Machismo Pt. 2

Series: Machismo
By Woodrow Writes -
published February 25, 2019
3886 words

Adam and Ian each find out what the other really wants

(Thank you guys so much for being so supportive re: my first story here! Really helped with the motivation to finish this one up. Now comes the real test of my abilities; if anything clunks hard, don’t be afraid to lmk)

“Hey, lindo.”

There was that new tone of voice again. There was the sweat and cologne rolling over me and the hot breath in my ear. There was the hand on the small of my back - but this time, rather than merely resting there, it dug in, like I wasn’t getting away again.

“I’d like to spend more time with you,” Adam Rivera said low in my ear. “We’re going to go back to my place now.”

It wasn’t an invitation.

It was a command.

It was May and the night air was cool, not cold. Anyone leaving the dance would have felt a nice breeze cooling the sweat off of their bodies.

Or so I assumed.

Walking next to Adam was like walking next to a furnace. Somehow, long after we’d left the sweaty dance floor, Adam continued to radiate heat. The whole night around me smelled like him, his sweat, his cologne, his breath when he spoke, and - even though I’d never seen him smoke one - the lightest rasp of cigar smoke.

And the hottest spot of all was the patch of my back - the large patch; had this guy stolen a gorilla’s hands? - where he had not once removed his open palm, guiding me gently but firmly beside him as we went down the stairs, stopping me when we got to the door so he could open it, and continuing to stop me each time we were about to cross the street, even if there were no cars coming, so he could look both ways before we stepped into the road.

“He’s really on that macho patriarchal bullshit,” Mona had said, and she’d been right. What she hadn’t been right about was assuming I’d hate it. I was hard as a rock, and Adam had to have noticed, because whenever we did have to stop for a car, he woudn’t say anything, but he’d look me up and down like a lion looking at a gazelle. And every time he did, he’d crack a little smile. Not the broad, goofy smile I’d seen him do when telling a killer joke at a table read. This was more like the smile I’d seen him make at Mona before they’d disappeared into another room together, back when they still did that. Except that was crazy, because Adam couldn’t be giving me that smile, because Adam Rivera was incredibly straight.

And he was moving his hand slowly, slowly lower on my back.

We were one block from his place. I never wanted this to end, but I didn’t dare say anything to egg it forward. I worried if I said the wrong thing I would break the - quite possibly literal - spell. It occurred to me that, with or without magical sexuality-changing herbs, this was probably how girls felt even in regular situations when a guy they had a crush on suddenly started walking them home. I tried to think of what someone in that situation would say.

“Uh…nice night,” I said, based on context clues.

Once again, Adam released that booming laugh, and now that I was seeing it up close, I saw how the laugh involved his lungs expanding and his chest thrusting out, threatening to pop the poor third button on his all-but-transparent dress shirt. I’d heard that laugh somewhere before, but not on him - I’d heard it in the audience of one of my shows, when Adam had nailed a good punchline.

By the minute, Adam was sounding more and more like his father.

“Glad you agree,” Adam said, rubbing his hand up and down my back in a friendly manner. Friendly, I emphasized to myself. “I’m having a nice night, too. We never get to hang out enough.”

I could have said I meant the weather, but luckily didn’t.

“I…also have wanted to hang out with you,” I said carefully. “For a while.”

He smiled at me again, the grin peeking out like a ray of light from that thick, dark beard. “Well, why didn’t you say something, estúpido?” he chortled. “We see each other all the time. You’re sweet, and smart, and you make me laugh. You know I like you, right?”

“I.” I gulped. His musk was too intoxicating for me to handle this. “I knew you…liked me, but I think we’re talking about different meanings of…I, uh…I was…shy?”

Adam shook his head like I was a little kid who’d said something amusing. We were right outside his door now.

“You’re so sweet, Ian,” he said, and he took his hand off of my back. Fuck. I’d done it, I’d said the thing that went too far, I’d reminded him he was straight, his hand -

  • flew back and swatted my ass.

I jumped three feet in the air, again. He laughed that big powerful laugh, again. While I landed and whirled to face him, he unlocked and opened the door with one hand and reached back for my waist with the other, but I - and I couldn’t believe I was doing this - grabbed him by the wrists and held his hands frozen in the air. The moment I took hold of his forearms and felt the veins even through two layers of fabric, I realized he was strong enough that he could have turned my arms the wrong way around right then if he wanted to. But instead he just stood there with me in the doorway and grinned wolfishly, like: ok, let’s pretend you control this moment.

