by Lily Velden
“Noah, baby, I’m ready for you.”
With my heart knocking against my ribs, I watched as he clothed my cock in sheer latex and coated it in lube. He rose to his knees and shuffled forward, smiling at me as he extended one hand back to grasp the base of my dick and hold it upright. The tip brushed against his star, and a shudder passed down my body in response to the sensation.
“You want this, Noah?”
“God, yes!”
And I did. I wanted it so bad my balls ached.
“Good, ’cause so do I,” he confessed with an uncharacteristically shy smile.
I braced myself, denying my need to thrust up into his heat. Without being told, I knew he’d want to be in control and take me into his body at his own pace. He surprised me by abruptly lowering himself enough to have my head push through his outer ring in one shove. We both gasped. He at the intrusion, me at the delicious strangulation of my dick. Never had I felt anything so hot and tight around my cock.
He paused, arching his neck until his head lolled back. I wanted to bury myself in him. I wanted to raise myself to kiss his Adam’s apple. I wanted to double over so I could take his leaking cock in my mouth. I wanted it all.
I watched as a slow smile spread over his face at the same time as he inched himself down my shaft. Seeing him smile at having me inside him thrilled me.
At last his butt rested on my groin, and he opened his eyes. They were a warm burnt caramel, and he was smiling. I smiled back. He circled his hips and moaned softly. I moaned too. Fuck, it felt so damn good. The air was squeezed from my lungs—I felt overwhelmed. I longed for time to stop so could I could savor what was, for me, one of the most pivotal moments of my life. I was with the man I loved… inside him. And what was more, it was where he wanted me to be.
“Okay, big boy, show me what you’ve got,” he murmured breathily.
And so I did, thankful I’d come three times in the past twelve hours… it gave me stamina.
And his ass a workout.
12
“HURRY UP and finish your coffee.”
I turned my head and raised my eyebrows at him—for the husky tone to his voice as much as for his words.
We were seated at ninety degrees to each other at a pocket-sized table in the small, leafy courtyard of our hotel, finishing a typical French breakfast of deliciously buttery and flaky croissants, fruit, and cheeses. The early morning dappled sunlight warmed my face as I deliberately leaned back in my chair before taking another leisurely sip of my café au lait.
Robert chuckled, angling his upper body toward me and resting his hand on my thigh. My dick immediately twitched at his close proximity.
“If I have to watch you suck jam from your fingers, lick pastry crumbs from your lips, or God help me, hear you sigh over your coffee for so much as one more minute, I’ll forget my resolve to show you this wonderful city. All you’ll see of Paris will be the sheets of my bed, and um, maybe the ceiling of my room!”
My dick didn’t think that was such a bad idea, and Robert, seeing my hesitation, softly laughed.
“I know. My cock thinks it’s a great idea too, but um, I’m not so sure our arses would agree. We’re both going to be walking funny as is.”
“Good point,” I agreed regretfully, downing the last of my coffee.
OUR DAYS in Paris passed quickly. Robert took me to all the usual Parisian tourist destinations such as the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, Notre-Dame Cathedral, and the Arc de Triomphe. We spent a day in the Louvre, where, I must admit, my most memorable moment wasn’t gazing upon the Mona Lisa, or La Joconde, as the French called her. No, it was when Robert stood behind me and slipped his hands into the front pockets of my jeans, discreetly fondling my dick as I drooled over Michelangelo’s unfinished sculpture, the Dying Slave. He whispered in my ear how much prettier my cock was than that of the slave, and when my dick swelled at his praise, he chuckled softly and kissed the nape of my neck.
Another day was spent walking along the banks of the River Seine. The weather favored us with blue skies and a warm sun. A cool breeze ruffled the surface of the water, creating sparkling diamond patterns that danced and shifted with the flow of the river. Again and again, we crossed the Seine from the Left Bank to the central Île de la Cité, to the Right Bank and back again, each time choosing a different bridge. Every bridge had a story, and Robert seemed to know them all. He was an excellent tour guide, amazing me with his knowledge of the city and its history. He seemed to have a never-ending supply of quirky bits of trivia about various artists and novelists—things you wouldn’t find in your standard history books.
