He shrugged and I got up to make him breakfast.
When he was eating, he began to look at me from time to time, and I thought I saw a return of that emotional appreciation he had spoken about when he was drunk and talking about why I was beautiful.
I took this as a licence to ogle him, especially his chest. This seemed to register, as visual appreciation sometimes does, for he began from time to time to rub his chest—which I have to say really got me going.
When he had finished and we were both having another coffee, I said, “I think part of your issue is—well, I don’t want to degenerate into technical stuff, but—I think you have a kind of issue around physical contact.” He just looked at me. “Most men do, somewhat,” I added.
He frowned slightly. “Go on.”
“Okay. Well, physical contact is something most people need to be content, but our society doesn’t encourage it—apart from with children, and for sex. But touch is a way of connecting with another person.”
“Okay,” he said, hesitantly.
“Well, I thought I would just encourage you to be aware of your feelings round that: when you feel a desire, or an aversion, to touch. Use that as a way to explore things in yourself.”
He frowned. “It’ll probably lead to sex.”
I shook my head. “I’m not so sure. But if it does, so what? I mean, like I said—if I don’t want something, I’ll tell you.” I grinned. “I’m about as strong as you, so you won’t have to worry about being overbearing, or making me do something against my will.”
He looked thoughtful about this, so I added, “Remember, most men are sluts, more or less by definition. And I’m a gay man, you’ll remember. And—well, yes—I will admit that I find you attractive.”
He stared, considered, and then frowned. “But—you said you didn’t like, or much, sucking my dick.”
I nodded and sighed. “What I meant was, if there was a sense of connection, not just physical, that would have been much, much better. Like I said, I’m not complaining. Okay?”
He nodded, looking still a little confused.
“Good!” I said. “Now, stand up.”
He stood up and I went around the table. I turned him so we were standing face to face. Then I put my arms gently around him and pulled him to me in a hug. I felt, after some hesitation, his arms come around me, very lightly at first, and then more securely. I put my head on his shoulder, and after a little he did the same. Then I heard a sudden sob and he tried to pull away.
“No, no,” I said gently. “Just stay with it, whatever it is. It’s just a hug, Matt, a connection between friends. Okay?”
He sniffed. “Okay.”
It was a while before I felt him mentally detach. I stepped back and we both lowered our arms. He looked embarrassed, and smiled at me sheepishly.
“Painful, I know,” I said, and we both laughed.
“Here endeth the lesson,” I said, and went to do the cleanup.
I left him alone for a while after that, going to the barracks room and lying down on my cot. I thought I heard the sound of a movie from the lounge, but didn’t choose to join him. Instead, I got up and headed for the showers, murmuring to myself Matt’s phrase, “Plenty of hot water.”
I had just started to really loosen up under the spray when I felt I was being watched. It was like when Matt followed me with his eyes generally, only now it was more intense. I didn’t look, but focused on the sensation. I found that what at first made me feel a bit embarrassed, became tolerable and then pleasurable. I even started to preen slightly, moving as if for a camera—a porn camera; not obscenely, but with the self-awareness and sense of teasing that is meant to be provocative and seductive. I had never done this before, and was surprised at how easily I took to it.
Not only that, but I found I was getting off on it. By which I mean I began to feel sexy, very aware of my body—it was a nice body, I thought—and I started to get hard.
At first, I didn’t soap my dick, only all around it: my thighs, ass, and general groin area, but not the cock itself. And yet, despite this, my chubby became a woody, and this began to grow and rise, until at last it was fully hard and waving gently about under the spray as I shifted my stance.
I almost laughed at the performance I was putting on. And once I glanced enough to the side to assure myself that, yes, Matt was standing in the doorway to the shower area, still riveted to the spot.
I started to soap my cock, and began to breathe hard. Then—I dropped the soap.
Not quite “dropped.” More like a clumsy toss that looked, hopefully, like it had leapt from my grasp. It slithered across the tile floor toward the watching figure, coming to rest right at his feet.
“Do my back?” I said loudly, over the spray. His eyes widened but he said nothing, and I turned my back meaningfully—and waited.
I listened, but the sound of the water masked any such perception, and the sense of not knowing what Matt was doing I found quite exciting. It was a little time before I felt a gentle, perhaps hesitant, touch of what felt like a bar of soap to my upper back.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
The soap, with occasional touches of fingertips, moved around my shoulders and back, slowly and in what I thought might be an erotic fashion. It was tantalizing. Then, with the soap still moving languorously, I felt an even more tentative touch with the fingers of his other hand, come to rest on my shoulder. I bit my lip to suppress a moan at the pleasure of that sensation.
The hand, fingers slightly spread, moved along my shoulder to the side of my neck, and then up and into my hair. This was wonderful too. There was something in the manner of the touch that made it very—I don’t quite know what, but definitely nice.
And then, finally, I felt a third touch, which I realized must be Matt’s lips. They rested on the back of my left shoulder, just touching. If the hand had not still been in my hair, I would have let my head fall forward in surrender. The hand with the soap came from the side of my hip and began to soap my belly, and the other hand came around the other side while the lips slid up to my neck. And now the lips opened and I felt teeth just taking hold of my flesh, which caused me to shiver.
