Date: Thu, 11 Mar 2010 04:08:19 -0800 (PST)
From: Peder Pederson <pederdagreat@yahoo.com>
Subject: "A Visit to Remember"

Chapter Five
Saturday morning

	Suffused in a warmth that he had not experienced in a long time,
Bill awoke from a deep, dreamless and restful sleep, suspended in a new
environment, a new sense of well-being. The bright morning sun streamed
through the lightly curtained window as he luxuriously stretched trying to
push back the last curtains of sleep. Somewhat dreamily he glanced at the
clock on the bed stand--nine o'clock. "God, I haven't slept this long for
ages. . . . Where am I?". . . then he remembered where he was.
	He threw back the rumpled bed-clothes, stretched again and rubbed
his hands over his chest and down to mid-thighs. His brows knitted as his
sleep-sensitive hands encountered patches of crusty material here and there
over his torso. He fought through the amnesia of the recently
awakened. These patches, images of the previous night kaleidoscoped through
his brain. These encounters and the memory the night before quickly thrust
him into full wakefulness. He sat up. Denial--halting
denial--unbelievable--denial.
	He was alone in the sunlit bed room. The door was closed. The
wrinkled, misaligned bed clothes indicated, confirmed the previous night's
sport.
	"Oh, my God!" Denial?
	Maybe it was all a dream. No, the dried flecks of cum on his body
proved that it was no dream. There was guilt, a new kind that fought a
losing battle with a neutralizing emotional warmth that asserted
itself. The warmth was undeniable, unwanted, creating an incredible
conundrum for Bill.
	"It was the drink, . . . it must have been, . . . I took too much,
too fast. . . . That's it." Yet, he knew that it was not! This was no
denial. He could not deny what had happened. He could not deny how he felt,
reacted. Yet, how could he accept it?
	He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, leaving its comforts,
paused a minute, and with resolve stood up. Wrapped in a warmth that gave
his whole being a glow, wrapped in confusion, wrapped in wonderment, he
fixed the towel 'round his waist picked up his shaving kit and headed for
the bathroom. He glanced towards the kitchen from which poured the aroma of
freshly made coffee, and the sight of Tom at the sink. Thankfully, his back
was towards him.
	 Quickly he closed the bathroom door, unaccountably locked it,
dropped the towel, glanced sidelong at his mirrored reflection, averted his
eyes, and stepped into the shower. The temperature adjusted, the warm water
cascaded over his body bringing its baptismal ministrations--at least that
was what he hoped. As he quickly lathered his bare flesh he began to sing a
remembered song. He rinsed, he re-lathered, making sure that every square
inch was treated to the cleansing foam, he rinsed and re-lathered a third
time, almost compulsively. He tried to wash away the sensation-ghosts of
hours past, the rememberings of feelings and emotions. Yet, each time his
soap-laden hands past over those regions, legions of sensually triggered
memories, luxurious relicts assaulted his brain.
	He attempted, with the song, to exorcise the mental-sense images,
but they took precedence. The song, as usual, suffered a disjointed
existence. He let the warm pelting water flow in ever-widening rivulets
over his body. Finally, he became aware of it, accepted the water and
succumbed to its calming ministrations.
	The shower finished, briskly he toweled off. The reflection in the
mirror--foam covered cheeks and chin--revealed itself with every stroke of
the razor. Then, the foaming mouth, lips drawn back allowed the tooth-brush
to do its work. Face rinsed, mouth rinsed, the errant drops of rinse-water
wiped away, and the towel tousled hair finger-brushed into a semblance of
acceptability, all this was done without encountering his eyes'
reflection. He forced his eyes to tunnel on all areas except the eyes.
	The eyes, the mirror of the soul, was he ready to look at his
soul's reflection? No. . . not quite yet. He wasn't sure that he wanted to
see what was reflected there--maybe he feared what he would see there. As a
child averts their lie-filled eyes from those of a parent, he could not
confront his being, his ethos.
	Carefully, deliberately he wrapped the towel about his waist,
turned its corner in a gripping knot and returned to his room. He noted
that the coffee smell still lingered, tantalizingly, but Tom was not to be
seen. Quickly he closed the door and stared in puzzlement at the bed.
