Okay, my pretties, feedback re the new chapter, or any others, would be sincerely appreciated. What do you like ? Dislike ? Too graphic ? Not graphic enough ? Too schmaltzy? Not enough romance? Is it relatively realistic, overall ? How about the balance between POV's? Enough ?
Thank you.
"Trying ... to ... kill ... me," he murmurs, semi-coherent, eyes opening and closing with effort.
"Go to sleep, Tone," I tell him as I cover him with the blanket.
"... to murder me," he mutters sleepily.
"Shhh. Go to sleep."
This is two-fold. He does indeed need to rest. After four thundering orgasms in a little under six hours, anybody would.
But also, I need to address the issue that's arisen (ahem) behind this towel that's somehow still wrapped round me, and I once again don't want Tony to feel obligated. I want to set it up now, in the early stages of our relationship, if we are actually to have one, that it not involve a sexual quid pro quo – I'll do you, if you'll do me – which I just hate. Dreadfully unromantic. This is not a business arrangement, and in my opinion there is nothing wrong with finding enjoyment in bringing your partner to orgasm (or vice versa) – and then letting him roll over and go to sleep, from time to time. Not all the time, of course, but ...
I guess I just want it to feel natural, with no obligation on either side, just pleasure, and giving pleasure, and the pleasure it gives you to give pleasure, if that makes any sense.
Thing is, oral's always been my thing; sort of my number one, and, seeing as I fancy it so much, I tend to be inordinately enthusiastic, apparently moreso than the norm (from what I'm told) ... so it can tend to seriously tax my partner – blow him away, so to speak - and consequently send him hurtling off to dreamland in record time. So it tends to interrupt the flow, (so to speak), or the magic of it, to have the bloke half falling asleep while he's trying to return the bloody favour – out of duty, or worse, fear that you'll spread through the community what a lousy, inconsiderate lay he was.
No, I will not have anything of the sort between Tony and I.
Tony and I.
FUCK ! ! !
No worries, for the lad's fast asleep and already snoring. I climb carefully from the bed and turn to watch.
It's surreal, still, that here lies Tony, naked and twisted in the sheets.
How long before I can look upon this with anything but disbelief ? Before I can accept it for what it is ? A wonder. A miracle dropped from the sky. But real. Very real.
But it is almost too good, isn't it ? That I and my best mate would fall for each other; quite madly, as it happens. Magic, it turns out, is possible, inevitable, even.
Inside me is some high, airy aria. Something celestial. I'm floating, light and free, with ill will towards no one. Have I ever felt pain ? Has anyone ever wronged me ? Called me queer ? Disowned me ? All of it wiped clean by this one thing:
Love.
I look. He truly is a sight to behold, in his disheveled, snore-y raggedness. I could remain here forever, gushing over each pore, cheekbone, eyelash ... finding nourishment, complete contentment in doing so.
Through my mind travels the mushiest of love quotes; for the first time, none of which I'm finding the least bit so, all in fact causing a spark of recognition:
"Here are fruits, flowers, leaves, and branches, and here is my heart which beats only for you."
"What I feel for you seems less of earth and more of a cloudless heaven."
"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies between us."
Okay, and this one, too, even if it requires a small set of pronoun tweaks ...
"He walks in beauty,
Like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in his aspect and his eyes."
He shifts on the bed, inadvertently exposing a well-bitten nipple ... and the poetry flies from my mind. In it's place is Liz Phair:
I want to fuck you like a dog,
Take you home and make you like it
Hair's too long and in your eyes,
Your lips a perfect 'suck me' size
Everything you say is obnoxious, funny, true, and mean
I wanna be your blowjob queen
I shift a bit behind the towel.
For all our many endless discussions of brain issues, I'm reconsidering mine: It's a vessel, I realize, to which, this last year, has been introduced a slowly seeping poison ... or is it antidote ? A succulent liquid called Tony, which has been entirely absorbed by the spongy tissue ...
Did I mean it when I told him five times ?
Answer ?
Yes.
I turn, and, finally answering the ceaseless ache from below, sneak off to the loo, and it doesn't take long, as for the very first time, he is on the brain.
Yes, it's true; I haven't allowed myself to picture him. Because. It would have been grotesque given my responsibilities to him, let alone practically akin to masturbating to thoughts of your own brother, given how close we've become. So, much as I may've felt myself veer on occasion, I veered myself away, just as quick.