“What the fuck, Adam?!” I said, finally unable to take it anymore. “What is this? Is this a game? Use the gay guy’s attention as a party trick for a night? I know you go out with girls. Lots of girls. Did their attention stop being enough for you? Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. That was mean. I don’t want to be mean to you. I like you. But I like like you, and I hate when straight guys use that for…for a joke.”

When I finished, Adam had stopped grinning. I almost missed the grin. This new, serious expression was impossible to read. It could have been he was really thinking about what I just said. Or it could have been disappointment that I’d called his bluff.

“I do go out with lots of girls,” he said, as if he’d just remembered this. “And…and I’m not sure I know what this is. But when I saw you at that party, I realized I didn’t want to leave with the same girls I always do. I wanted to leave with you. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what I do now that I’ve got you here. I know what I want.”

A world in which you were the thing that he wants.

“- and I know that a real man only does what the girl - what the other person wants him to. So I don’t want to push if you don’t want what I want. But I think…”

And now I gasped, because he finally chose to use his strength in this moment, pulling my hands down to my crotch, which was - ok, he had definitely noticed - still rock hard and quite possibly leaking.

“…you may want something too,” he said. And before I could respond, he pulled my arms again, as if they weighed nothing at all, as if I was just so much string to him. And as he wrapped his large, warm hands around mine, interlacing his thick and furry fingers with my smaller ones, he pressed my hands against his cock, and I realized with a shock that, on a man who was giving off heat like a furnace, this was the warmest part of all - and huge, and stiff as a baseball bat.

“And this,” he said, “is definitely not a joke.”

We were close again, close like we had been at the drinks table. His sweat had dried off a little in the night air, and I could feel the fur on his face and chest prickle against my skin and through my thin shirt.

Te quiero,” he said, in the lowest, hoarsest voice I’d ever heard him use. “¿Me quieres?

I got halfway through a nod.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. All before I could think, there was beard on my face, lips on my lips, a taste like rum and cigars forcing its way into my mouth as his tongue rammed down my throat, my arms being guided swiftly up and over the thickest shoulders I’d ever felt in my life and then, just as my fingers interlaced around the back of his blazer, the backs of my thighs suddenly being lifted up and wrapped around that shelf of an ass, and even though I cried out in surprise it all just disappeared into that fucking mouth and that fucking beard and it didn’t let up as he barreled through the lobby toward the elevator, slamming my back against every button, carrying me through the opening doors and placing my ass on the ledge of the mirrored wall of the elevator, and as soon as the doors had closed, finally retreating from my mouth so he could attack my neck with teeth and beard while I arched my spine back and cried out to the ceiling.

I knew from previous cast parties that Adam lived on the fifth floor. For three floors, my feet didn’t touch the ground. At floor four, he whirled me around so I was no longer pressed against the wall and dropped me to the ground, keeping his arms around my waist so I didn’t fall. Then, right as we got to the fifth floor, he brought his hands up to the collar of my button-down shirt, and - in a movement that filled the sleeves of his blazer right up to their breaking point - he pulled.

I was no longer wearing a functional button-down shirt.

Ding! The elevator door opened.

“We should -” I said, bending down to pick up some buttons, but a hand wrapped around the scruff of my neck and pulled me back up.

“Leave it,” he ordered. I nodded as much as I could with his hand on my neck, and his grip swiftly softened as he turned me around again for another kiss, a gentler one this time, the first one where I realized how much kissing a man like Adam meant being surrounded - engulfed, really - by fur and muscle and heat.

Ding, The elevator reminded us passive aggressively.

Adam separated from the kiss with an irritated growl, like a dog who’d been interrupted during his dinner. As he fumbled in his pocket for his keys. I stretched a hand out to keep the elevator door open - and a second later he’d found his key, stormed forth from the vestibule, and grabbed my outstretched hand, yanking me practically off my feet as he marched down the hall towards his door. While his large hands fumbled with the small keyhole, he looked back at me, giving me another once-over, this time lingering proudly on the exposed chest where he’d ripped my shirt apart, like an artist looking at a canvas they were halfway through with but feeling good about. For my part, I just stood there, slack-jawed and panting. At this point I was, realistically speaking, probably in medical shock, if there is a version of that that is extremely horny.

