Chapter 10

Cedric:My stay in paradise

It's incredible what happened last night. I can't believe it's not a dream, even if I'm looking at Ian's sleeping body lying in my bed right now, a bare two feet away from me. He's lying on his stomach, his face towards me, his eyes closed. His shoulders are not being covered by the sheets. He's incredibly beautiful. And arousing.

I yearn for him to wake up so I can touch him again, but I dread the moment as well. Will he have second thoughts? Will he be repulsed, and eager to leave? I know he genuinely enjoyed last night – he couldn't have been pretending; he asked me to penetrate him, for god's sakes –but it's one thing to have sex with another man in a heated moment of passion, it is another to look back on it the next morning, and not regret it.

Well, I'm not regretting it. But then again, I am gay. This is a ridiculously easy notion to accept. I am gay and I'm in love with Ian Lovelace. I'm terrified to speculate about his feelings for me, yet I can't stop myself wondering. He's still asleep.

Something is touching my calf under the covers. I'm a little confused; his eyes are still closed and the expression on his face hasn't changed.

'Ian? Are you awake?' I ask softly.

'No,' he says. 'I'm fast asleep. Can't you tell?'

Ah. Well, if he's still asleep, it's only polite to leave him be, isn't it? I can wait.

After a while, he opens one eye, smiles, and closes it again, obviously 'sleeping'.

I sigh. He wins. I can't not touch him any longer. I reach out to stroke his back.

'Thank god,' he sighs dramatically. 'I thought you'd never touch me again.'

I scoot over to his side of the bed, and take him in my arms. He tilts his head, so I can kiss him. I do it lazily and without tongue, wondering if I can cause him to get impatient.

I can. He utters a frustrated moan, and forces his tongue between my lips.

We kiss for a while, like nothing else matters. I can feel his erection against mine. He starts thrusting his pelvis against my hips. It's wonderful. I could seize this, and not worry about anything than the present moment, but I want to know how soon he will leave today, and if I will ever see him again.

I don't respond to his thrusting, and he stops, breaks the kiss, and looks puzzled.

I clear my throat. 'What … what would you like to do today?'

It's a perfectly innocent question, or it would be, if my voice sounded more casually, and if the timing was different. He grins. I think he knows what's bothering me.

'Well,' he says slowly, 'I think we don't need to get up any time soon, for starters. Then breakfast, because physical exercise tends to make me hungry, followed by some weekend shopping, I guess. I noticed, for instance, that there was a serious dent made in your Vaseline supply last night. On the way back, we could drop by at my place so I could get some clean briefs and socks and a toothbrush before we go home. Then, we could watch cricket for a while, and afterwards you could help me make dinner. And finally, I'd say we make it an early night, for there are interesting things to do together tomorrow as well.'

For a moment, I don't know what to say. He wants to stay the whole weekend. He doesn't want to leave me for two entire days. I knew I could hope for this, but I didn't think it was within my reach.

'Does this fit in with your plans?' he asks.

'Yes,' I nod. 'Marvellously.'

'Good.' He starts to stroke my penis, and I give in to the sensation. I'm not going to worry about what will happen after the weekend. I can afford to postpone it for a day.

I resume kissing him, properly French this time, and I rub his penis as he does mine. He moans against my mouth, and I realise how easy it is to have sex with another man. There is no thinking about what to do (which there is with a woman; hard thinking and assessing what she will like) just knowing exactly what touches will cause pleasure.

'You know,' I whisper, 'there's still some Vaseline left. Maybe you could use it on me.'

I know he will like it. I liked it last night. It felt wonderful to be so close to him. And extremely arousing to have my penis surrounded by the tight clutching heat of his rectum. I suspect that being penetrated will feel even more intimate than spearing him did. I'm also nervous, because I fear it will hurt. But I still want it to happen. I want to know what it feels like.

'I'd like that,' he says, so I roll on my back while he takes the jar.

He starts rubbing my anus with Vaseline-fingers and I immediately know that I'm going to like this. When he presses inside, it hurts, but once he has entered, it feels nice. He reaches far inside and finds … my prostate, I think. Good lord, I had never imaged that a direct touch of it would feel like this.