But ... no longer. Yes, picture it. Enjoy. That mouth for heaven's sake. That long, lean, lovely pale body. Those exquisite, hypersensitive nipples (hee hee lucky me !) Those long, elegant fingers (yes, far as I'm concerned, that's his down there right now, and not my own.) Holy shit the sounds he makes; that gorgeous part hiccup/mostly moan when I plow the depths of his navel, the plea in his eyes when I tug gently on his balls, when I take them into my mouth ... the way his hips undulate as the orgasm hits him in waves.
Not to mention that perfectly gorgeous little bottom ...
Damn.
Mostly though, it's the Goods. Yes, a handsome collection has he. No, not huge, but then I've had huge, and frankly, you don't bloody want it near you. Ugly ! Yes, cocks can be ugly – certainly the larger ones I've encountered have been - even a gay man can think so.
No, there is nothing quite like handsome plumbing. I'm talking form, shape, texture and colour. Taste, too. (No, not come. Let's face it: nobody's tastes good – don't believe the porn). Somehow so far Tony hasn't even tasted like piss, which I don't quite understand.
So okay ... yes, you are now permitted: visualize. Um, god ... okay, here we go ... Tony ... fuck ... okay ... yes ... Tony ... eat, yank, flick ... Tony ... lick, suck, fuck, grind ... ahh ... guh ... wuh ... nnghuhh ... Tony !
Swoosh ! !
Fuck, I think to myself as I clean up ... that was fucking scrumptious, and right quick; what, 15 seconds ? Is that the impact tossing off to him is going to have ?
I turn for the door, relieved to have dealt with the issue, if only because it means I get to hurry back to his side.
.
I'm groggy, head swimming and half asleep when I feel him slip back to bed, all warm and soft and naked. He rolls towards me, lays a hand across my chest, and nuzzles into my neck.
Goddamn. Goddamn.
It's just so wonderful.
It just fucking is.
Who knew love could make you feel a million feet tall ?
Let alone sexual satisfaction ?
(That I even know what sexual satisfaction is ...)
(Okay, and not to boast, but does anyone know it like I know it right now ?)
Frightening indeed to think that we've only barely scratched the surface, there. I mean ... what in hell will fucking feel like ? ? God knows my hips haven't forgotten the motion. And my dick's twitching a bit, even now, at the thought of plunging someplace warm and snug and deep.
Fuck knows his arse is beautiful.
Gulp.
Goddamn.
How is it that I feel not a smidgen of shock or unease at the realization that I'm even pondering such things ?
Was I really ever straight, then, if I'm this fucking gay, now ?
Or maybe it was lurking beneath the surface all along ? Old Tony was macho, fuck knows. Would he have had the guts to admit to ... ? Yes, he would. Max's told me as much, that had I been queer I would've been downright obnoxious about it, flaunting and happily plowing my way through all of boydom, I believe is how he put it.
Why must these blank brain spots persist ? All things sexual, and for some reason all memory of everything occurring for the six months or so leading up to my accident. Brains are fucked up, unpredictable things when knocked around inside skulls, I guess. Too bad we sort of rely on them for everything.
Good thing I've decided to let that other organ rule me.
(Which was what, again ?)
I turn to kiss his forehead.
"Y'asleep ?"
He raises his head to give me a fresh morning peck.
"No."
By god ... it's just magic, the feeling. Like frigging aromatherapy, or something. An infusion of vital nutrients. And fuck me all over again, if he isn't the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed, and especially sexy with his face a bit flushed like this.
We do it – it can't be helped - we fucking well gaze into each other's eyes for god knows how long. Ordinarily something that would make me puke, and yet it's positively hypnotic. His eyes, at the moment a fantastic shade midway between slate and sky blue, really are a window, a wide open, terribly alluring and inviting one, which compels you to want to step out onto that ledge and let go ...
Phew. If you weren't careful, trust me, you'd be totally fucked.
Out it tumbles, the words too thick for my tongue, for either of ours, it turns out ...
"I love you," we each blurt.
There is then a brief pause, followed by a mutual burst of embarrassed laughter.
"Oh my god," he says, "we are so gonna make everybody sick."
I nod.
"Can't wait."
He lowers his face to lay it on my chest, and snuggles up tight.
"I never, ever thought I'd be here."
With me, like this.
"Shit. Me either. In about a kazillion years."
We lay there another moment before he speaks.
"I have to admit something, though, Tone."
"Um, okay," I answer, tentative.
"I'm slightly worried - about going home."
"Hm ? Why ?"
He fidgets a bit.
"I just ... I have this fear people will think I, like ... turned you gay, or whatever. That I set out to do it."
Huh ? ?
"What are you talking about, Max ?"
He raises himself up onto one elbow.
"Think about it. You were a total blank slate. And you've spent the vast majority of your time, all this time, with me, an out, raving homo. Then I go and invite you on holiday, all expenses paid, the two of us sharing a room ... and we come home afterwards, a couple ?"
