Page 12 of Built To Perform

Carlos chuckled. It was a warm, rich sound.

“I can feel your cock, lil bro. How hard you are.” A grind, somehow; his crotch pressed into mine, even as we hit each step unfaltering. “Perhaps you should listen to your body, instead of overthinking things?”

We’d reached the couch again, the limit of our impromptu dance floor, and I braced to be turned. Already shifting my weight to my toes, leaning into the motion just like I would with a Russian tie.

Only Carlos moved his hands, even as our feet pivoted. Extending my arm on one side; drawing my fingers to the small of his back with the other. Like sleight of hand, upending my brain in the process.

“Now you lead, Eoin.”

No pause, no further instruction. And yet the change felt absolute, as if some vast magnetic field had shifted. Carlos no longer urging me on, guiding me; more pliant in my arms, as my fumbling feet tried to remember the steps he’d just been demonstrating.

“Fuck, sorry.” The apology hissed out, as I stomped on his toes. Looking up from my haphazard movements, expecting to see frustration in his expression.

Patience, instead. Along with something else; something closer to amusement.

“Stop thinking, lil bro. Good dance is all feeling, yes?”

I opened my mouth - to protest, to remind him that feeling was what he’d be losing in his extremities if I kept treading on them - only to gasp instead. Surprise squeezing the breath from me, as Carlos yanked us together with his hand at the small of my back.

No mistaking the heft of his cock pressing into me. An erection the equal of my own, as his fingers dipped further, into my shorts. Following the curve of my ass, until his fingertips were pressing between my cheeks.

“Y-you’re distracting me,” I squeaked out, as I felt him brush across my hole. Fighting against my legs’ instinctive urge to buckle beneath me.

“Teaching you, lil bro,” Carlos corrected me. His grin was so wide when our faces were this close. “Reminding you what’s actually important, here.”

I squeezed his hand, and willed my lower body not to collapse, and tried my best to fucking tango.

It was clumsy, we both knew that, and - even though I was meant to be leading - Carlos needed to remind me when to turn us, but something about the rhythm was soaking through me. My feet stepping on the beat, not on my partner’s toes; the throb of the music carrying me forward, not so much its sound as its raw energy. The record player having moved on, the song changed, but it didn’t matter. Not when the drums stabbed out, and Carlos’ finger pushed into me in time with that surge and pulse, and I could feel his heat and his arousal jammed tight against my own.

“Hips, lil bro, move your hips.”

I tried to follow his instructions, and the pull of his fingers working inside me, and remember it was all meant to be instinctive, natural, not some memorized series of patterns. No small part of my brain monopolized by Carlos’ squirming hand, matched by my awareness of his erection and how good it’d feel to replace the former with the latter. My count of the beat, of the steps I’d taken, perpetually derailed by the mental image of him pounding my ass in time with the music.

Some things you wait for, and some things you know you have to manifest.

Holding off just long enough that we were alongside his couch, and then slipping my grip on him down to his wrists. Pulling his hands away - no way to chew back my own grunt of displeasure, losing his digging fingers - and then pushing, sending a suddenly wide-eyed Carlos sprawling back onto the cushions.

I dropped down, my legs spread wide across his lap. Skin prickling from the heat of his stare, surprise having quickly given way to amusement and something hotter and more hungry.

His hands gripped my thighs, squeezing the taut muscle. “So dance for me, lil bro.”

The voice in the back of my brain told me I should feel embarrassed, coy. Self-conscious. Only the message from my body was louder, shouting it down. Hungered for Carlos’ eyes on my bare chest with its sheen of sweat, and his devious fingers pushing inside me. Proud, too, of the way my cock bulged unmistakably through my shorts, and of the knowledge that I was the cause of my teammate’s hardness beneath me.

I ground down on him, relishing the heft of his erection and the grin that twisted his handsome face.

“Dance,” he reminded me.

“Fuck me,” I suggested, instead.

Carlos shook his head, though the grin had only spread wider. “Lap dance first, then I fuck you.”

I hissed in frustration. “I don’t know how.”

He sighed, as he took hold of my hips. “You know how we get hard, watching you in your matches? At how you fight, and squirm, and work those ripe freshman muscles? Well.” He moved my hips, side to side and then front to back. “You do that, but to the music.”

“I don’t think...” I started.

Carlos jerked me, dragging my ass across his dick. The sensation unmistakable, freezing the words in my mouth.