And then, at last, he stepped forward and I felt his chest, with the wonderfully rough hair, against my upper back, and, at the same time, the slick knob of his cock-head pressing between my ass-cheeks.
I groaned quietly then. He began to slide the cock up and down my ass in slow motions, and then, still kissing and biting my neck and line of shoulders, he positioned the head between the cheeks, pressing against my sphincter. And here he seemed to hesitate.
Was he waiting for me to initiate penetration?
If so, I decided, he was in luck. I pushed back, gently but insistently, and soon felt the head pop through my sphincter, and the inevitable transient sting of pain while neither of us moved further.
When the pain subsided, I pushed back more, and felt the cock slide inside me deliciously. I moaned and in response Matt thrust forward, slowly and gently, but inexorably driving his cock inside of me, until, with a shiver of pleasure that burst from deep inside me and flooded my body, he was pressing against my prostate.
This seemed to encourage him because he pulled out and thrust in again with more insistency, and deeper than ever, so that I felt the prostate thrill again, only more intensely. I felt the heat between my legs begin to build, and realized that I was getting close to cumming. So, I squeezed my sphincter during his next thrust, and heard him groan. He thrust in hard, pulled back and thrust even harder, this time staying there while I felt his cock pulse against my sphincter, and the rush of sexual stimulation in my prostate caused me to cum too, so that I cried out, which made him push still further inside so that I was poised on tip-toe under the warm spray.
Afterwards, Matt withdrew slowly and began to soap himself (he was still holding the bar of soap), and me. While the sensuous nature of his touch had passed—I could almost feel his emotional doors close—it was s
till pleasant enough. Then he handed me the soap and left the shower area, while I stood there, semen still deep inside me, standing under the warm spray.
Chapter 7: More Therapy
After that experience I found myself on a kind of high. It had felt like real sex between mutually interested partners, even with some emotional value too. The fact that it might be argued that Matt had more or less fled afterwards didn’t bother me. During the sex he had definitely been there. It had felt wonderful, in fact.
I encountered him next in the lounge, where he was watching cartoons.
“Hi,” I said, sitting down on the couch, not too close to him.
“Hi,” he said.
We both continued to look at the screen, but I soon had that sense that neither of us was really watching the cartoons. I turned and looked at him, and saw that he was looking at me. He gave an apologetic smile and looked away. I continued to study him, then, reaching out, I gently took his hand, and squeezed it.
He turned to look at me, his face reddening.
“You okay?” I asked him.
His eyes looked—what? Troubled? Confused? Something else?
His eyes studied my face, and then looked down at my hand holding his. He seemed to sag slightly, and finally gave me a bit of a smile. “I guess so.”
I nodded. “Just so you know,” I said. “That last time? It was good for me.” I chuckled. “No, actually it was—great for me.”
He looked incredulous, and then smiled in an embarrassed but pleased way.
“Me too,” he said quietly.
“Good.” I didn’t let go of his hand, and I noticed he wasn’t pulling it away either. And I noticed that there was a considerable bulge in his sweatpants. I looked at the screen.
“What about watching a movie?”
“Okay. Which one?”
The station had a large library of movies. “You pick,” I said. “Got a favorite, or one you haven’t seen?”
He grinned. “I’ve seen them all.”
“Okay. So, pick one.”
He got up and I released his hand. The separation, I thought, was slightly reluctant on his part as well as mine.
He went to the shelf, perused it, and came back with The Fog.
“The 1980 original,” he said, putting it into the DVD player. I got an unusually excellent view of his ass as he bent over—the sweats were sagging considerably—and I found myself filled with a wash of lust. Damn fine ass! I thought. Then, What a waste!
He came back and reseated himself, grinning at me, “Adrienne Barbeau,” he said. “Hot!” Then suddenly he looked troubled.
I laughed. “I agree. She is hot. And feisty.”
Matt looked momentarily puzzled.
“Hey!” I said, slapping his thigh. “I can appreciate hot women too.” I held up my thumb and forefinger, separated by a little bit. “I have a little bit of heterosexuality too.” I laughed again and then sighed. “Just not enough—to do anyone any good.”
He looked concerned. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I shrugged. “Don’t worry. I am how I am. Start the movie.”
He considered. “What about some popcorn?”
So, we went to the kitchen and made popcorn, with butter, and fixed drinks of juice and a bit of vodka. Then settling down on the couch, we started to watch.
It was pleasant. I had seen the movie before, but I liked Adrienne Barbeau and I loved horror movies. We passed the bowl of popcorn back and forth, and were drawn into the movie. Matt got so involved, in fact, that he stopped passing back the popcorn. I tried to dismiss my annoyance at this, and didn’t want to distract him by asking for it, so I slid over, right next to him, and partook from the bowl, which sat in his lap.
He hardly noticed this, giving me only a momentary glance, and we both lost ourselves in the movie. It was getting to the really nasty bits—i.e., the good bits—when I made to take more popcorn, only to discover that he had it on the other side, resting on the arm of the couch, his hand resting idly on it.