A couple. Holy shit. My brain is momentarily stuck on this phrase, before moving on to absorb the main, rather unsettling point he's trying to make.
"But that's just so fucking ... grisly, Max. Nobody who knows you would actually believe-"
"-Your family ? Effy ? Are you kidding ? She'll wanna beat me to a pulp."
For taking advantage, is what he leaves unsaid, and I'm once again hit with nauseating guilt over having momentarily accused him of this, myself.
"I'll explain it. Right up front. Whole thing. To everybody."
He looks skeptical.
"But what will you say ?"
"That I fell in love with you, Max. What else can I say ? That it wasn't your bloody doing; if anything, it was mine. You wouldn't have made advances. It was me that had to cross the line, for it to happen."
He reaches for my hand.
"I'm afraid no matter what, all people are gonna hear is that I like, brainwashed you, or something. That I preyed on you when you were vulnerable and horny. Or, at least, I rubbed off on you and influenced you when you were lonely and confused, or whatever."
I look off, absorbing his disturbing words.
Fuck. Why must it always be the case ? That he's totally fucking right ... and it's just so fucking wrong.
"I'm not confused, Max. Not anymore. I wasn't even confused then – deep down I knew, I just hid from it, pretended and lied to myself, for months. So, y'know what ? Fuck 'em. I don't give a shit. We don't owe anybody an explanation."
"Your family ? Mine ?" He sits up. "I think we do." He speaks carefully. "Tone, you haven't existed yet as a gay or bi person, or whatever, in this world. Trust me. No matter how 'enlightened' people think they are, parents don't want their kids to be gay. They want 'normal' kids – I doubt that will ever change."
"Your family's already had to adjust to the changes in you from before – not that hardly any of them are bad, but the last thing they're gonna wanna hear, especially now that you've stabilized to a large degree, is that you've switched gears, that you like cock, now, for fuck's sake. They're gonna need to lay blame, to find a scapegoat. Not that I can't handle it, but I mean, they're not gonna believe it about you. They're not gonna accept it, I'm betting."
My stomach feels queasy. Jesus christ. Like I haven't had enough to deal with the last year. Finally something good happens, and it's to be met with suspicion and hassle ?
He looks down.
"I'm sorry. If I'd known, when you first started to feel this way, I mean, I maybe could've warned you. There's extra bollocks with the homo thing that straight people don't realize, that they're totally excused from. It sucks."
.
Shit. Great, Maxxie. What in hell are you doing ? Scaring him off ? Spelling out the worst possible side of it. There are loads of positives, you know !
But he needs to know about the negatives, too.
.
Christ, I can't stand the look on his face – miserable and guilty – which he isn't.
Fuck them ! Mum and dad know Maxxie. He's become like their son, like Effy's second brother. So they know the last thing he is is a conniving sleezeball.
I'll give them a fucking week ... okay ... a month tops, and if they haven't come round by then ...
.
He threads his fingers with mine, and speaks softly. He seems oddly unfazed, which should make me feel better than it does. Or maybe I really am blowing it out of proportion.
"It'll be alright, Max. They know what kind of person you are. It'll be a shock at first, ya; I guess we have to give them that, but I won't let them accuse you of anything. They'll get used to it;" he grins, "they'll have to. Besides," his eyes sparkle, "when they see how bloody happy I am ..."
Jesus christ if my heart doesn't shoot a thousand feet into the air ... along with my voice.
"Do you really mean it ?" I shriek, fully realizing what an arse I sound like.
"Ya," he nods, face as soft and sweet as you like.
"Cuz," I gush-sniffle, "that might just totally make my day."
His grin warms and widens.
"Good then," he leans close. "Let it."
I shut my eyes ... and there are those lips, warm and full; the lips that are mine. The kiss that ensues is unlike those before, utterly infused with not only love, but hope, and promise.
Quickly, inevitably, though, it does take that certain turn.
He breaks away for a second. Fuck, it almost hurts to stop.
"Shouldn't we maybe go out ?"
The sparkle in his eye tells me he doesn't want to.
"Why ?"
"Cuz I mean, otherwise ... we might actually not leave the room for two days."
I laugh, and lean toward him.
"And your problem with that is ?"
Pucker ... mash ... swipe ... nip ... kiss ... nibble ... nibble ... suckle ... smooch ... open ... kiss lick dip ... dip ... dartdartdart ... suck ... lick ... digdig ... press ... smooooooch ... wetsmooch ... pantpant ... breathe ... deepsmooch ... pantpant ... deeper ... moan ... lick/dart/deeper/smooch/moan ... repeat ... repeat ...
