by Damon Suede
Worse, Griff could tel that Dante knew too, that he was teasing the Russian on purpose, playing for attention and hoping for a bonus. It didn’t dul the horniness, and in a strange, jealous way Griff found himself hoping that Alek would do it because he was so close and it was so possible and they both wanted Dante so badly.
Dante’s boner slipped through his over-lubed fist with a crackling sound as he milked it with patient affection. One plump vein wrapped up the side and then branched midway. The head got darker with each stroke, its ridge standing in sharp relief. Every few strokes Dante cupped his hand and sort of polished it.
Griff tried to imitate the stroke and almost yelped at the sensation, tugging his foreskin forward protectively for a moment. His own cockhead was intensely sensitive. Maybe because he was uncut, that much direct friction was almost painful. His whole life he’d wished he was circumcised, but he’d never thought about the practical differences.
Looking at Dante’s perfect cut erection, he realized how differently Dante could use his shaft, how rough he could be, how much harder and longer he could fuck. Cautiously Griff started stroking again, careful to let his dick slip inside the skin. His erection loomed in front of his laptop screen and Dante’s face.
So strange.
On the other side of Griff’s boner, Dante joked toward the camera. “Maybe I could bring a buddy in some time. You know?” Griff’s hand froze. The fuck did he say? For a second, he felt like Dante was talking to his penis. That was how it looked to him anyways. His meat bobbed and leaked to one side of Dante’s bulshit grin.
On the laptop Dante plowed ahead. “I got a buddy at the station. Hel, he’s way hotter than me.” Dante’s hand twisted around the curved shaft hypnoticaly.
“For real.”
What fucking buddy? Or was this more porno bulshit?
Alek made an appreciative sound in the back of his throat. “A hot buddy? Another firefighter?” Dante kept right on lying. “Mmm. And he has a way bigger dick. Plus we’re kinda related. That’d be crazy, huh, for your members? Two HotHeads at once.”
Griff swalowed. Does he mean me?
“Brothers?” Alek jumped on the idea, bringing the camera around to one of the arms of the chair for a raised side-view that made Dante look like a steaming meal.
“Not exactly. But sort of. If it was worth it, he might.”
Behind the camera, Alek ran with the suggestion. “That would be amazing. And I know the members would be most appreciative. Perhaps we wil discuss it, after.”
Wait. This isn’t live!
Griff had forgotten. This footage had been taped before the cioppino night, over a week ago. Al of this had already happened before the night Dante had asked him to come along.
He means us. He’s talking about my thick ugly dork while he whacks off.
Griff knew it would never happen, but for a moment he gave in to the fantasy of being with his best friend like that: bunker gear around their ankles, tons of lube, sharing his foreskin between them. Taking his time and realy showing Dante what that skin was good for, letting Dante dock his shiny knob so they could bump plump cockheads until they squirted inside his wet sheath. Griff grunted and swalowed his fucking drool and tried to slow down.
“Sure.” Dante kept stroking with one hand, firmly and slowly, and his other slid down to cup his bals a moment, and then under them to press on the hard, fuzzy ridge leading back along his crack.
What is he doing under there? Griff started puling his broad boner sharply enough to burn, precum spattering onto the coppery down on his abs.
Alek zoomed in closer on Dante’s glistening meat at a low angle that emphasized his strokes and the bounce of his heavy bals.
Leaning back into the wide chair, Dante tipped his pelvis up and revealed that while he jerked, he was rubbing his asshole roughly. Not penetrating, but his left hand massaged the tight anal knot rhythmicaly, his middle three fingers petting the tiny muscle without ever fuly slipping inside his butt. The lube was everywhere as he rubbed and nudged, rubbed and nudged, slicking and puling against the few sparse hairs that framed his furrow.
“Uhh. Monte.” Alek’s faint accent was a whisper as he zoomed in on Dante’s glossy crack. “Would you like a toy?”
“Nah. I don’t think so. My butt gets realy sensitive though. I love to get it licked, ya know? When I can find someone horny enough.” A hank of hair hung over one of Dante’s eyes. He winked, chewing his wine-stain lip in concentration. “Hmmph-rrm. Uh. I could be getting close.”