“When we get in there,” he said, moving slowly from my chest to my eyes, “Everything off. No - underwear on. Everything else off.”

I nodded hurriedly and began yanking off my blazer, but he shot out an arm and held my right shoulder in place.

“Not yet,” he said, as if this was obvious. “You do that for me. Not for the hallway.”

I could have said You tore my fucking shirt apart, but instead I nodded again, and thought about those herbs I crushed, and wondered what it meant about me if this was me getting my wish. Also, wow, did I have a lot of questions for Mrs. Rivera that I had no idea how to -

Then the door was open, and that hand was on the small of my back again, and I was ushered through. The room was a straight college boy’s room. I’d been in it before, and you have probably, in some way, been in it before, so we don’t need to discuss the crates of beer and piles of clothes, which very quickly grew by two blazers, two shirts - one wet with sweat, one jagged and ruined - two pairs of shoes and socks, and one pair of white briefs with a red waistband, removed so fast I hadn’t even gotten to see them in action.

“Oh, did you want me to take my underwear off after all-” I asked, still staring at the pile, and then - for the second or third time that evening - I was grabbed, turned around, and held close enough that it physically impacted my breathing.

“Not yet,” said Adam, again as if he was explaning something obvious. “I get to be naked. You look pretty in tu blume, so you get to look pretty.”

My cheeks flushed bright red the first time he said ‘pretty,’ and then harder than that the next time. This seemed to please him. I knew this because I could feel his pleasure pressing into my stomach. And I could feel that because Adam Rivera, who had taken me back to his room and was holding me so tight I couldn’t move, was naked.

I don’t know if he was taking me in, or giving me a moment to take him in, but either way I used it. I’d seen him change shirts before in dressing rooms and stuff like that, but I hadn’t stared or anything - I’m not season one Kurt Hummel, etc - but now, I stared.

It was less like looking at a body and more like looking at a mountain range. The pecs that heaved in front of me weren’t the zero-body-fat, dehydrated kind you saw in Marvel movies, but they had mass, they were the solidest things I’d ever seen, round and protruding and pressing fur and heat onto my not-all-the-way-smooth-but-certainly-smoother chest. If my stomach retreated a little bit - I was basically two servings of dining hall cobbler away from “scrawny” - his stomach pressed forward, half muscle gut, half beer gut, all man, and pressing his cock into me in a way that was increasingly hard to ignore. He was pulling my hands again - God, I loved it when he pulled my hands - and placing them on his thighs, and without even thinking about it, my hands squeezed and I gasped - if his chest was soft, his thighs were hard, the kind of corded tree trunks required to carry around all that weight up top. And then, not believing it, but riding the wave anyway, my hands slid up and back to the furry, massive globes of his ass.

At this point, I remembered Adam had eyes, and I looked at them, worried I’d overstepped. He was clearly amused, and he just nodded.

“Do it,” he said.

I squeezed.

Two things happened at once: I felt my hands disappear into the greatest ass God ever gave to a man, and Adam roared as if I’d pressed two gigantic “on” switches, and - oh, here we went again - picked me up and tossed me like a sack of potatoes onto his bed.

Then he was on top of me, his hairy back flaring over me like a cobra, his hands wide enough to grasp all the way around my thighs, rolling up them, reaching my briefs, making me - there was no other word for it - squeal.

Lindo,” he muttered, kissing his way up my inner thighs, his beard scratching against them. “Lindo, lindo, mi lindito.” He got to my cock, which at this point had very determinedly made its way out of the fly of my briefs, and looked up at me.

“What do you want, linda?” he asked. “You want me to service you?”

I could have said: I don’t know, I’m as lost here as you are.

I could have said: I mean, while you’re down there, definitely blow me. No teeth, straight boy.

I could have said: linda?

I said:

“I don’t think that’s what either of us want. But would you choke me out?”