It's true then, the Chinese proverb : Kissing is like drinking salted water; drink and your thirst will only increase.
And then, in an instant, the room spins. He's flipped me back so sudden, I let out a shocked, delighted whoop-laugh.
The face looking down at me by contrast is dead serious, and super steamy ... which shuts me up right quick. Yes, Tony ? I want to meekly ask.
Twice, his mouth lowers, the tip of that pink tongue just peaking out (which let me tell you is indescribably hot) ... and then retreats as he pulls back, seemingly unsure.
Our cocks, I can tell you, are very damned sure.
"Um," he says, hesitant, "I feel like I wanna, I mean, sorta really badly ... just going on my gut, ... but ... I don't know what it is. I guess I don't feel ready, or whatever."
I search his eyes.
"For what, Tone ?"
His face flushes slightly as he deadpans.
"For fucking you."
Gulp.
Shit ! !
Okay ... funnily, I'm realizing I don't know myself if I'm ready yet, either, frankly. Even with all we've done, having sex – penetrative, real deal sex, with Tony, just seems so unreal as to be slightly scary.
However when he is ready ... I have the feeling I will be, too.
"Um, it's ... it's okay. We don't have to."
"You told me you really like that, though."
"Fucking ?"
"Ya."
"Well ..." how to explain to the virgin without sounding like a smug, haughty arsehole that fucking is sort of the main feature of sex, and always has been. "Ya, I do." That in fact most people equate fucking and nothing else with sex. (Didn't a U.S. president once famously bank on it, in fact ?) "But, y'know, there's totally no rush."
He blinks.
"But haven't we sort of done everything else ?"
"Um, well," I stammer, wiggling my wrists, which are beginning to tingle under the weight of his hands, and pulling them free. "No."
"But ... okay, but ... what else is there ?"
God, he's just blowing my mind here; his innocence once again seriously ramping up the hot factor.
I raise a soft, open palm to his chest, caressing as I speak.
"Lots of stuff, Tone. Wherever your imagination takes you. Your fantasies."
I lean up and kiss him quickly.
"What's on your mind, right now ?" I whisper.
"Just ..." he shrugs, "... fucking."
God. For all the sexual finery I've explored, I must say, there's something genuinely refreshing about a meat-and-potatoes man.
"Your hips do like to swing," I tease.
"Yup," he grins shyly. "Can't help it. Feels awesome."
"Mm. Tastes even better," I say, leaning up to kiss him again as I allow a hand to drop low.
.
Jesus fucking christ, how come everything he does makes me nuts ? Of course my hips go into that instant rhythm – it's embarrassing, how helpless I am - no matter how slow or how fast or how tight the circle of his fingers. He's like a puppeteer, or a voo doo doctor, or something, doing the equivalent of knocking your knee on purpose in order to watch the reflex make you kick ... and before my brain moves onto the metaphor of telling you to go 'ahh' and the tongue depressor down your throat ... he's moving. Down my body. Whispering to me with that demonic twinkle in his eye to stay right where I am, hovering above him as he shimmies his way south, tonguing all the way ... neck ... sternum ... nipple ... navel ... and I don't really know what he's intending to do, even though it's maybe obvious, because it doesn't make sense, it's a bit weird, too awkward; he won't exactly fit down there ... and then in an instant I realize it's the point. He likes my hips to swing. He wants them to swing. He's gonna make them. Because in that way, it involves his two favorite things: oral, and fucking.
And so what can you do when there's this warm, wide open cavity made suddenly available, the one that can breath hot air; that's generously, endlessly lubricated; that can close down around you like a vice grip, tease you with light, feathery kisses, slap against you and milk you with that strong, muscley tongue; make you so fucking miserable as it swivels and circles in rough, sharp twists or bears down and holds you in that wet, supertight seal ... causing you to nearly bite your way through your own lower lip, gasping out shameless gibberish and extraordinarily vile curse words ... and then from somewhere down there you hear it – feel it, actually, reverberating through your privates - that fucking, motherfucking hum – which for some reason intensifies the sensations that much more ... and you're shaking, because it's calling to you like a homing signal, it's making you do this, making you reach for the source of the vibration, which, as it turns out, is the furthest, deepest, and, you discover, softest pocket of flesh imaginable, that you never knew existed ... and you find out just how perfectly you fit here, like a long lost puzzle piece ... like you were born here ... and as if it isn't all deadly enough, as if the veins on both neck and cock aren't standing up like thick, ropey cords ... a fucking hand has to go and grip the base, and you instantly know what it is: the final permission, the clearance you need to do what every instinct in your body is screaming for: to quit holding back, to let loose and FUCK him and FUCK him and FUCK him ...