	No longer in crumpled disarray, it stood out in his consciousness
because of its pristine, wrinkle-less perfection. It had been made while he
was in the shower. Tom had made it. He noted that the spread was different
from the one that covered it last night. Was it an attempt to disavow last
night? Maybe it was some strange erotic dream-joke?
	Although he did not realize it, since he roused himself out of the
embrace of slumber, he had not experienced even the merest thought of the
past six months, neither did a hint of that oppressive fog insinuate itself
into his consciousness. Whether his new mood was a result of the tearful
unburdening, or the subsequent erotic coupling he did not know. Quickly he
dressed, unseeingly ran the brush through his hair and went to face Tom.
	He left the door open as he entered the hall and took a deep breath
for what was to come. Was he prepared? Could he face Tom? He couldn't,
didn't want to face himself, that much he knew.
	He needed a hot cup of coffee. Anything to postpone the inevitable.
	As he entered the kitchen he saw Tom through the opening into the
living room. He was sitting back in a chair, sipping a steaming mug of
coffee, looking out the sliding doors, lost in thought.
	The sound of Bills stockinged-feet brought him out of his
reverie. A, "Good morning," came in pleasant, meaningfulness.
	"Morning."
	"Here, let me get you a cup of coffee," he said coming into the
kitchen, reaching for a hefty brown mug from then cupboard, poured a
brimming mug full, and handed it to Bill.
	"Thanks."
	"Hungry?"
	"Yeah."
	"Good. Sit there," indicating two stools at a counter that faced
the opening into the living room. There were two places set, side by side,
and two glasses of orange juice. "Only take a second. Sausages and eggs
okay?"
	"Yeah, sounds good." Sitting on one of the stools Bill began to
tentatively sip the hot coffee as he gazed across the living room and out
the double-pane expanse of the sliding doors, not focusing on
anything. After a minute or two of uncharacteristic silence and not knowing
what else to say, "Looks nice outside."
	"Yeah, a bright new day."
	"Did that mean something?" Bill thought to himself.
	Bill continued to sit, elbows resting on the counter, sipping
coffee and gazing into the bright distance. Tom busied himself, scrambling
eggs and frying the sausage. Again, neither spoke. Their opening, morning
conversation had been merely pleasant--tentative--almost
monosyllabic--lacking any content, any emotions.
	The only sounds were Bill's sipping, the subdued cooking sounds and
a low voice of some newscaster emanating from the seven inch, black and
white TV, unwatched, unlistened to at the end of the counter. Bill was
brought back to the present by, "All done, let's eat," from over his
shoulder. He turned to see Tom's half-smiling face. In his hands a pan of
scrambled eggs with sausage and a spatula seemed to levitate. He leaned to
the side as healthy portions were heaped on his plate and then on Tom's.
	Inhaling the aroma, Bill allowed that it, "Smells good."
	Tom slipped on the stool beside him picked up his fork and almost
prayerfully intoned, "Health."
	They both ate, again without speaking. Their bodies demanded
fuel. Their thoughts demanded silence. Neither was prepared to question the
previous evening, neither wanted to, or was able to verbalize their
thoughts, their feelings, their heretofore unencountered emotions. A flood
gate had been opened and each were fighting a powerful current; trying to
stay afloat, fighting to stay afloat and knowing that if any one, anything
came close they would clutch at it in order to lift themselves above the
tide--jeopardizing the the existence of that which they touched. It was
self-preservation, and although they were not consciously aware of it, it
was also for the preservation of the other one, too.
	Breakfast over, Tom said, "Get your shoes on." Short staccato
sentences--"I'll take care of the dishes." Matter of fact
statements--"Can't stay in this apartment all day." A need to be
non-confronting--" I need to do a bit more shopping."
	"Me, too," he lied, needing to get away from this apartment and the
recent memories and sensations it held. The memories coupled with the
closeness of Tom, just now, gave him a claustrophobic feeling.
	Warmly ensconced in the car they drove through the down-town area,
festive, around Monument Square, out Meridian to the north, past the
monumental government buildings, the stately houses decorated in holiday
cheer. Both seemed to be oblivious of the joy and cheer that the holiday
forced upon all. They arrived at one of the malls. They are all the same--a
myriad of shops. Or was it shoppes? Maybe, boutiques?