“Whenever you are ready.” The accent was clotted with desire now.
“Okay. Ungh. Gimme a—” By now, Dante’s dick had darkened to a dul red while his fingers polished the round head, shiny and dark and fat as a plum. His hardness looked so long and close to his face that it almost seemed like he could just lean down and suck himself to a climax. He’d spurt into his own mouth.
That image did it. Griff’s boner knew no fear and no conscience. He reached down beside his bed for a squirt of lube and knelt up on the bed over his laptop, looking down at his best friend’s slicked torso glowing onscreen. His bals were puled up against the base of his erection like a clenched fist; his hand whipped over his foreskin, tugging it back ungently, the rosy helmet glistening.
“Ungh. Unghh. Mmmph. Fuck.” Dante’s eyes were slits and his breath labored. The knuckle of one finger pushed inside him for a moment and his eyes roled back. “Jeez!”
Griff started jerking off in earnest, wanting to shoot together, even if they weren’t together. It was just them, just them. Al he could see was Dante: his smile, his cock, his beautiful ass in this bedroom where they belonged.
“Hssss. Ahhh, yeah.” On the laptop, Dante had puled both feet up onto the chair, pushing those fingers against his hole and milking the ful length of his veiny shaft. His breath hissed in his nostrils, his eyes locked on the crown of his erection, almost close enough to taste. His mouth was open and sounds poured out of him as he strained toward climax. “Ungh. Ungghh. Aww!”
Griff was breathing heavily, sweat making his pale skin shine in the dim glow from the laptop. The smel of precum and his damp foreskin was in his nostrils.
He loved it, and he knew that he loved it.
He thought about Tommy in the aley earlier with his rough friend, imagining instead Dante holding Griff down and ramming him until he roared.
Or him holding Dante against the wal of the station showers and fucking him with those long legs wrapped around his back.
Dante with him in bed waking up after Monday Night Footbal, kissing the back of his neck and whispering to him in Italian.
A tantalizing knot formed at the base of Griff’s spine, a bal of electricity gathering there that made his muscles jerk.
His eyes stayed locked on Dante.
He’ll never know.
Dante strained forward, and for one instant the tip of his tongue traced his own knob, and that pushed him off the cliff. “Aww. Ah, fuck. Ungh. Awh. Now.
Now!”
With a below, Dante arched then curled, and his plum-dark shaft erupted in his fingers. Splat—splat—splat. The long salty strand hit him in his open, shouting mouth and slid down his cheeks and chin. One shot hit his forehead and ran into his tousled hair.
He groaned and whimpered as he rode the arc of his orgasm back down to Earth, milking every ounce of pleasure and seed out of himself. When he was spent and panting, slippery puddles across his torso, his whole body gave a shudder and he smiled and sighed; his soft eyes drifted closed. He murmured in boneless pleasure. “Awww, G….”
G?! Did he say G or jeez?
And that quiet G did it. Griff flipped over the edge. He yanked back his foreskin suddenly; the sharp burn tripped his climax. His eyes clamped, and he angled his boner down at the comforter and watched his pink helmet spit what seemed like a pint of semen while he twitched and jerked on his knees.
A chuckle from the laptop made him turn to check what had happened in the HotHead studio
.
“Bravo. Ancora!” Alek brought the camera close to Dante’s skin, panning over his soaked torso.
Dante’s sweat-slick chest was rising and faling rapidly, laced with thick semen. More ran in the grooves of his abdominal muscles. “Cum gutters,” Dante caled them.
Now Griff could see why. He licked his lips at the thought. The whole studio must smel like hot, musky sperm.
I think I’m gay. And he can never know.
Alek sounded flabbergasted. “That was astonishing!”
“Whatsamatter?” Dante scraped a hand over his abs, his neck, the side of his face—colecting his jizz. He sucked his pleasure off his lower lip. “I gave myself a fuckin’ necklace.”
“How long has it been since you got off?”
Dante’s fingers played in the warm puddle at his sternum. His shaft shrank further and roled against his thigh, fading from plum to medium-rare again. “Like sixteen hours maybe. C’mon.”
“There’s so much.”