And it positively rips from your body, the fluid, tears from it so quick and intense it's almost painful ... and, just as you'd pictured it, just as you're screaming out something embarrassingly unintelligible which translates to 'OH HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT ! !' ... your head flies clean off your body ... plunk, into the ceiling ...
Before I collapse and smother him, he pushes up on my hips and flips me over, dead weight, onto my back, ... where I'm revealed for the stupid, dopily sated motherfucker that I am ... breathing in deep, crazy gasping pants ... in utter disbelief, once again, over what has just happened ...
.
"How was that ?" I beam, only half being cheeky. I trust it satisfied your craving to fuck ? I want to ask, but stop myself.
I kiss his chest and brush the hair back from his exquisite, weary eyes.
"You should ..." he rasps, "... your mouth should ..." (pant-wheeze) "... be arrested."
I giggle, totally elated.
"Ahh, but then we couldn't have sex."
He chuckles wearily.
"Right now (gasp) that doesn't seem-"
"-Let's take a shower," I interject, completely catching him off guard. His dick's had a bloody year off ... and by my count, we've got three more rounds to go – yes, dammit, that was far too much fun to stop now.
He looks at me a moment, gauging my face. My suggestion is deliberately ambiguous – could be sexual; might not be.
Before he can decide either way, or fall asleep, which, I mean, he's heading there – the more we do it, the greater his exhaustion ... I move quickly to stand and yank on his hand.
"Come on."
"Max-"
"You smell."
"Max, I'm-"
"-Ya wanna get out there, don't you ? Check out everything Brighton has to offer ? Arcade and movie theatre, and more beach and more rides, and shit ? We can't go out like this. Come on. We'll be all fresh and clean, after."
After what, I don't tell him.
In the shower, a big, roomy, tiled affair, I'm happy to report I feel unselfconsciously naked. Seems odd to say, maybe, as we've now been far more intimate with each other that simple nakedness, however I've found that outside the confines of the bedroom, nudity-awkwardness can still sometimes prevail, particularly in the early stages of a relationship.
Unfortunately, while I'm not feeling it, however, Tony clearly is.
I can't tell if it's because of his scars, or just general shyness about his body – he has called himself things like stick and mangled up stringbean on many an occasion, but I have the growing feeling it's the former, as he keeps seeming to want to hide himself by over-soaping his chest and turning away, which doesn't accomplish anything as his back is just as scarred.
All of which I find heartbreaking, and also rather adorable.
"Let me wash your hair," I whisper, reaching for the shampoo.
"Hm ?" he says, glancing back over his shoulder.
"It's a mess," I answer, guiding him towards the warm spray.
He turns reluctantly, shuts his eyes, tilts his head slightly back, and I'm treated to a sight that is so breathtaking it appears to my eyes to be in slow motion: water cascading from above, plastering all that luscious hair, running freely over that magnificent, chiseled face ... neck ... down all that pure, porcelain skin ... and I'm once again just absolutely dazzled.
That he would be seemingly unaware of the depth and magnitude of his own beauty, especially in comparison with Old Tony, who knew and used it for all it was worth, is just a crazily wonderful bonus.
I've been with more than a few beauties; it does tend to be my preference, but I've found there's often a price. Ego, for one; vanity, being a bit too in love with themselves. And okay, it's not like Tony doesn't know he's handsome – facially. Girls certainly look at him often enough. But he thinks it ends there. The overly confident, arrogant boy with the unwavering belief in his own appeal, physical and otherwise, has all but disappeared.
I turn him away, reach for the shampoo, and work it into a lather as I massage and knead his scalp. I whisper to him; it can't be helped.
"Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are ?"
"Right," he smirks.
"You are."
He pauses a moment to take a breath.
"Yup. Love: definitely blind."
"Fuck off. I'm serious."
"Look at me, Max," he says with slight impatience, pointing to his torso. "I'm an unqualified nightmare. Nothing like the guys you usually go with."
"Stop it, Tony," I say, tilting his head back into the spray and threading my fingers through bits of hair to aid in the rinsing. "You're beginning to annoy me. Believe me, the guys I usually 'go with' can't hold a candle to you for either brains or beauty-"
"-Bill-", he has the nerve to interject, before I snap.
"-You're NOT gonna mention his name in the middle of this, are you ? !"
"But-"
"-Bill is nothing to me, Tony. I don't love him; I told you." I grin. "Far too caught up in you. Even he said so."
That shuts him up.
"And as far as this 'unqualified nightmare' business, if you're talking about your scars, they're really not so horrid, you know."
