Maybe the nerves of the moment, maybe just. . . maybe he was hot too. Rory gorged on what felt like sexual power, energy, and excitement, kissing the inside of Mike’s thigh in agreement while his hand took hold of the older man’s root, stoking gently and appraising the weight, girth, and heat of his member in his hand. Not left wanting, he proceeded to kiss little circles up his DM’s thigh toward his crotch till his arm was forced to contort and his cheek brushed up against penis and testicles.

They were burning hot, likely the product of the drugs, the product of his own body heat, and the product of his own arousal. He felt himself overheating as he rubbed his cheek into his partner's for the night’s package, and "Hnnnph" audibly groaned with satisfaction for that moment and for the opportunity to lay down over a stranger’s sofa and grind his face into his all-time crush’s crotch. It was magic, in a sort of debasing, animal, hot-hot-I’m-stupid-heat way. Rory didn’t really know what came over him in that moment, but judging by the groans leaving Mike’s mouth, it was appreciated, judging by the possessive hand on top of his head encouraging him to push forward. Well, it got his tongue out of his lips at least.

Mike’s privates were not guilty of tasting strong but more having an absence of taste, a slight salt on his tongue, a sour hint but nothing over the top, and this was almost a godsend given the sheets of sweat they both felt on their brows and elsewhere, collecting up their spines and in the crevices of their skin, particularly Mike's, as he had more spots for sweat and more places to love.

“H-holy shit, Rory,” He grunted, unable to contain the lust he felt, the pleasure that arrived with Rory’s attention; it was almost worship at this point, not quite stroking or sucking just yet, he noted, though Rory took the moment from him and stroked that scrawl out of his mind just as soon as he’d made it. Rory’s tongue dipped out past his thin, lower lip and dragged from his hairy underbelly up to his meat toward the ridges at his tip. He could make out with Mike’s cock all day, but he instead dipped down with his mouth open, taking the first few inches inside his maw.

The hot, wet slip of Rory’s tongue slithered around Mike after a moment, after an audible "Omsssth" slobbery entrance.

It wasn’t enough, though—not enough just to hold him there in his hot hole of a mouth; he wanted Mike to enjoy this fully. He began to bob his head, holding back the curls of his pubic hair, which was soon soaked and matted with saliva. Rory took to the task, knowing it pleased him too and pleased him to service Mike’s prick.

Almost as if by mind of their own, the fingers that weren’t occupied by undulating nuts or holding back hair, by plucking the odd stray pubic hair from his tongue, had sunk under his own beltline. Through his bald reaches toward the swollen hood, his fingers searched, seeking out his entrance and tugging at sensitive flesh, gliding and grinding, pleasing his own lust and assuaging it while he happily added to Mike’s.

Rory tried his darndest to make it sexy, making the noises echoing in the room—the sort Mike would want to hear, not the sort his throat was forced to garble out. There was a difference in his mind, but at least he wasn’t gagging. At least he wasn’t making too much of a scene; at least Mike didn’t know just how much he wanted him inside! - He wasn’t sure there was any going back if they took things there.

Growing harder and throbbing in the back of his mouth, Rory employed every trick he knew to make it feel perfect—to make it feel better than good. He knew Mike had been missing out on “Slrrpht!” a good release. Rory’s lips sealed and his cheeks caved in. He sucked for all he was worth and felt his eyes nearly cross, then Mike shoved him off.

Before Rory could ask if he’d done something wrong, the older man was grunting and shifting on the couch, lumbering over him with a very obvious look in his eyes—a look that told him no, quite the opposite was true. “Ugnh, are you sure?” Rory murmured almost too quietly, almost so close to silent that maybe Mike missed it in his energized advance, in his ultimate yearning. He was hard as a rock and ready to slam into Rory with the same violence to deliver him there on the couch.

“C’mere,” he was sure.” Mike made short work of Rory’s shorts, tugging and demanding them down around his ankles, then off, his underwear bunched up inside came with. He wasn’t even sure what they looked like; he was so enraptured by the vision of a swollen, healthy cunt. “Fuck,” he grimaced in a way that didn’t spell out difficulty so much as distress, so much as desperation and need.

“Yah,” Rory agreed. Fuck. They both felt it. Rory lay on his back with his legs spread, Mike pulling him toward him by his hips; they were bony by comparison but wide too. Mike marvelled at the sight of his partner for the evening, of Rory, his midnight love. For a moment, they stroked themselves in earnest, Rory sliding his fingers in and out of his boy-pussy while Mike prepared himself for entry, made a few good grunts for measure, and his cock tip slid and ground itself over Rory’s labia and hood. “That fe-that feels gooh’d’uh.” A breathless confession aired between them before Mike gave in and plunged forward.