I tried to return the favor and tease him a little, as he’d done to me at the Louvre, but somehow I ended up being the one hot and bothered and ready to drop my trousers in the middle of the day, fellow pedestrians be damned. How he managed to turn the tables on me, I’d never know. I’d trapped him against the parapet on the Pont Neuf, which, paradoxically was French for “New Bridge,” and yet it was the oldest bridge in Paris, with my groin pressed against his ass, my hands in his jeans pockets, rubbing his dick. He’d moaned appreciatively, and I’d grinned triumphantly only to have him wipe the smile from my face and turn my legs to Jell-O with his next words.
“Don’t start what you’re not prepared to finish, Noah. We both know how fond of an audience I am,” he’d practically purred.
“You wouldn’t. Not here. Not in broad daylight,” I’d whispered, removing my hands from his pockets and stepping back.
He’d turned to face me, his eyebrow cocked, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Try me.”
Taking a small step forward, he’d closed the distance between us, using one hand to cup my butt while he squeezed the other between our bodies to palm my jeans-clad dick. Leaning in, his hot breath fanning my ear, he’d whispered, “Baby, your arse is so addictive, I think I’d happily fuck you in front of the entire British royal family. Would you like that, Noah? Would you like me to fill that sweet arse of yours? Right here, right now?”
I’d gasped. Gasped because my ass clenched and my dick surged. Gasped because, yes, I did want him right then and there. He’d chuckled and kissed me.
“Come on, sunshine, before we get ourselves arrested.”
THE NEXT day, for a laugh, we joined a Da Vinci Code walking tour—both of us surprised at how much we enjoyed it. With next to no debate, we decided we preferred the austerity of Saint-Sulpice to the opulence of Notre-Dame.
He surprised me a few times during our time in Paris, one such occasion being when he took me to a perfume-making workshop. The lady running the class had that effortless elegance that seemed to personify French women. She spoke excellent English and greeted Robert by name, which made me suspect he’d participated before. We joined a handful of women from as far afield as Australia and Moscow. Being the only men got us a few knowing smiles, but no one made us feel uncomfortable.
I listened to Fatine’s instructions, deciding to try my hand at concocting a perfume for Miranda, and perhaps an aftershave for Mitch and myself. Once the informative part of our workshop was complete and we were free to experiment, Robert pulled a note from his wallet and handed it to Fatine.
Seeing my curious look, he explained, “My gran was a regular here and created an aftershave for me for my eighteenth birthday. I’ve been having it made up for me ever since.”
My heart gave a little squeeze that the grown man beside me would keep a little of his beloved grandmother with him by wearing the cologne she’d created for him. His sweet sentimentality made me love him all the more.
I smiled at him. “Well, as Fatine said earlier, your gran obviously had the nose, ’cause you always smell good enough to eat.”
“I’m hoping you will later… eat me that is, or suck me. I leave the choice up to you,” he cheekily whispered in my ear. We grinned at each other like two naughty schoolboys, both of us obviously recalling our nights spent kissing, sucking, licking, and screwing each other’s b
rains out. When our butts were out of action, there were always hand jobs, blow jobs, frotting, and rimming—a veritable sexual smorgasbord to choose from. Many nights we didn’t limit ourselves to one dish….
With a little help, I made my perfumes and colognes—Mitch’s and my aftershaves were two variations on Robert’s signature one. Apparently, according to Fatine, Robert’s and my scent would now complement rather than compete with each other.
THE OTHER, even more memorable occasion, for a very different reason, was when he took me to Parc de Bagatelle. The park was located in the Bois de Boulogne, a huge forested area, which, Robert told me, the local Parisians referred to as the “lungs” of Paris. The Bois was, apparently, twice the size of Central Park.