	They spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon going
from one establishment to another. The rush of shoppers, the constant
jostling didn't seem to affect their inner turmoil or thoughts. They moved
through the mall ensconced in a strange emotional neutrality. By
mid-afternoon, with only a couple of packages each, they returned to the
center of the city and had a late lunch in a quiet restaurant's basement
room. They drank numerous cups of coffee, silently, thankful for the
other's reticence. Tom suggested that they walk around the down-town area,
look at the 'Dome,' and the redevelopment. Then they returned to Tom's
apartment. It was, by then, six o'clock.
	The whole day together was strangely relaxing even though their
conversation consisted of inanities--banal observances. It was as though
they had been newly introduced. Conversation was polite, uninvolved,
emotionless, skirting the issue, surface, nothing more. What had passed
between them the night before was not 'out-of-sight-out-of-mind,' it
smoldered, but, both were thrust into each other's company by the situation
and they need time, solitude. Their private thoughts fought to sort out the
happenings of the past night, not only the physical actions, but their
emotional state, emotional needs. These past few hours had insinuated a
conundrum of such proportion and complexity that it was impossible to
comprehend.
	Bill deposited the packages in his room, and listened as the shower
was turned on in the bath. He sat in silence and in deep thought. "What
have I done? Why did I do it?" And then, "Why did I enjoy it." His
thoughts, his questions were mirrored by Tom as well.
	When he heard the shower being turned off, he stood up, undressed,
deciding to take a shower too. He waited until he heard Tom's door close,
walked to the bath, and showered. The same shower-ritual of the morning was
repeated. The results were the same, nothing had changed.
	After dressing, Bill returned to the living room, sank into a
chair, stretched out his legs, folded his arms and glanced out the window
at the night reflections of the city.
	A few minutes later, Tom entered the room, sat in the chair
opposite, supported his elbows on the cushioned arms, folded his hands and
rested his chin on the intertwined fingers. His eyes deliberately
force-focused on that face across from him. Bill turned his head towards
Tom. An action that he wished to avoid, but with all his strength, he
willed it. Their eyes snap-locked on to each other's. Their gaze was
non-judgmental, strangely emotionless, but intensely questioning--not
necessarily questioning each other, but themselves, with equal intensity.
	After minutes of gnawing silence, a deep, deep breath, and just as
deep an exhalation, Tom stated the obvious. "Bill. . . . we've got to
talk."
	Bill's arms unfolded, his whole body seem to shrink, or sink deeper
in the chair. In acquiescence, in accepting the unavoidable, he passed his
hands over his face in a gesture of acknowledgement, interlocked his
fingers, and vised between his knees. "Yeah. . . . I know." It was not a
statement of defeat, but of profound resignation, recognizing the
inevitable.
	Again, minutes passed, then Tom leaned forward to give emphasis to
his flooded, unsystematic, jumbled thoughts. He fought for control. It
avoided him. Words fell, uncontrolled, disjointed from his lips, "Bill,
about last night. . . . I don't know . . . . I'm sorry. . . . I shouldn't
have let it happen. . . . I don't know . . . . You were so
vulnerable. . . . it wasn't your fault. . . . I don't know. . ."
	"No, Tom. . . ."
	"I didn't mean for it to happen. . . . . I didn't plan
it. . . . God, I don't know even why . . . it happened. I. . .I. . .I don't
know. . . . I'm sorry. . . ." Breathless, his eyes dropped in total
confusion.
	"It wasn't your fault. . . . I could've said. . . . 'No.'"
	Shaking his head, "No, the drinks, . . . your crying. . . ."
	"No. Even if is was drunk. . . . I could've said, 'No.'" Then after
a thoughtful second, "But, I didn't." And, again after another second, "It
wasn't your fault."
	Again their eyes met--searching for answers--none seemed
apparent. They sat like pillars of salt for endless seconds.
	Suddenly, Tom stood up--the tension, the pain, the guilt was
unbearable for him--stepped to the sliding door, looked out into the
winter's night, spread his hands and supported himself on the wide
panes. With his back to Bill, he spoke, his voice seemed strangely calm as
he recounted, disjointedly a litany, "I don't know, Bill, I've always
thought of you as a brother. . . . All the times that we've spent
together. You were more than a friend, at least any friend that I have ever
had. You were always there when I needed you--when I broke my leg, when my
grandmother died--all those hours in the lab. . . . You're family's so
great. When Karen died. . . I cried for you. I held you and wanted to take
some of your pain." He inhaled a deep breath, exhaled and inhaled
again. Bill watched his friend and listened to all this and continued to
listen. "What I did last. . . . . night was. . . " He began to lose
control. "was unforgivable. You were . . . so
 vulnerable. . . ." With the word 'vulnerable' Tom's voice broke,
obliterating the former calm. His head dropped, his shoulders shook with
quiet sobs, he was unable to continue.