He snorts.
When the shampoo is fully rinsed I lean in for a quick peck. "Since when do you not believe me when I tell you things ?" I look down and reach out a soft finger to trace a line along the jagged outter edge. "This one here," I say, indicating the more severe, pinkish number running horizontal beneath his left pectoral, "is my favorite."
He laughs softly.
"Tosser. It's the worst one."
I flick my eyes up coyly at him.
"Don't believe me ?"
"No."
I lean towards it, I have to, examining it up close before surprising him with a flick of my tongue and a soft smooch.
The best thing about it is that it instantly makes him giggle and shimmy in place.
Tony is ticklish ?
So then I just have to keep going.
.
It's unbelievable. I mean, I'm revolted by them, the scars. How could I not be ? They're positively ghastly. I've never gotten used to them - in the mirror, to this day, they still make me wince. And here is Maxxie ... kissing them ! Like they're the most beautiful things in the world.
He's cracked. Or madly in love. I can't decide.
Most embarrassing thing is, the skin's really sensitive, even after all this time, and his lips are so soft, let alone that genius tongue, it's making me giggle.
"Max," I squirm. "Stop it. Come on."
"Sorry, no," he says, dragging the pointed tip through it.
Jesus. It's making me hot, even. Last thing I bloody need. I try to physically push him away, but instead find myself grabbing his face with both hands and bringing it to mine for a serious, extensive mauling.
What, am I addicted ?
He pulls back suddenly. His eyes have that increasingly familiar filthy twinkle.
"Turn around," he says, all serious and sexy.
I go to open my mouth to protest – but what about Brighton ? - when his lands on mine, and before long, my mind floats the thought ... 'fuck Brighton'.
He pulls off, and then he's taking my shoulders and gently turning me to face the wall. Jesus. It's exciting, not knowing what he's up to, why he wants me to do this ... and then the fear creeps in again.
"Max", I say, stopping mid way. "I'm not ready for-"
"I know," he immediately says, cupping my jaw. "I wouldn't dream of it before you're ready, Tone. Promise." He leans in, kisses me soft, and whispers. "I just don't wanna miss out on the scar, back here."
Miss out. Like it's some golden prize.
He can't mean it, these things. I mean, he's just doing it to make a point. To make me feel better about myself.
Right ?
He takes his time, kissing the one back there, caressing it, telling me how it's almost like artwork, that he in fact, wants to sketch it, and refuses to listen to my scoffings or protests ... and then he grabs the soap and runs it over my entire back, kneading and massaging along the way, and it's fairly glorious. How he hasn't employed himself as a professional masseuse thus far, I don't know.
Then his hands lower, and he's soaping up my scrawny buns. Christ, if my scars aren't mortifying enough, my pathetically skinny, shapeless arse ... the polar opposite of a bubble butt – of all the guys in his sketch pad ...
Not all the guys - you're in his sketch pad, remember.
Oh ... shit. Ya.
Next, my thighs, particularly, it should be noted, my extreme upper, inner ones. Let's say he isn't exactly careful not to brush against my balls ... then down each leg, rigourously massaging the whole way ... and I'm like a new man. Ready to take on the world.
That is, if it weren't for this raging hard-on poking from my body.
Next, he puts his face up by my ear, and whispers.
"I love you so much."
God, what a rush. No matter how many times you hear it, it never loses it's impact.
In response, I turn my face sideways and we kiss over my shoulder. It's a bit awkward, but pretty frigging intense.
He breaks away.
"Do you trust me, Tone ?"
"Huh ? Ya, of course – ya."
"I wanna try something. Will you let me ?"
Shit. What a tantalizing couple of sentences.
"Um ... okay," I answer, sounding way more sure than I am.
He removes the shower head and runs it over my entire back. A quick glance downward finds the soapy bubbles moving in a small whirlpool down the drain. I have a brief premonition that I'm very soon going to feel as though my brain is doing the same thing.
There is then a soapy hand on my cheeks again.
"You have such a sweet, gorgeous little bottom, did you know that ? So hot."
Once again, he can't mean it. I don't even have a 'bottom' – my lower back pretty much disappears into my legs, but before I can scoff at this statement, before I can process the sensation ... he's running a finger up my crack.
I leap away in surprise – it's just instinct, I suppose, not to let anyone touch you here.
He yanks me back in place, a hand on each hip.
"Max-"
"-Let me Tone, please ? You said you trust me. I'm not gonna penetrate, I promise."
"But-" I squirm.
"Shhh," he says, kissing my shoulder blade. "Relax. Put your hands on the wall."
Relax ? !