“Big fucking Sicilian bals, that’s why. I told you. I can bang three girls a day and stil need to dump a load in the shower at the station and another in the toilet at the bar.” Dante caught a thrown gym towel, wiping himself cautiously. When it rubbed his softening cockhead, he shivered. “Aggh! Sensitive!” That made Griff smile, tugging his foreskin down in sympathetic discomfort. Now you know how I feel under that skin, asshole.
“I think our members won’t know what hit them. Did you enjoy that?” Alek’s voice was tight, like any second he was going to excuse himself to the bathroom and flog the log while huffing Dante’s cum-rag.
“Sure.” Dante tossed the towel off screen.
Irrationaly, Griff wished he could catch that towel, just pluck it off the Internet and keep it for himself. Would Alek keep it or sel it to some lucky son of a bitch who happened to be a HotHead member? That was when he realized exactly how much he’d be wiling to pay for a cheap rectangle of terrycloth.
On the laptop screen, Dante stood abruptly to get his scattered clothing. His wet rod bobbed as he moved, and he didn’t want to look at the camera. As if someone had flipped a switch and turned off the light inside him. Click. Anyone who knew him could have seen he was done and felt like shit. It was clear he wanted to be dressed and gone from Alek’s questions.
Griff’s heart squeezed. I’m so sorry.
But Alek wasn’t. He didn’t seem to notice that they were finished. He kept trailing his new model around the room a little too closely. “Do you think we can convince you to come back again? Maybe bring that buddy?” Alek kept panning over Dante’s flexing legs and slippery back and the smeared streaks of jizz drying on his torso, unwiling to turn him loose.
Dante looked sharply at the camera. “Maybe. We’l see.” He scanned the floor for his stuff and stepped out of view, forcing Alek to pursue him.
“Would you like to rinse off, perhaps?”
“Nah.” Dante was al business. He picked up his bunker jacket, rubbing a hand over the tape that covered the engine and ladder numbers—his only protection.
This is why he made that cioppino. He needed me to make it okay.
Griff sat back on his haunches and his knee nudged his gooey load on the comforter. He felt like an asshole, kneeling in the dark in a puddle of cooling semen and his best friend naked on his laptop at 2 a.m. Christ. What the hel had he done?
Onscreen, Alek folowed Dante as he retrieved his turnout gear: pants, shirt, boots. “Wel, Monte. I’d like to thank you for letting off some steam with us here at HotHead.”
Dante didn’t answer. He stared into the camera, holding his gear in an awkward bundle, obviously wanting to get dressed and get the fuck out of that place.
He looked down at his sticky body and made the decision, stepping back in his clothes right where he stood.
Griff knew how often Dante showered, how particular he was. Another spike of pity went through him. Leaving like that meant Dante was on the verge of flipping out, camera or no.
Alek pretended not to notice, puling back so Dante’s damp, glowing body was visible from head to toe. “Monte? Wave goodbye to your fans.” The instruction caught Dante puling his bunker pants up. He straightened, hooking one suspender over his olive shoulder. His eyes looked trapped, but he faked a smile and raised a hand and waved. “Bye, guys.”
Bye, buddy. See you at your parents’ house.
The screen went black. The basement bedroom fel dark. Outside, a garbage truck colected trash from the neighbors.
Griff closed his laptop and stayed right where he was, kneeling on the wet spot he’d made for himself.
Chapter 8
GRIFF climbed the steps to the Anastagios’ front door like a prisoner headed to the noose. The air was colder and the sparse trees on the block were shedding leaves.
In the week since “Ful Monte” had been posted on the HotHead site, Griff had watched it about fifteen, maybe twenty, times. He’d finaly broken down and bought another week of membership.
He wasn’t even trying not to watch it anymore. Now he was just trying not to think about it outside of his locked basement bedroom. He wasn’t avoiding Dante, but for his own sanity, he was trying to make sure they weren’t alone together too much.
Last thing he needed….
Griff rang the bel. It jangled somewhere inside the townhouse as he opened the door and went on inside. Tucked under his left arm, he held a bottle of sweet vermouth as a peace offering. He’d been absent the last couple of Sundays because of work, and he knew that he was going to catch grief about it.