	Rising from the chair, Bill walked over to Tom, grasped his
shoulder, turned him around so that he could see his face and simply said,
"Tom, please, stop it." All that had gone before, all those months, all the
pain were mute memories. His concern was for Tom's pain, even his own
unrest was secondary.
	Suddenly, he realized the obvious in a blazing
flash--suddenly--that seemed to rearrange events and feelings--suddenly--in
a more logical order. Answers to unanswered questions, accepting the
heretofore unacceptable, he said, with real calm, "Tom. . . . what happened
last night was no one's fault. It happened, that's all. I don't know about
you. . .but. . . ." He faltered, not knowing whether he should continue,
but deciding that he must, "but, I'm not sorry. Not now. Some how, I don't
even feel guilty. God knows, I did this morning. . . . all afternoon," He
was calm.
	Tom's expression telegraphed disbelief. Reading the expression,
Bill continued, "Sorry, but part of my guilt was because of what I did to
you last night. Yeah, I looked on you as a brother, too. . ." He paused
again, and with a smile that calmly infused his face--his whole being--he
stated simply, ". . . but. . . I guess that I can't any more. . . . I'm
sorry Tom, but. . . I think," shaking his head, not knowing whether he
should go on, "Oh Christ! . . . I think , . . . I guess I love you." The
eyes, the face, the expression of Tom communicated utter and paralyzing
disbelief.
	Not knowing how to read the expression--a little sad, Bill released
his grasp on Tom's shoulders and repeated once more, a sincere, "Sorry." He
thought that he had found something, but his confession had caused it to be
lost. Again he whispered, sadly, "Sorry." He turned, leaving Tom standing
in place, and started down the hall to his room.
	"Where are you going?" he heard as he reached bedroom
door. Turning, he saw Tom nonchalantly leaning against the hall's
opening-arch.
	"I thought that it'd be better if I left."
	"Why, and spoil a perfectly good holiday?" came flying back over
that eight feet.
	This time his eyes indicated disbelief. Feeling that what had
transpired the night before would inevitably destroy or eventually nullify
their friendship. "Well, . . . not many guys I know could
. . . dispassionately accept a friend's confession . . . . of love."
	"Oh?" he questioned sharply, and with a shrug continued, "Well, I
accept it. . . and. . . . . . it so happens that . . . that I'm not
dispassionate about it." A smile crept across his face, an eyebrow arched
and he quickly broke into a soft chuckle of relief. He had accepted the
seemingly unacceptable.
	"Your kidding?" A meaningful question.
	"No." A simple answer.
	The barriers were suddenly all but swept aside. Nothing barred
their way. They came together, tentatively, slightly nervous on this
unfamiliar ground, wrapped their arms around each other, dropped their
faces on to each other's shoulders and laughed. Theirs was a laugh of
relief, of acceptance, deep felt, child-like and cleansing. They could go
no further--their natural reserve, their training needed time to become
adjusted to this new reality. Arms still around the other, they drew back
and looked into each glowing face.
	Suddenly, Bill's brows knitted together, sending a small shock
through Tom."I really gotta take a piss," Bill blurted out, with a laugh.
	"Shit," uncharacteristically and uncontrollably exploded from Tom's
mouth in relief, "just when I was going to whisper some sweet nothing in
your ear."
	Throwing his hands up in resignation, "Well, when nature calls, and
it's really calling," he added as he disappeared into the bathroom. The joy
that Bill felt at these recent revelations could only be expressed by the
shaking of his head in disbelief and the unconscious expostulation of,
"Jesus!"
	"Yes?" came Tom's answer from the hallway--the litany.
	Bill, remembering the sequence, stated, "I didn't know you were
black."
	Tom, completed their formula, "There's a lot you don't know. . ."
and then added a new phrase,". . . but, there's something you know now!"