“Wa’auh!” Rory cried out in earnest pleasure, in the utmost bliss, in the sudden ecstasy of Mike forcing himself inside deeper and thicker than his two fingers were capable of if felt like. Even if it was just his first few inches before Rory tightened up, it was blissful delight, the friction and fullness both making him wheeze and whine.

Mike’s thicker, stubby fingers came down on Rory’s chest and pinned him to the couch as he started to throw pipe, throw his hip forward with rhythmic rocking, and throw himself toward the young man in a squelching set of deliveries that made the whole couch creak and skip across the floor beneath, an unpleasant sound that neither cared to address.

Rory had to admit, missionary had never felt so good, be it the drugs or who it was with; he couldn’t decide. The heat of it all was delicious, an ooey-gooey-delight to it all, like he was lubricated with a warmed gelatin, even though they’d just been spitting on each other like a couple of damned high schoolers in heat!

Their bodies were working in overdrive, and while Rory knew he was close, he wanted it to last all night. He wanted Mike to "keep going! Don’t stop, doh’hon’t!” and he didn’t, he slammed inside, plap-plap-plap, with increasing intensity till Rory was sure he’d bust in his cooch right there on the couch.

“Y-you can,” He encouraged him to, too, to cum. He wanted to feel that; he wanted the privilege of Mike’s seed oozing deep inside his body. Mike denied him for now.

Mike tugged him off and pulled out, smearing himself across the inside of Rory’s thigh as he flipped him about. Even though he was a little taller, he was svelte enough that Mike had no problem tossing him over the arm of the couch and mounting him from behind. “Mike!” Rory gasped with surprise as he hit the couch, and Mike, in time, hit his ass with a firm thwap!

He didn’t know Mike had it in him! He didn’t mind either. “You’re so fucking hot, Rory, I’m going to fuck you all night." Whether it was a promise or a lie, it was the sexiest thing he’d heard in his adult life. He needed it to be true in that moment, and with Rory stuffing his cock inside of him, he was a believer.
From behind, Rory felt every thrust through his cheeks and thighs, felt the older, hairier man crashing into him with force enough to grind him into the couch, with force enough to make him release a litany of lust, a long and lurid choir. “Ooaauh!” Rory went on only to feel a hand in his hair, another on his back, his shoulder; it pinned him in place there as Mike drove himself forward time and time again.

Feeling an absolute fullness, an impossible urgency, a hot-hot-molten heat, Rory finally arrived, tightening, cringing, and crying out. Mike, of course, wasn’t far behind. A finally sounding of more erratic thrusts, his haphazard pin is no longer vice-like but weak and distracted. Rory could have broken free, but instead he rode the high of his orgasm, rode the high from Mike’s spewing cock. He swore he felt it, felt it belch rope after rope inside him as Mike said, “Hauh, aauh, hooo’!” He exclaimed his pleasure into his back, into his nape, nestling in for something of a formless embrace from behind, a shifting hug.

“Tha’that was amazing.” Rory confessed breathlessly, feeling just how amazing it was rolling down the inside of his leg—amazing for them both. He collapsed onto the couch, and Mike slowly slid out, finding their bodies flushed with effort and a sheen of sweat on each of their pink bodies. He felt himself swollen; he felt a supreme emptiness that only came with a hard fuck and a fullness that only came with being sexually fulfilled, a fullness that only came with being cum inside.

An animal urge had them each momentarily satisfied and maybe more dangerous than their fuck. Climbing over one another, they began to “smch, mph, smck!” Smucker and kiss, tug at lips and hair, feel one another in earnest, and see one another with purpose.

Rory was just a guy, impossibly into Mike. Mike was just a guy seeing Rory for the first time, really seeing him. He underestimated him as more than the player at his table but a supportive, warm, and hot, swelteringly so, sexual creature. Someone he wanted around There was understanding in that kiss—those kisses, more like. There was an understanding that there’d be more, that this wasn’t over when they sobbed up, that his completion wasn’t the end but more of a. . . to be continued.

Still, they had a lot remaining, and Rory made a very good point, pointing Mike toward the bedroom. “It’s only 10:16, hon; you still have a lot of all night to go.” His face pulled to a playful grin. Cheshire, bubbly giggles. Mike didn’t argue; he didn’t have it in him.

He was done arguing, done letting things get in the way of what he wanted and of who he wanted. He wanted Rory; it was no secret that Rory wanted Mike back; why not roll the dice?