'Ian,' I gasp.

He smiles. 'Is it good?'

'Yes,' I nod. 'Very.'

He continues to massage my prostate. My breath is racing and my penis is leaking liquid already.

'Ian. Please. Let me turn around.'

He stops and shakes his head. 'No. I want to look at you. If you lift your legs and spread them, I think we can manage.'

I do as he suggests. It's a strange feeling to want him so urgently inside me and at the same time be embarrassed about exposing myself like this.

I yelp as he enters.

'Shhh,' he says. 'It'll be great. You'll see.'

He's right. It's hot. It provides exactly the right friction, and it makes my penis become even harder.

He leans forward a little more. I spread wider. More pressing. Hotter feeling.

Through the daze of my arousal, I can see Ian watching me. His pale blue eyes are almost black now. It turns me on even more, and when he claims my mouth with a wet warm tongue, I climax. As he does a second later, I believe.

As I open my eyes, he's looking at me. His face is moist from sweat, and he's smiling. He's so beautiful.

I stroke his cheek. 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome,' he says. 'And likewise.'

He hints that he's going to withdraw, and I brace myself. It hurts indeed.

He lies down beside me, and rests his head on my chest. It occurs to me once more that it's amazing that I can hold him like this, that instead of enemies we are lovers (at least for the moment, I don't dare to think about what we will be in the future). I still don't understand how this could have happened, really.

His telepathic skills are well developed apparently, as he says, 'It's downright unbelievable that I'm lying in your arms right now, that I have had sex with you. Twice. If someone would have predicted me this a month ago, I would have laughed my head off or kicked the person's head in.'

'My sentiment exactly,' I say, kissing him.

He smiles. 'But then again, we hated each other with a passion. And I hear that passion is fundamental to good relationships.'

I don't know what to say. Is he referring to us being in a relationship? Maybe it was just a pun. I can't imagine Ian looking for something stable and long-term. And I don't want to think about it.

I kiss him again, thoroughly, and then I suggest we get up and take a shower.

'Excellent,' he says. 'A shower provides a fine romantic setting.'

I surprise myself by being aroused again, not even ten minutes after coming. I wasn't prepared for the sight of Ian showering with obvious pleasure, trickles of water caressing his naked skin. He opens his eyes and looks at my groin, smirking.

'Can I wash your hair?' I manage to say audible. I'd really like to do that. He has great hair. Dark, like mine, but he wears it longer.

He smiles pleasantly. 'What a perfectly sappy idea.'

I reach for the shampoo and apply some on his head. I start massaging his skull in a way I hope he will like (so it won't just be sappy).

'Mmm,' he says. 'This is wonderful. Are you sure it's your calling to be a barrister?'

'Yes, I am,' I respond, taking the head of the shower from the hook. 'A man has to have some hobbies too, though.'

'And yours is to wash people's hair,' he concludes, tilting his head backwards so I can rinse his hair.

He washes my hair too, and we wash each other's bodies (and I find the slick sensation rather erotic) being very careful with the perinea.

We dry (each other) and dress (our selves). Then we have breakfast, which teaches me that I find it cosy to share a meal with him in my kitchen. It makes him even more mine than the sex did, perhaps. It's couple-ish. (But I mustn't count my chickens before they have hatched.)

After breakfast, we go shopping for groceries. Ian has made a list for the things we need for dinner. It's going to be a stew. (He's good at those, apparently.)

Being in the supermarket with him, I find exciting, actually. I have never done shopping with somebody (except my mother), but I have envied the couples I saw discussing what to buy. It looked intimate to me. And Ian is willing to do this with me. (But that doesn't have to mean anything, I remind myself.)

'Darling, would you please focus on the matter at hand?' he says.

His words snap me out of my musing, especially the first one.

'Right,' he smirks. 'Now that I have your undivided attention, you can point out to me where I can find this stuff.' (He waves with his list.) 'I need your help, because this joint,' – he gestures at the supermarket – 'is completely unfamiliar to me.'