The gardens weren’t well-serviced by the public transport system of the city, but one look through the front entrance informed me the spectacular display of blooms was well worth having risked life and limb with another ride in a Parisian cab.
When we sauntered through the wildflower meadow, I spied a peacock posing among the flowers, his tail in full display, a veritable palette of blues and turquoise. I quickly clicked off a photo to send to the twins.
Robert filled me in on the history of the gardens, and as I listened to him, it was like stepping back in time, to the era of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. I could picture the women with their elaborately coiffed hair and bouffant skirts, strolling with lacy parasols in hand along the manicured paths of the gardens. Accompanying them, fops clad in satins and silks, with shiny buckled shoes and powdered wigs.
As we neared the famous rose garden, Robert’s conversation dwindled away to nothing. One glance at his face told me to respect his need for silence. I followed his soft gaze to the rows upon rows of roses. They were in full bloom, their sweet fragrance floating on the light breeze. I watched as Robert paused by one blossom, reaching out to delicately stroke its daintily shaded pink petals. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He looked sad.
“Robert? Are you okay?”
He opened his eyes, turning his head to look at me and nodded. “Yes. I’m just missing Gran. This was her favorite place in the whole world. She brought me here every time we visited Paris.” He laughed softly. “And we visited a lot.”
“Is that why you know so much about French history?”
Robert reached for my hand, taking me with him as he began wandering once more along the narrow gravel avenues separating the rose beds.
“Yes. Gran’s mother, my great-grandmother, was French. She instilled in Gran a love of all things French, and I guess in a way that love was passed on to me.” He smiled fondly. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’d get home from school on Friday to find her packed, her first words to me to hurry and get my gear together, or we’d miss our train. She’d tell me she needed some Paris time.”
“She sounds like a wonderful person,” I offered encouragingly.
“She was. I don’t know where or what I’d be today without her.” Robert cleared his throat. “When I turned up on her doorstep, I was angry and defiant and a hairbreadth away from shattering into a million pieces.”
My eyes smarted with unshed tears for fourteen-year-old Robert. I squeezed his hand. He returned the pressure, continuing softly, “She kept me together and gave me a home. And when I tried to hide my sexuality, she clipped me around the ears and told me to never feel shame for who I was.”
“A wise woman.” My voice was thick with emotion, and it was my turn to clear my throat.
Robert smiled at me. “That she was.” He chuckled. “It was Gran who took me to my first gay bar when I turned eighteen. Right here in Paris. She shoved me toward the dance floor and told me to have fun, but be classy about it.”
“Oh my God! You’re kidding?” I gasped, shocked.
Robert laughed at my expression. “All the guys adored her. Told her to come back anytime.”
Still stunned, I asked, “Did she?”
“Yes.” He nodded, smiling broadly. “Too many times to count.”
I laughed, trying to picture a grandmother in a gay dance club. My mind boggled.
Robert stopped by a bush, its branches heavy with deep-red roses.
“I scattered her ashes here.” He spoke so softly, I had to lean in to hear him.
“They let you do that?”
“All the gardeners knew her. They let me do it unofficially. It’s what she would have wanted. And I… I like the thought that she’s helping the roses she loved thrive.”
“You were—are—a good grandson.” I could barely get the words out, I was so moved.
Robert looked uncomfortable and turned his face away from me, coughing. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing and have him regret opening up to me and leaving himself vulnerable, and so I remained silent and contented myself with squeezing his hand.
We stood for a long moment, silent, Robert with his face averted.
I waited, and when he finally turned to face me again, I smiled, deciding to tease him.
“Come on, Callinan. I reckon you owe me lunch and at least one glass of wine for making me traipse all over the countryside.”
Robert looked at me gratefully. He sighed dramatically. “If you insist, sunshine.”