Put your hands on the wall ? !
Those two phrases do NOT go together.
Why must my dick betray me, though ? Why is it twitching and swelling up fat at the very idea ? And so I do it ... and then by christ there's a soaped up finger gently circling the hole ... nudging at it with a knuckle, all very soft and careful ... and I'm not sure how it feels, not sure if I like it, but then I'm tense and really really nervous – it can't be helped – and then it's over. He pulls down the showerhead and runs the warm spray over the crack. Just as I'm beginning to relax, I mean, that was weird, but it wasn't horrid, I suppose ... here come more whispered instructions.
"Spread your legs."
Shit. Holy fucking shit. My dick practically leaps into the air over this one.
I glance briefly over my shoulder, a small part of me wanting to protest, wanting to question this, but the body bypasses the brain, and complies.
"Wider," he says.
Oh fuck. Just finish me off, right here, I think, as I spread further.
It's then that I see it, a neatly folded towel thrown to the shower floor just behind me ...
That I hear it: "just hold still, okay ?" ...
And that I feel it ...
A soft tongue running ever so gently, over the hole.
I lift one foot, then the other; my head going from hanging straight down off my shoulders to flying straight back, every single articulation from my mouth bouncing and echoing off the tiles ... and he will not stop.
It's unlike anything I've ever felt or imagined, the sensation. Wet and swirly and strong, weirdly intense, like there's a direct line between it, and my dick. Somewhere far off in my mind I recall him discussing some inner spot, some small bit of flesh inside which contains a concentrated bundle of nerves - the Panic Button, I think he called it, and how, when rubbed, it sends you hurtling off into the stratosphere ... and I try to imagine it for a moment, imagine it feeling better than this, but can't, so bloody talented is his tongue, so naturally gifted and eager, with a mind of it's own, circling, poking, lapping, flicking into the hole, and it's just ... insanely hot ... Holy shit it makes you dance, makes you jut your arse out shameless.
No, I'm sorry, Max. I can't keep still. Not possible. Not with your face in my cheeks, tormenting the rim – it is called 'rimming', isn't it ? - I mean, who knew that this universally reviled part of the anatomy held the capacity for such intense pleasure ? I don't understand it – I would have argued against it all day long, and in fact I recall doing so, once he informed me that this was something people actually did.
"No fucking way!" I shrieked. "You can't be serious !"
"It's true." He shrugged. "Been around for ages. Straights do it, too."
"Disgusting ! Revolting, Max ! How could you do it ? !"
Here's how: His tongue should win the Nobel frigging prize. It circles you, and you giggle and twist about, and then he grabs you impatiently with both hands, and holds you still for a bit, and he makes these little torturous up and down, circular, diagonal and then criss-crossing motions, just with the tip, and ... oh god, oh holy blithering christ ... back and forth the pendulum swings, back and forth, which he immediately learns is my new favorite thing in the world – and so he preys on this knowledge, cruel bastard, making the sideways sweeping motion over and over for a solid minute, or is it twelve ? ? Varying only in pressure and intensity, and it's just ... unbearable. For each pass I emit this bizarre, strangled, futuristic, satanic curse word, or something – lord knows what it is, or maybe I'm speaking in tongues, or at least another language, producing sounds I've never heard out of myself to date, which let me tell you, is saying a lot, and I'm pushing out air from my lungs, mouth completely dry, now, hands positioning and repositioning on the wall, desperate for a firm grip point with which to assist me in withstanding this assault, but finding none.
And I have to. I have to lower a hand, because it's so fat and mean, my cock, throbbing so hard it's thumping in my ears like a bass drum. The sensation, on top of everything else, is making me manic, and so I must relieve the pressure ... but he's instantly on me.
"Don't you fucking dare." He barks. "Hands on the wall."
I whimper. I actually do.
No. Stop yourself. Have you no self respect ?
In agony, I throw the hand back up where it was, biting through my lip, and then I'm instantly back to the head hanging/head snapping thing as he spreads me with further still, and gets his lips in there, now ... and holy motherfucker I am simply going to expire, right here. It's just so wicked, this torturous, endless lap/smooch, ramping everything up by about a billion percent.
There's no hope, you understand, particularly when he slows down, and then it's so much worse, so much more intense, each and every tiny circling, flicking, swiping sensation ...
He's a god. That's it.
No, not a god.
God.
But how I can think this about a being who is kneeling in the shower at nine in the morning in some tacky tourist town, positively driving his tongue into places it was never meant to go ...
Okay, christ ... phew, he's stopped. A moment's respite, praise jesus, or maybe the torment is actually over ...