	Smiling, Bill, nodded his head. Seeing Tom in the kitchen, he
walked back down the hall, stood at the opening and stated, "I'm hungry."
	"For what?" Tom quipped, arching an eyebrow.
	"Jeeze, now I gotta choice?"
	"Ahh! But, you always did!"
	"Now you tell me."
	Changing the mood, "Bill, let's call in some food, I don't wanna
cook."
	"Okay, sounds good to me."


	They sat in the living room, two young, scientific-trained men
trying to logically, verbally express and analyze their new felt
emotions--"I couldn't believe how your hand felt on my face--I couldn't
believe it when I reached for your cock, I knew I shouldn't, but somehow I
had to--The feeling when your finger touched my nipple. . . did you know
what it would do to me?--When your hand touched my cock, I couldn't believe
it. . . Why did you do it?" Questioning their actions, their
reactions--"What made you kiss me?--Do you think that we had always,
subconsciously wanted this to happen?--When I felt your tongue with mine,
it tasted so sweet--When your hand slipped under my robe, I thought that
this wasn't happening, I almost jumped out of bed--What made you touch my
ass that way?" It was not strange. It was necessary, and besides with their
analytic training and nature, it was a virtual mandate.
	The day, the ranging emotions left them, for a while, in a renewing
silence. Sitting, facing each other across the space between the chairs,
they contemplated all that had happened, all that had been revealed in the
past twenty-four hours, and in each other.
	"Let's go to bed," Tom finally said.
	"I thought you'd never ask."
	Bill followed Tom into his bedroom. A new need short circuited
their usual nightly routines. They slowly undressed, each intently watching
the other. This was not an erotic strip-tease, but a need to know each
other's most personal habits.
	Nude, they stood facing each other. Then slowly they came together,
arms around each other, lips on lips in unhindered, unhurried
exploration. They separated, Bill turned back the covers, they slipped in
between the crisp sheet and Tom turned to switch of the bed-side lamp. Bill
reached over, clasping Tom's arm in mid-movement, "No, leave it on. Do you
mind?"
	"No, but you've seen me nude many times before."
	"I know, but never under these conditions, and besides, I don't
want to miss anything!"
	"Don't worry, I won't let you," Tom replied, smiling.
	Facing each other a foot or so apart, they began again that
marvelously choreographed dance, except this time, their minds were clear,
unfettered, unencumbered. The delicious newness, the quiet contemplation of
each movement, each reaction, each sensation increased their
emotional-physical responses. Their analytical approach did nothing to mask
their feelings or their reactions, rather this cerebral intervention
exponentially heightened each individual, sensual response. For long
minutes they traced each other's facial features with the soft sensitive
pads of their fingertips. Even the visual caresses spurred their
desire. They purposefully willed this dance to become a magnum opus.
	Their kisses were not tentative, but tender, communicating their
new found feelings. Bill pushed the covering down to their waists and
gently turned Tom on to his back taking the lead. Both kept theirs eyes
open, expanding the sensual feast with the sense of sight. He had always
marveled at Tom's dark velvety smooth skin. He traced his fingers over the
muscle-capped shoulders, wanting to know, to experience every surface
feature. He gently lifted Tom's arm up, over his head, exposing the mat of
ebony black hair. His hand traced from elbow to the soft moist armpit
causing an involuntary movement of Tom's arm.
	"I'm so sensitive there."
	"I know," smiled Bill.
	He replaced electrically charged finger-tips with his broad palms
and brailled the sensitive under-arm. Tom watched the hand move over his
body, the sight of it adding to the touch of it. Again tips explored the
broad chest plain. Centering upon the blue-black, half-dollar-sized areola
and the nipple which quickly grew to erect prominence. He recalled now how
Tom's chest and man-tits had created in him interest, no, fascination when
he first saw them. He concentrated all physical, mental and emotional
energies on these centers of wonder. Half encircling this center with the
arch of his thumb and index finger, palm pressing flat, he reached over and
planted a light but moist kiss on the miniature erection. His action
brought a shallow sigh from Tom.