That grin. Somehow, we both knew this was the right answer. He grabbed each of my legs and used them to pull himself further up on the bed, and then he fell forward onto me. I had two seconds to process the weight of all of Adam Rivera on top of me before I felt a much more concentrated kind of weight - one of those goddamn forearms, pressing down on my windpipe, squeezing the air out of me even while Adam kissed me again. Unconsciously, I humped against his bulky stomach once, twice, - and then there was air as he lifted himself back up, and I could breathe again, for all of two seconds, and then instead of a forearm there were fingers on my throat, squeezing.

“It’s good that this is what you want, linda,” Adam said, kneeling above me, running his other hand through his curly dark hair. “Cuz it’s what I’ve been wanting all night. That, and this.”

He moved, and gave me just enough air to vocalize:

“What do y - hohhhh.” My neck snapped back and my eyes rolled all the way up to the roof, and when I adjusted to this insane new level of pleasure, I was able to look down past Adam’s beefy forearm and see that his other hand was wrapped easily around both of our cocks, rolling up and down over both of them, stroking them together, sliding them against each other, causing my breath to go short and sharp. With his one arm angled in toward my throat and his other bent in toward our cocks, his pecs were pressed up and out, pulsing each time he pumped his arm up and down. It was the hottest thing I’d ever seen Adam do, and in my head at night, I’d seen Adam do a lot.

“You’re going to come when I come,” Adam told me, not breaking eye contact as he played with our cocks. “And when you do, you’re going to clean it all off of me. Ok?”

Fuck, this was the hottest thing in the world. But I didn’t want to get Adam’s hopes up for something that may not happen. “I’ll try my best, but precision isn’t-” I began, and then was cut off shortly as his hand tightened around my throat.

“You. Are going. To come. When I come,” Adam repeated, still jacking us. There was no malice in his voice, just that voice from before - that This is obvious, I am correct, I am telling you this because I want to help you know all the facts kind of voice.

“Squeeze my bicep once if you understand,” he said.

I brought my left hand up to his right arm, the one that was now squeezing and loosening around my throat one finger at a time, playing with me. I wrapped my fingers around the swell of his bicep.

And as I squeezed, he released his grip on me and flexed. I cried out - it was like trying to hold onto a football if that football were exploding outward.

“Fuck yes,” Adam said. “Está volao. You fuckin love it, don’t you, linda? You love how big I am?”

I just nodded, holding onto his bicep for dear life. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, yes-”

“De puta madre, voy a - aah - ahnh -”

Adam was going to -

I was going to -

We came. It lasted ten seconds, twenty, I was shuddering and gasping in deep breaths, we were dripping down the pelt of Adam’s chest, and then - one of those catcher’s mitts behind my neck, and up, and a wall of heat and fur and cum and my face pressed into it, licking eagerly, doing what I’d been told in no uncertain terms to do, getting as much of both of our cum inside me as I possibly could, gagging on hair and musk but loving every moment of it, burying myself in the jungle-hot wet cleft betwen the mounds of his pecs, and then finally his hand pulling me back, tilting my neck up so I was looking up at him, my mouth hanging slack open, his hair sticking on my cheeks, something on my forehead -

“You missed some,” he smirked, and then he rubbed his thumb along my forehead, scooping up cum - don’t mention the opening of The Lion King, some very distant voice in my head chanted, don’t mention the opening of The Lion King - and then he popped his thumb in my mouth, letting me suck the last of our intermingled cum off of him while he held my head firmly in eye contact position.

“Good,” he said, when I was done, gently removing his thumb and stroking it wetly down my cheek. “You’re so beautiful.” He flicked a dark, curly hair from my cheek, and then rubbed up and down against my peach fuzz. “You should shave closer to the cheek,” he said. “Smoother. Do you need someone to show you how?”

I nodded.

“Good,” he said again, and I did something I’d never done before: shuddered, and came a second time. Not as much as before, but enough. We both looked down at the new puddle in Adam’s belly hair, and then we both looked back up at each other, and - me tentatively at first, him big right away - we both grinned.

“Looks like I won’t have to miss that part of being with girls,” he said. “You really are mi lindita, aren’t you?”

I could have said: you know, we never agreed on that aspect of things.

I could have said: wait, so we’re doing this again? Are we committing to this?

I could have said: I have a cock too, goddammit, you can turn the Mr. Machismo thing off.

I said:

“God, yes, that’s what I want.”

And then I fainted into Adam Rivera’s arms.

I guess we were committing to this.

Series: Machismo
Mind Control
Wanking material
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