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Maybe I’m more fazed by the sight of Ozzy naked than I care to admit.
“You can sit on the bed, I’ll be right back,” I tell him before dipping into the hallway and into the kitchen to grab a chair. When I return, Ozzy has positioned himself lying on his side, one knee up and an arm holding his head. I burst out laughing. “You’re an idiot.”
“What?” Ozzy says, acting confused but clearly joking as he sits back up.
Before sitting down, I link my phone to my speaker and press play on a recent 70s playlist I made. Grabbing my sketchpad and a charcoal pencil, I sit a few feet away, facing him.
I carefully instruct him on how to sit. Legs parted. Feet firmly planted on the ground. Shoulders straight but relaxed. Left arm slightly behind him, his palm splayed on the mattress holding up his weight.
By the time I tell him to place his other hand loosely over his right thigh, we’ve both lost our smiles. It’s also hard to ignore the erection slowly forming between his thighs while I finish up my instructions.
His serious gaze studies me while I study him back. “Now hold still,” I say, my voice lower than usual, so as not to disturb the tension beginning to buzz between us.
It’s a privilege to have Ozzy like this. Relaxed and unguarded. So open to share this experience with me. I’m also free to let my eyes wander aimlessly over every curve, every dip of his body. A collection of tattoos I haven’t had the luxury to linger on yet. Aside from obvious cooking ones, like a butcher knife near his hip and a pig’s anatomy on his left thigh, there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to most of them.
Which somehow just makes sense for Ozzy.
I fall into a rhythm, letting my hand draw the lines of his body over the rough sketch paper. The scratches of my charcoal pencil are the only sounds aside from the music playing in the background.
My eye catches on the twitch of his hand.
My hand freezes as my gaze lands on the crook of his thigh, his hand slowly curling around his now-hardenedcock. “Don’t stop,” he says. The note of desperation in his tone makes it feel like I’ve been physically touched, heat pooling low in my stomach.
Forcing my hand to move, my eyes intermittently look down at my sketch then quickly back up while Ozzy starts to fuck his fist in long, languid strokes. After a few pumps, he tilts his head forward. Lining his mouth directly above his cock, he lets a long spool of spit fall on the tip, his thumb smoothing it over the skin.
I lick my lips, my heartbeat racing as I listen to his breath catch. He lets out a low groan, his eyes fluttering shut, his head falling backward and I have the sudden urge to pause the music so I don’t miss a single sound he makes.
The curve of his stretched throat is as erotic as his thick cock pumping into his squeezing fist, and I feel lightheaded. Intoxicated. Drugged up on this vision of Ozzy masturbating in front of me.
I suffer through another long minute, desperately trying to concentrate on the sketch on my lap while Ozzy continues to fuck himself. Until I begin to hear and notice tell-tale signs of him nearing the end.
A pitch of his hips. A hiss.
His movements getting jerkier.
The long bite of his bottom lip.
I throw the sketch pad on the floor beside me, on my feet in seconds, falling to my knees just as quickly.
“Let me taste you,” I say, echoing the same hunger he’s used with me. My hands smooth up his thighs while my mouth falls open, tongue splayed out.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, his free hand stroking my cheek, his eyes hooded and glazed.
When I feel the first spurt of cum land on my face, I close my eyes, basking in the lewd sounds of Ozzy coming.
What I don’t expect is for him to grab the back of my neck and slam his mouth against mine, the taste of him on my lips, now on his. I push myself up on my knees, chasing his burning kiss.
Hungry. So fucking hungry.
Pulling away, he gives my cheek a long lick with the flat of his tongue and kisses me one last time. With his hand still firmly around my nape, he gazes down at me.
I’ve never seen such pure adulation in someone's eyes.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says.
21
OZZY