	Bill glanced into Tom's eyes, smiled and then back to his exploring
hand. He traced the arch of the rib-cage, again marveling at the smoothness
of the skin. As his fingertips moved onto the stomach, the underlying
muscles involuntarily reacted with a twitch. Again, Bill remembered how he
had marveled at Tom's defined stomach muscles when he had first watched him
remove his shirt. Now he traced every every ridge, every depression
committing them to both visual and tactile memory. His forefinger traced
the inside edge of the shallow navel, bring a little laugh from Tom. He
glanced into those expressive eyes, and flashed another warm, love-smile.
	Now his hand disappeared beneath the covering blankets, toward that
most sensitive region. He knew, by the tenting of the blanket, that his
touch was awaited. When he reached that mass of silky, black, curly hair he
merely lingered on the fringes. Tracing their confines from one thigh to
the other. These movements brought small inhaled hisses to Tom's lips.
	Bill sat up, his movement caused the unveiling of Tom's rigid cock
and part of his muscular thighs. He sat crossed legged, facing that turgid
member. Again he glanced at Tom's desire-bright eyes. Now he had two free
hands for this sensual pas de deux. His left played in the cock hairs,
while the right hefted and fingered the mobile ball-sac.
	His eyes, all his attention was now riveted on the cock, his right
hand moved to its base. He encircled it with his thumb and forefinger,
testing at once both its circumference and its rigidity. Slowly,
sensitively it moved up its dark, velvet length, each finger taking its
place in synchronized repetition. His eyes took in every movement, the
nerve ends of his palm and fingers confirmed and added to the sensual
catalog. His sensual cataloger moved up and encased the sheathed
cock-head. He felt all.
	 Moving back down, stopping just below the perceived flair, he drew
back all but the thumb and forefinger. They exerted a slight increase of
pressure and again began to move downward, exposing the shiny, purple head
as the soft, elastic covering, relinquished its prize. Now up, hiding, now
down, revealing. Again, Bill remembered how the sight of Tom's smoothly
covered uncircumcised cock had more than just casually piqued his interest
the first time he saw it. His left hand's thumb and forefinger gently
clasping the shiny mushroom-cap-like cock-head and carefully his right
pushed the sheath back up and watched with sensual delight as it slipped
over the clasping fingers. Even his finger and thumb nail telegraphed
sensations. Slowly he removed his left thumb and forefinger, watching the
velvet sheath return to its former, encasing position.
	Bending over, his tongue snaked out and taste-felt the ruffled tip,
down the top-side of the shaft and up the underside, coming again to the
opening. His eyes turned to Tom's and locked on to them as his tongue
insinuated itself in between the sheath and pulsing head. His lips came
into contact with the sheath, a downward movement exposed the the cock-head
within the warm, moist confines of his mouth. He inhaled and moved even
further down the shaft, his tongue flicking over the surface of that
imprisoned delight. Tom groaned. Slowly, Bill withdrew his mouth.
	Pushing the bed clothes down to the foot of the bed, he sat back
and surveyed the total length of Tom's body. Tom's eyes watching his every
eye-movement. He reached over and with hand pressure on the inside of the
thighs, gently signaled Tom to spread them. They spread open. Bill moved in
between the thighs, placing both hands on that softest of all skin areas,
the inner thigh. In synchronized rhythm he moved his hands down to the
knees and back up towards the hot, moist crotch. Where balls and thighs met
Bill lightly drug his fingernails over the sensitive skin. The reaction,
unexpected by both Bill and Tom, was a low groan and the spreading of the
thighs further apart, coupled with the flexing of the knees and the drawing
of the heels up, touching the buttocks. Bill gazed at the twin peaks of
Tom's knees, bracketing the proud, upright cock rising from the suspended
ball-sac, which in turn partially covered a deeply shadowed crevice.
	Now Bill was displaced from contact with Tom by his reaction. He
leaned forward, bracing his hands by Tom's feet and lowered his head
between the thighs and again sucked the upturned cock into his
mouth. Slowly he lowered his mouth over its half-length and withdrew,
almost releasing the tip. With this pattern imprinted on his mind he began
to repeat it, with variations. Doing so, he shifted his weight onto his
left arm, freeing his right to play an erotic rhythm on Tom's balls. His
right hand shifted to explore that area just behind the ball-sac, feeling
the pulsing cock-root and the sutured-like ridge that ran down to the
closed cleft. He followed the ridge-route, coming to a small puckered
button.