ON OUR last night in Paris before heading off to Munich, Robert managed to book L’Hotel’s Hammam Pool and steam room for us. It was situated on the lower level and was a mixture of ancient and modern. The walls were old, cream-colored stones that looked to be limestone, but I wasn’t sure. The size of stones varied, slotting together in a way that reminded me of a simple jigsaw puzzle as they curved upward to form an arched, vaulted ceiling that gave an almost churchlike feel to the space—an effect only faintly dispelled by the modernity of the pool and sauna with their azure-blue tiles. With the low lighting, it felt like we were in a grotto—a spiritual place, though, I wasn’t sure if the orgies I was picturing qualified as sacred ceremonies. I smiled to myself—my times at the bathhouse had obviously colored my perception of such places.
Robert didn’t help when he grabbed me by the waist and heaved me out of the water to sit on the ledge. The dim lighting changed the tone of his bare flesh from pale cream to gold, casting deep shadows over his face and torso. He looked like a pagan priest emerging from the ceremonial waters of a lake.
With my back against the rough, ancient stones, I watched him while he nestled between my thighs, smiling up at me briefly before he wrapped his plump lips around my cock and slowly but surely made love to my dick—not content until he’d sucked me dry.
Being there alone with him, naked in the steam and water, was the most intimate and erotic experience of my life—one I would never forget.
MUNICH’S HOFBRÄUHAUS was everything I’d read about and more. The clientele was a mixture of locals and tourists, the casually clothed and those in traditional dirndls and lederhosen. A brass trio kept up a steady stream of traditional music as waitresses walked among the wooden tables, their skirts swishing, offering for sale the largest pretzels I’d ever seen. The atmosphere was festive and noisy. I loved it.
I discovered something—if the English liked to down a pint or two of beer, then the Germans liked to swim in it! Their steins were one liter, or a little over a quart. Robert was in heaven. Me, I was torn as to which beer to try first.
The temperature was quite warm, and I wondered if I would feel too hot in both a button-down and a tee. I considered removing my shirt but decided against it just in case we got drunk and I ended up forgetting it—it was a favorite.
We were seated near the band at a table which could have easily accommodated six people. Thankfully, they had menus in English because my German was nonexistent, and Robert’s not much better. It didn’t take me long to decide on the pot-roasted Alpine Ox served with bread dumplings and cranberries while Robert went with Hofbrauhaus’s homemade veal sausages, declaring jokingly he needed to see if they stacked up against the Brit version.
We’d no sooner placed our order and been served our drinks—a wheat beer for me and a dark for Robert—when two strapping young Germans asked us in broken English if they could join us. Kurt and Arno, as they introduced themselves, were locals, and at first I thought they’d asked to sit with us due to a lack of free tables. As the evening wore on, though, my opinion changed.
By the time we’d finished our meals, it was clear they were gay and making a play for Robert and me. The only thing I wasn’t sure of was if they were looking for some group action or if Arno was only trying to get into Robert’s pants and Kurt into mine.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it, Kurt was the more forthright of the two. Arno seemed content to simply stare at Robert with puppy-dog eyes and lap up his every word as if they’d been coated in honey, and Robert, I could see, was taking his flirting in his stride.
Of course he was.
He probably got hit on every time he went out to clubs and bars.
I wasn’t quite as graceful.
I was all too aware that the seemingly constant warmth in my cheeks had absolutely nothing to do with the heat being generated by the mass of bodies crowding the room. Nor was it due to the alcohol.
I was used to fielding interest from women, not men. Other than the bathhouse, I’d only been to the one gay bar, and my memories of what had happened that night weren’t helping me deal with Kurt’s less-than-subtle overtures. I cursed myself for my awkwardness—surely I should be beyond such reactions with all that I’d experienced at the bathhouse and with Robert.
But those experiences, especially the ones at the bathhouse, seemed different—I guess being naked, or, at best, clad only in a towel, kind of put an end to any games before they could begin. At the bathhouse everyone knew what everyone else wanted. They wanted to get off. There was no maneuvering, merely physical desires being met. Had I met Kurt there, prior to Robert’s return to the UK, I would have undoubtedly sucked his dick. He was, after all, a good-looking guy.