But, no. Here it comes – a soapy hand reaching round front, and he's infinitesimally gentle, when he touches it, knowing the fragile, sorry condition it's in ... but I cry out just the same, digging my nails into the grout, and then let out a great hoarse, squeeling whimper, as that tongue is back – oh no, he's not seriously going to do both at once - teasing and making the lightest, faintest sideways sweeping motions, missing every third or so just to keep me guessing as he strokes my cock at the same murderous snail's pace ... IS he ?
Yes, fuck's sake, yes. And I'm telling you, it's sheer torture. I cannot come with him moving this slow, with this barely-there caress, even with that tongue up my arse ... meaning I'm being very deliberately kept on the razor thin 'just before' edge ...
My brain blanks out a few times, the intensity of perpetual near-orgasm almost literally too much, and I'm daydreaming here in this shower of a mouth on my balls – if the lad only had two mouthes, I figure, that is where I would need it right now, in order to send me hurtling madly over the cliff ...
Shudder.
Maxxie ? With two mouthes ?
.
He's squirming and crying, absently stomping his feet, even – not a reaction I've ever previously had, and I'm absolutely flying, so turned on, so elated and honored to make him this insane, to turn his brain inside out and right to mush, that I don't want it to end. He doesn't understand that I really could do this all day. I'm principally about the mouth – it is where my talents lie, and, good as cock and balls may be, arse is so wickedly forbidden, so very taboo, particularly to a (formally, I will now dare say) straightboy that it's become a particular specialty and favorite, though one I normally reserve for special occasions only ...
This being the specialist of all ... Tony's First Time.
But alas, it can't go on forever, sadly, and my knees are screaming at me, neck and mouth aching, and so I retreat, catching my breath, and allowing him a moment to catch his – the proverbial calm before the storm – before moving in for the kill.
Yes, not that it will take much at this point, but a lightning quick finish – coming like a gunshot, is what I'm going for - might be especially luscious.
He will pitch right off to sleep afterwards – I've tortured him enough - but that's okay. I'll rinse fiercely with the anti-bacterial stuff so that I can kiss him (my medical student cousin convincing me that the last thing you wanna risk is Hepatitis), and then allow him a peaceful slumber while I once again take care of my own urgent needs, here in the loo.
And so ... away we go ... tongue and hand in unison, slow at first, then right into speed-of-sound ... and below me, those feet twist and curl helplessly, and as I raise my free hand to tug gently, once ... twice, on his balls ...
! ! *SCREAM* ! !
Bloody murder ... to all bloody hell ... the sound ricochets and reverberates off the tiles, echoing from one end of the room to the other like home theatre, hips jerking and shaking every few seconds, whole body trembling as he shoots off, manic, into the wall.
I keep at him through it, both ends - can't help myself, until he's spent and useless.
Finally I raise up off my knees, christ they hurt, and dive for the mouthwash which I rinse, twice, and twice again, violently, before spitting and returning to him.
He's still in place, hands on the wall, head hanging low, and I slide in between. To my surprise and concern at first, he's emotional, like he's just been through something difficult, maybe uncomfortable, that he's still trying to process, still trying to decide on ... or maybe it's that he's embarrassed or even possibly upset to have had me do that to him – kiss him in his most private area, and turn it into something sexual. Maybe I went too far. Maybe he wasn't ready.
But no. I look again. His eyes meet mine, and yes, they're a tad freaked, but, I realize, it's only from having come so particularly hard, from it being so new and raw, this whole experience ... for he leans and takes me, bodily, into the gentlest hug, into the achingly sweet circle of his arms ... and just holds me there, forever, with his mouth against my ear, panting out the final warm breaths, and says nothing. He doesn't need to. He's loved. If he didn't realize it before, it he had any doubts about it at all, they have vanished.
.
Author's note: here are the credits for the various love-quotes floating through Maxxie's head early on:
"Here are fruits, flowers, leaves, and branches, and here is my heart which beats only for you." (Paul Verlaine)
"What I feel for you seems less of earth and more of a cloudless heaven." (Victor Hugo)
"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us." (Ralph Waldo Emerson) (The reader will notice that I took the liberty of tweaking this slightly, as I felt it worked better for the story, substituting the word "between" for "within".)
Lord Byron, below (as noted in the story, Maxxie switched the pronouns from "she" and "her" in Byron's original poem, to "he" and "his", for obvious reasons):
"She walks in beauty,
Like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes."
The Liz Phair lyrics are from her song Flower from her 1993 debut album, Exile in Guyville. Funnily and fittingly, I just found out that this song, containing the memorable lyric "I wanna be your blowjob queen", was covered by the gay male group Pansy Division.
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