Sunday dinner at the Anastagios’ didn’t require an invitation for Griff. If anything, it involved an apology if he skipped for some reason. They expected him there at 5 p.m. with the rest of the kids and were hurt when he wasn’t.
Mr. Anastagio loved having the “troops” around when he cooked, and Mrs. Anastagio never felt like she knew what was going on with her brood unless the gossip came from their own mouths. This woman had mothered him since he was in high school, washed his shorts and gone with him to the doctor and talked to his teachers.
Mrs. Anastagio took Sundays off and left her husband and kids to cook while she “visited” in the front parlor. That was a polite way of saying interrogation, and sure enough, the minute Griff let himself into the house, he heard her cal from there.
“Helo?”
Because of the weirdness with Dante, Griff had stayed away too long, and he knew it. And he knew she knew it, even if she didn’t know the reason.
In the front hal, Griff hung his scarf and jacket on a peg. First stop: parlor. There were voices from the kitchen, but he knew he needed to apologize to Mrs. A. first thing.
Sundays were the days she dressed for visitors, and today was no exception. She was sitting on the window seat in a light-green pantsuit that showed off her curviness, waiting for him with a soft smile and a stern brow.
“I thought we were gonna have to make Flip file a missing person at his precinct.” She puled him into a hug; she was a foot and a half shorter than Griff, and he had to lean down to her. As he straightened up, she scrutinized him and patted his brawny chest. “You’re too damn skinny, Griffin.”
“Skinny!” He made a face.
“What the hel’s the matter with you?”
Now there was a tough one. How to answer that? Griff fidgeted at the affectionate scolding and thrust the red-capped vermouth at her—Carpano Antica was her favorite and not cheap.
She sniffed her approval, but her unsmiling face held firm. “Thank you. But don’t think you can buy me off with a bottle of booze, mister.” She nodded at the beige label and set the bottle down on the coffee table.
Muffled shouts came from the kitchen. It sounded like Mr. A. had burned himself or some part of the dinner. Then they could hear Loretta trying to keep her patience as she calmed him down, folowed by footsteps in the hal.
“Cerelia!” Mrs. A’s husband was headed down the hal.
In some part of his grown-up m
ind, Griff knew her name was Cerelia, but he never caled her anything but Mrs. Anastagio or Mrs. A.
Mr. Anastagio tipped his balding head into the parlor, wiping his hands on a towel thrown over his shoulder. He was taler than his wife, but not by much, and built like a furry barrel. He raised one square hand in cursory greeting. “Hi, Griffin.”
“Mr. A.” Griff prayed that dinner was ready and he could avoid the third degree and score points by eating a couple extra servings. Mr. Anastagio hated having leftovers almost as much as Mrs. A loved them. Dinners were always a tug-of-war between the requirement that everyone eat more than possible and their duty to take home huge shopping bags filed with enough food for a week.
“We’re having veal for the main. And Loretta’s doing a panna cotta for dessert. Hazelnut!” He leaned forward like a double agent passing secrets. “ Which is gonna be runny if you ask me.”
“No it is not! Jeez, pop!” Loretta’s voice barked from the hal behind her father. Footsteps came toward the parlor.
Mr. Anastagio whispered at them and smoothed his bushy mustache. “Like soup. I’m stil putting out big spoons. And bibs, maybe.”
“Pop! Enough!” Loretta stomped up behind him wearing a smudged apron over a sexy Sunday dress. “Your asparagus is getting mushy.” Eyes wide, Mr. A. spun and took off down the hal, grumbling good-naturedly at his daughter and the stove.
For a second, Griff thought he could get away with folowing down the hal and hovering in the kitchen to escape Mrs. A.’s probing eye.
Loretta nixed that as she headed after her father.
“Hi, Griff. Bye, Griff.” Loretta pointed at him with a wooden spoon, sternly. “Stay put until we cal you.” Mrs. Anastagio tugged him back to the settee, sitting him down beside her. She raised a hand to her black hair, smoothing imaginary strands into place. Her eyes were scanning his face as if she could read something there. She looked so tiny and determined in her green pantsuit.