ASH & SMOKE

Crackling Flame

There was a stuffiness to the air, thick and brooding, sweet dotting Dylan's exposed flesh. He stirred, eyes twitching behind their lids at the overcasting glow of light coming in from his bedroom window. His taut stomach covered in flecks of stars, freckles dusting his sharp cheek bones. Hair fluffed up into unruly tuffs sticking out in every which way. He was lean and of snow; skin delicate and soft, like silk. He snored softly under his breath, rolling on his side to escape the ever growing heat in his bedroom and between his thighs.

He had that dream again.

It's only flashes, glimpses of splotchy images, he would wake every now and then; just like now, with want and need.

Eyes still closed and halfway conscious, his hand skimmed down the expanse of delicate chest; shakily rising and falling with stuttered breathes. His hand trailing past his nipple, skin prickling with delectation. Biting his lip, his hand stretched down his flat stomach. Slowly, he reached down into his cotton briefs, heart hammering in his throat.

He tugged at his cock, squeezing it softly, he sighed. Swirling his thumb around the head he reached from root to tip slowly, slowly.

Hips bucking slightly at the soft contact with his palm, Dylan bit harder into his lip; sending a stinging pain throughout his cheek. More sweat began to build up on his skin, as he worked his hand. Faster in his speed, he flips onto his stomach; ass perched up into the air slightly. Snaking, his other hand smoothed down his hips, he hesitated.

Dylan wasn't normal.

At least that's what he found out in the fifth grade. During biology sex-ed, he learned not everyone, if very few, had the same quality and gift about them. not everyone person you meet every day has both a vagina and punishment between their legs.

Huffing out a breath of frustration, Dylan parted his legs slightly. He didn't usually explore his other part, being careful to hardly acknowledge it, like his mother taught him. He remembers the talk she had with him when he was around the age of five or six.

"Don't tell anyone, ok, sweetheart? This is your secret, something you must only keep to yourself..."

Those exact words echoed loudly in his head as his hand, while still working at his cock; was now trailing lightly down his side, to his backside. Pushing down his briefs to his thighs, he mused, teeth gritting on his lip. He grabbed at his ass slightly, before reaching a hand down between his plump cheeks.

He whined, lowly in his throat, "mmm..." His brow puckering into a sharp focused furrow. He reached down until he found the soaked folds of his pussy, arching his back, he craned his arm behind his back; wonton, and needy, as always. He slid the tip of his finger down the moist slit, his mouth falling into a slight 'o' shape. Panting now, he stops his finger at his entrance, thinking if wether or not to breach himself, a small ball of panic mounting in his throat.

Wiggling a finger in-between the soft folds. Bitting his lip even harder, blood blooming across his taste buds; how he wished someone would just bite him.

That dream, swirling around his head hazily, like static. The flash of dark blonde hair, the scent of damp pine and burning moss. He could almost feel those strong hands grasping at his flushed skin.

Keening, he stuffed a pillow under his mouth to muffle the small gasps and whines he was making. Sun baking his skin now, he he flicked open his jade eyes.

Dylan was flushed with warm sweat now. Thinking to himself about what he saw. He never sees the person's face in his dreams, but he can still feel their touch; if he focused he really could feel those warm, rough fingers. He swallowed, a lump in his throat as his pulse quickened. Blood still spilling lightly between his teeth as he bit skin off his lip; wincing as he rested his tongue against the swollen flesh.

Rolling his hips now, he breached himself, stifling a groan. His fist tightening around the head of his rosy pink cock. He was mostly clean shaven, except for a small patch of pubic hair that his fingers would graze whenever he got to the root as he stoked and worked at himself. Chasing the scent still lingering in his brain, causing a fever across his body.

They say you begin going into heats at around the ages of sixteen to eighteen depending on the person. And Dylan was turning eighteen rather soon, his birthday right around the corner. His mother constantly reminding him of it every day following up to it for a month straight. He hated celebrating his birthday, and he hated being constantly nagged about it.

Not since his father's passing.

He remembers it like yesterday, the phone call that brought my mother to her knees. He didn't have to hear it for himself he knew Dad would never come home again. Now, overwhelmed with the death of her husband, Dylan's mother fell into a spiraling depression that lasted a good majority of his childhood.

His climax was near.

He could feel it like a deep hot coil wrapping around his gut. Pulsing inside of his stomach and spreading to the very tips of his toes and fingers; such a lovely warm echo. His jaw clenched as he worked both of his hands, adding a second finger deep inside himself, eyes rolling a bit.

Almost, almost-

*Knock knock knock*

"Shit.."