and then:
..

mrs. stump's full length mirror
pete/patrick, mature

Pete has learned to appreciate a woman who takes pride in how she looks. The kind of woman who gets up a little earlier, puts just a little more effort into her appearance.

Or at least Patrick's mother, who at the very least, likes to glance at herself. Whether she actually puts a lot of thought into what she sees looking back at her from the full length mirror in her bedroom, well, Pete doesn't know.

Maybe she just likes to make sure she matches.

Truth is, Pete doesn't give a fuck. Not even a little bit.

Patrick had said, "Please, don't."

He'd said he just needed to grab a pair of socks from his father's dresser, said he keeps forgetting to collect all of his that always seem to disappear under his bed. Barefoot in his parents bedroom, Patrick had said 'this isn't a good idea' and 'please Pete' and 'I've never...'

I've never, he'd said.

Patrick kept protesting, dropping down to his knees. Had kept trying to convince himself, probably, he didn't want to, as he took shuttering uneasy breaths, pulling Pete's jeans down around his hips.

And Pete had watched, completely there yet completely detached. Had watched, amazed as Patrick, tiny still-in-high school Patrick, stuck out his tongue, tasting. He'd watched in Mrs. Stump's full-length bedroom mirror as her son choked down his first cock, moaned around the thickness of it, gasped for breath, a sticky rope of spit and come tethering his mouth to the tip.

In the mirror, he could see Patrick's toes, curling into the carpet. His little baby toes.

Pete twisted his fingers into Patrick's soft hair, pulling him closer, saying, "It's okay, just relax." Saying, "Breathe through your nose."

And Patrick was pushing his palm against the front of his jeans, humping his hand. Patrick was making porno sounds round Pete's cock.

Patrick was pulling away, sitting back and looking up at Pete with his pretty face and red, prettier lips, swollen - was looking up at Pete with saliva dripping down his chin, Pete's pre-come - and him and his reflection were saying, "Fuck me."

So in Mrs. Stump's bedroom, Pete pushed Patrick down onto his back, pulled off his shirt, took off his jeans. It didn't take much, just a few strokes and Patrick was coming - so young and eager and virgin - and Pete slid his fingers through the mess on Patrick's stomach, slicked them.

His thighs had fallen open easily, wantonly, and Pete pushed one finger lubed with come into Patrick, then another, stretching, until Patrick was hard again, until he was pulling at Pete's shirt. Pulling him closer. Until Patrick's feet were planted on the rug, his hands above his head braced against the side of his parents' bed, desperately fucking himself with Pete's fingers.

"Christ," Pete had said, licking a wet sticky stripe up his neck to his open, panting mouth. "You're kind of a slut for it, aren't you?"

And Patrick whined, moving a little faster, whispering over and over, "I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready."

It was doubtful, Pete knew, little Patrick so young and stupid and hot and slutty. Patrick probably didn't really know what he wanted.

But that didn't stop Pete from picking him up, hooking Patrick's knees over his shoulders. Patrick's head thrown back, pupils blow wide, on the floor of his parents bedroom, groaning as Pete pushed into him. Not careful or sweet, though he should have been. But desperate and finally.

Watching himself force his dick into Patrick, watching the way his muscles moved, the way Patrick reached down to grip at Pete's hips - it couldn't be real. It was clearly some sort of funhouse mirror, full of lies and sweet tasting unknowns. Places Pete will never really be allowed to go.

But Pete still pulled almost all the way out, only to push back in harder. And again. And again.

And Patrick, flailing for something to grasp on to, hands flying to find the corner leg of the bed frame, gripping it tightly, using it to pull himself back and forth, meeting Pete's harsh thrusting.

And the filthy things coming out of Pete's mouth, things he didn't even know he wanted to do to Patrick, but was doing - and the way Patrick was barely put together, tight wound tension ready to explode. His voice, like rolling thunder across the room where Patrick's parents kept his baby scrapbooks and report cards and childhood drawings, telling Patrick how tight he was, how hot he looked taking it, how Pete wanted to come all over him.

And Patrick's gasping response, more like a cry than not, "Yes, please. Anything, anything." Tightening around Pete's cock as he came again, riding it out, arching up to catch Pete's mouth, kissing him loud and sloppy and wet.

And Pete, watching the way Patrick was watching him as he pounded into him, straining, shaking, pulling out and coming across Patrick's soft skinned belly.