I reached across, and was surprised when he grabbed the bowl as if in an automatic reaction, and held it away from me. I gave a small cry of annoyance and reached further, but he moved the bowl out of my reach and I lost my balance and fell full onto him.
I heard him laugh then, and became aware as I struggled to recover, that he was sporting a really impressive hard-on. My hand grasped it almost automatically as I sat up. We looked at each other in silence for a second, and then his hand came around to the back of my head, and began to force me forward.
And down. I wasn’t unwilling this time, and the movie continued unnoticed while I pulled down his sweatpants and sucked him off like the arch-cocksucker I was. And he was receptive this time, not cold and detached. He stroked my hair, murmuring, “Beautiful!” from time to time, but also peppering his articulations with stronger language, like, “Cocksucker,” “faggot,” and “bitch.”
He did the latter hesitantly at first, as though not sure whether I would appreciate or even tolerate such verbiage. They came out of him like small explosions—which actually in my books made them even hotter. And, when he discovered that my reaction was positive, he gave full vent to a continuous stream of abuse, and my feelings of subordination were so intense that I felt myself getting close to cumming even without touching myself.
And when he did cum, violently, and thrusting my face down onto his cock, hard, he pushed down on the back of my head, fingers entwined in my hair, murmuring in a desperate tone: “Cocksucker, cocksucker!” over and over again—with the result that I shivered and felt myself cum too. I groaned and swallowed his seed and felt a sense of bliss that I never wanted to end.
But, of course, all good things do end, and after we had both climaxed, I felt stiff. I lifted my head and sat back down on the couch. He sat, legs splayed, head leaning back on the back of the couch. But he had one arm behind and around my shoulders, and I didn’t, this time, feel excluded.
But it did occur to me that, for all our sexual intimacy, we still had never kissed.
* * * *
We watched the movie, from the point where we had become distracted, and all the while he had his arm around my shoulder, and I, for part of the time, had my hand on his thigh.
And, by the time the movie was over, I noticed that he was sporting another hard-on. I looked at him, and he looked at me—and grimaced.
“Sorry!” he said.
I chuckled. “Don’t apologize.” I reached out and took hold of the big cock, and felt a thrill go through me. Then I looked at him again. “You want to go another round?” I said.
He shrugged, then nodded.
I laughed and lowered my head onto the swollen head that was covered with dried semen.
This time I took my time, enjoying the sensation of the big knob and thick shaft. I brought him close, and then eased him off, and did this several times, until he was groaning and bucking. At last he cried out, “Damn you!” and gave something like a hysterical laugh.
He hadn’t, I noticed, asked me to finish him off—so I didn’t. I just continued on, bringing him close an easing him off several more times. He was shaking now, but he still didn’t demand I make him cum.
Finally, I was ready. Not that I would climax myself, but I wanted to bring him off—slowly. So, I did, with minimal stimulation of the lips, finding the level of contact that just did it for him, sustaining his excitement and minutely increasing it, and then continued that with no intention of stopping.
It took a couple of minutes, during which he was lifting himself off the couch, groaning, and even shouting out obscene words several times. And finally, he exploded. I took it in my mouth, sucking hard, and swallowed it as it came.
When I sat up and looked at him, he stared back at me with an amazed expression.
“Wow,” he murmured, and I giggled. I reached out and wiped his forehead. It was slick with sweat. In fact, his entire torso wa
s slick with sweat. I ran my hand lingeringly through the hair there, and realized that I hadn’t cum by the fact that I was finding the touch highly sexual.
He looked at me, did a double-take, and smiled.
“You wanna cum?” he said.
I shrugged. “I’m okay. I just—enjoy doing this.”
He nodded. And then, sitting up, he leaned toward me and kissed me on the lips. It was a tentative, lingering kiss, and very sweet. Then, looking puzzled, he leaned back again. The experience for me had been too unsettling—striking at my heart—and I stopped rubbing his chest and sat back myself.
Sitting there, I discovered I felt a bit hurt, and that puzzled me. Frowning to myself, I stood up, adjusting myself as I did so.
“What about another movie?” I said.
“Sure,” he said, his voice a bit distracted, I though. “Um, you choose.”
I chose “The Wizard of Oz.” We watched it, both delighting in its simple magic. Then Matt stood up. He stretched and scratched his chest.
“That was nice,” he said, and then, after a pause in which I felt the old discomfort emerge again, he left the room. I felt at a bit of a loss, but examining my own state, decided I needed to have a shower.
As I approached the showers, however, I heard the sound of spray.
Matt was standing under one of the shower nozzles, his wet flesh gleaming in the overhead lights. I took in the broad curve of his back as it rose and spread from a narrow waist, to his broad shoulders. He had strong, muscular legs too, but what chiefly took my attention was his ass.
And what an ass! I found myself thinking.
I undressed and picking up a bar of soap from the container at the entrance to the shower area, walked forward with the intention of soaping Matt’s back.
He started at the first touch of the soap, turned around, and then smiled and turned back to the spray. I reached around to wet the soap and then got to work. It was very sensuous, and I did it slowly. When I got to his ass, however, my pleasure became intense and I soaped it intimately without any intention of ever moving anywhere else. And I was rock hard too, and wanting to—investigate.
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