I walk him trough the isles. He gets what we need, and throws it in the cart. From quite a distance too, when the products can take it. I gather he wants to show that he's a real macho – to me and to the other customers. Watching him very much endears me.

God, I'm in a sappy mood today. But that's hardly surprising. I'm head over heels in love, and I never before experienced something remotely like it. I was attracted to Henrietta and to Geraldine, but not like this.

'Now, do we have everything we need?' he asks.

'Yes, I think we do, besides milk and dessert,' I respond, glad that I paid attention.

'Wouldn't I suffice as dessert?' he says in a theatrically hurt tone. Then he gives me a meaningful leer.

I resent him doing this; deliberately arousing me in the middle of a supermarket.

'Ian, please, don't.'

He smiles. 'I only wanted to share my sorrow. Can't you tell that I need all my strength to keep from grabbing and kissing you in an all but friendly manner, right here, right now?'

I swallow. He's only making it worse.

'Well, to soothe the pain, let's have double dessert tonight,' I say.

As we arrive at his house when the groceries are done, he tells me to wait in the car while he gets the things he needs. I instinctively protest. I don't want to leave him out of sight. (I hate to admit it, but some part of me fears he won't return.)

He places one hand on my arm and opens the door with the other. 'Relax. I'll be back in five minutes.' He kisses me softly on the lips. 'I love you.' Then he's gone.

Jesus. He loves me. He said he loves me. It hurts. It's painful to realise that I don't believe him. Well, I do believe that he was sincere in his statement, but I don't believe it necessarily will be valid tomorrow. I have been able more or less to repress this thought, but now I can't. Not when he has declared his love to me.

'Cedric, what's wrong?' He's back and gets in the car again.

'Nothing,' I respond. I shake it off. He returned. He wants to go to my place and spend the night with me. I'll have to be content with that.

When we're home and putting groceries away, I am happy. I like watching him walking around, opening and closing cupboards. I like him bonding with my kitchen.

'Okay, let's make some stew,' he says.

I'm appointed cutter. He's assigned stirrer. Many touches are exchanged and there's a lot of kissing while we acquit ourselves of our respective tasks, but we manage to prepare the stew.

Then we watch cricket. He loves to watch cricket. I can see him getting completely absorbed in it, forgetting all about me. I don't even mind for the moment. I love to watch him.

The stew is delicious and the dessert 'pretty good, but not as good as the one we'll have after this, you realise that, don't you?' thus Ian.

As we're lying in bed (at as early a time as ten o'clock) I know that he was absolutely right.

It's quite shocking to notice how my body craves his, considering this is the third time in 24 hours that we make love.

'I've missed you,' he smiles, ending a rather wild kiss.

He places his hand around my penis and starts stroking it. I want to return the favour, but he asks me not to. 'Lay on your back. I want to do this right,' he says, wriggling from my embrace. He sits at my hip, and bends over. I feel the warm, wet sensation of his tongue laving the shaft of my cock, then the tip. And then he envelops me with his lips. I feel the blood rushing to my groin when he starts sucking, and I can't help bucking my hips and making sounds. It's wonderful. It's completely incomparable to when Henrietta or Geraldine did it. Maybe it is the relish with which he's doing it. Or maybe it's just the fact that it's him.

'Ian,' I gasp.

He hums something, but doesn't stop. I want him to stop. I'm on the verge of climaxing and I don't want …

'Ian, stop. You mustn't … I am …'

But he doesn't listen. He keeps sucking, and my bliss is mixed with horror when I come in his mouth. Even then, he doesn't extricate his lips from my penis. He swallows. Jesus Christ.

I close my eyes, trying to control my breath. I do not dare to look at him. When I open them again, he's watching me.

'I'm sorry,' I say, embarrassedly.

'Why?'

'For coming before you could …'

'I wanted to taste you,' he says. 'Didn't you like it?'

'Yes. I did. But …'

'Would you have been repulsed if I'd shoot in your mouth when you sucked me last night?'

I think about this, and realise that the answer is no. Not at all. It's just that I still can't believe that he indeed does requite my feelings for him.

He interprets the expression on my face correctly, as it appears. He smiles. 'I thought so,' he says.