	He lightly ran his finger over this new found spot, again causing a
reaction. Tom drew his knees towards his chest and grasped them with his
hands. This reaction not only changed the angle of his cock, causing it to
angle towards the roof of Bills mouth, but also completely expose to both
touch and sight that most private spot.
	Sitting back, finger still on that puckered opening Bill took
visual note. Again he glanced with love into Tom's wide open eroticized
eyes and noted that his beautiful lips were parted,
involuntarily. Purposefully, he moved his sensitized finger over and around
this new wonder. Tom's eye lids began to slide shut, then open again as his
head began to slowly move from side to side, all the while short rapid
breathing sounds escaped from his lips. He exerted pressure on that tight
orifice, bringing forth a deep throated moan.
	Again he leaned forward toward that rigid, sharped-angled cock,
depositing an amount of saliva on the discovering finger. He joyfully
reached down and restarted that sucking motion that he recently knew
brought Tom so much pleasure. He was not disappointed. Simultaneously, he
smeared his spit on that tight sphincter. That, too, brought a crescendo of
moans. Slowly, with twisting motion, he exerted more pressure on the little
mouth--it opened, or rather, released its pressure, and his finger slipped
past the vestibule.
	"Ohhh, God, " welled from deep inside Tom's throat.
	"Want me to stop?"
	"No!"
	Bill continued his head/tongue/lip motion and the pressure of his
finger. The next barrier was not as difficult to breach. His finger slipped
past the second muscled ring and into the dark, warm, moist recesses of
Tom's ass. Without conscious volition, his inserted finger assumed the same
movement and rhythm as his lips.
	 Tom arched his back, whipped his head back and forth. Had Tom been
sitting up, he would have noticed that Tom's toes curled up tightly, and
his pendulous ball-sac began to shrink cock-ward. He did notice that the
cock, slipping in and out of his mouth, seemed to increase in size. He
became aware that Tom's muscular thighs clasped his head between them. A
growing half moan, half cry registered on Bill's mind, as did the beginning
spasmodic jerks of the cock in his mouth, and the rhythmically twitching
muscles around his fucking finger. Then he felt a foreign fluid flooding
his mouth. Quickly he withdrew and watched haphazard spurts of pearly semen
ejected over Tom's abdomen and chest.
	"Ohhh. God," punctuated each ejection and each contraction around
his still fucking finger. Bill watched with undeniable, unrestrained wonder
and delight. The cries, the spasms, the contractions subsided. Bill slowly
withdrew his finger, causing a low after-moan. He placed his hands on his
knees and sat back upon his heels, observing all the time.
	Tom, returning from the petit mort of orgasm, began to relax. Hands
released their grasp of the knees. Feet returned to the bed surface and
slowly moved towards full extension on either side of Bill. Chest rose and
fell in deep, relaxing movements. Bill moved his hands to the outside of
Tom's bracketing thighs and began to lightly massage them. All the time
watching the face of his new found love.
	Tom's eyes slowly open, a smile, the likes of which Bill had never
seen before covered his face. He sat up, wrapped his arms around Bill's
neck, fastened his lips to his new-found lover, and laid back, pulling Bill
with him. Taking Bill's face in his hands Tom disengaged, looked into those
pleasure filled eyes and stated emphatically, "Bill Dweyer, I love you."
	Bill gazed down into Tom's eyes and also affirmed, "Tom Wright, I
love you," punctuating each word.
	They rested quietly one on the other, Bills's head nestled in the
hollow of Tom's shoulder. Infused with a sensation that he could hardly
comprehend, Tom gently moved his hands over the body's back that covered
him. In an all-embracing glow, he recounted the last twenty minutes--the
feelings, the sensations that Bill's touches had elicited. After a short
period, released his reverie, and a need to return these sensations, to
reciprocate arose in Tom. Finally, he spoke.
	"Now it's my turn," he whispered. The only reaction from Bill was a
low moan and a slight readjustment of his position as he sank deeper into
sleep. A smile crossed Tom's face as he thought, "That's supposed to happen
to me!"
	Carefully, and with some difficulty, he manipulated the blankets at
the foot of the bed with his feet, not wanting to disturb Bill. Up over the
knees with dexterity he didn't know he had, he had carefully worked the
blanket. Finally snaring the blanket with the tips of his fingers it pulled
it up over Bill's back, adjusted it, and then, he too sunk into a blissful,
fulfilled sleep.