Date: Mon, 4 Oct 2021 17:19:08 +0100
From: Michael Collins <losingthewill2live@gmail.com>
Subject: 'One Summer's Day...'

Author: Aardvark

Email: losingthewill2live@gmail.com

The following story is true in every detail, and dates from a few years
back (all apart from the fucking, at the end -- on the day, we found that
neither of us had a condom. How stupid is that! And so, we had to finish
matters by other means...)

If you shouldn't be reading this sort of thing, because of the rules which
operate in the place where you live, then your decision to continue reading
must be a matter between you, your conscience, and your relationship with
whoever it is who makes the rules -- be it your mother or your government.

Comments are welcome.

And, as ever, donations to Nifty are encouraged. We all get a lot of
`entertainment' from these pages; give something back. Follow the link on
the Nifty homepage to see how you can donate.

Many thanks for your comments. I only hope that it's as rewarding to read
as it is to write.

`One Summer's Day...'

That summer, the weather had been glorious. Day after day of cloudless
skies, and blissfully hot sun. Days just made for lying back, and doing
what came naturally.

And so, I did.

I'd not had a lot of work during that period - which was probably not good
news for my bank balance, but it did mean that I'd had lots of time free to
devote to the gymn and to sunbathing -- and the results ... got results.

Not unusually, I was in Brompton Cemetery. It was mid-afternoon. The sun
was baking hot, and the entire place felt drowsy and had an air of lazy
expectation. I always liked it there: the combination of haphazard
tombstones, and, in the waist-high grass, rough paths which weaved
sinuously in and out of overgrown areas of shrubbery. It was a nicely
theatrical backdrop to the scantily-clad boys who were generally to be
found sunning themselves here and there amongst the graves. As ever, I was
in that area down near the southern perimeter, where the cemetery abuts the
railway line, and across the tracks there was a view of the back of one of
the stands of Chelsea football ground. That corner of the cemetery was
about as far as it was possible to get from any of the entrance gates, and
it always felt distant, and full of promise. Fewer people seemed to
penetrate that far into the wilderness that the place had been allowed to
become.

I'd dressed appropriately: an old henley, along with a pair of old - and
short -- rugger shorts, and a battered pair of deck shoes. Once I'd found
my spot, I'd kicked off my shoes, and I draped the shirt on the ground, as
protection against the prickly stems of the dead grass, for when I
stretched out to sunbathe. And, once I was prone, I untied the drawstring
of my shorts, and I let the shorts fall open just enough that a white flash
of the waistband of my briefs was visible. Because, of course, it pays to
advertise.

I read for a while, and I dozed for a while, and -- without appearing too
obviously to do so -- I noted each and every one of the people who casually
wandered along the path beside which I'd staked my pitch. There were a few
who were maybe interesting, and more who were definitely not. One guy
loitered annoyingly nearby, for about ten minutes, during which time I
avidly re-read the same page about three times, before he eventually got
the message and took himself off elsewhere.

And, after perhaps a couple of hours, I was beginning to think that it was
time to call it a day, when a new arrival walked past who was a different
proposition altogether.

I'm crap at guessing ages, and I would have said that this guy could have
been anything between a mature seventeen year old, or a youthful
twenty-five. In practice, who cares?

It was probably his face that first caught my interest...preppy, boyish,
and cute, with a strong jaw line and distinctive, intelligent eyes --
greenish-grey, I found out subsequently -- and topped by a thatch of light
brown hair. He was handsome. Tall enough, and with a frame that even
through his t-shirt I could tell was agreeably athletic, he was sauntering
purposefully along with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his
jeans, which made his shoulders move in a sexily angular fashion as he
walked. It also meant that his jeans, which would have been tight anyway,
were stretched mouth-wateringly across a butt that could have launched many
thousands of ships. It jutted out, tight and invitingly beneath the bottom
of his t-shirt, and above a pair of muscular thighs onto which his jeans
appeared to have been painted.

I pulled my gaze up and away from the splendour of that arse, to glance up
at his face. Just as he glanced down, and he met my look. He looked away,
but his steps instantly slowed, as he walked past, and then he glanced
back. I hadn't looked away, and I watched as his footsteps gradually slowed
to a halt, and he turned to lean nonchalantly against a small and rather
scrubby tree, maybe five metres or so further on, one knee bent as he
rested his foot up and against the trunk behind him, and he made a show of
apparently staring out and over the railway line. I hadn't lowered my gaze,
and when he glanced once more in my direction he met my look full-on. I
didn't look away, and although he did, quickly, he almost instantly looked
back and he met my gaze once more.

I've always loved this part of the game. Or dance. Or whatever it actually
is.

I kept my expression serious, as I held his gaze.

Considering.

Measuring.

He glanced away again, apparently not entirely sure of himself, and when he
glanced back, as it was inevitable that he would, I let my face break into
a smile. And as he seemed still uncertain, I let the smile widen to become
a grin, broad and encouraging. Tentatively, an answering smile appeared,
and I gestured with my head: an invitation to come back and join me. He
looked briefly around him, and then he clearly came to a decision, and he
re-traced his steps to where I was stretched out on the grass.

After a further, enquiring, inclination of my head, which was an invitation
to him to sit beside me, he lowered himself to the ground, and he sat
there, knees drawn up and ankles crossed, as he wrapped his arms around his
knees and he hugged them to himself. His t-shirt was yellow and blue, in
narrow horizontal stripes, and on his feet he wore a pair of white
sneakers, without socks.

"Hi", I said.

"Hello." His voice was low, and mellow.

"You look hot", I added. Which could have been a reference to his
clothing. Or not.

"So do you", he countered. And I grinned. Two could play at this game, it
seemed.

"Well..." I corrected myself. "At least I'm not over-dressed to be here."

"Oh," he grinned, sheepishly. "No...well. I hadn't really meant to walk as
far as this when I set out. I just needed some air. Too stuffy
indoors. And...you know...after a while, I just found that I'd pretty much
walked all the way here....and, so, here I am".

"It's funny, how that happens," I commented, with light irony. "Something
to do with the gravitational pull of the hormones, maybe...?" Now, it was
his turn to laugh, and he relaxed enough that he leant back on his elbows,
and he angled his face up, eyes closed, to bask momentarily in the sun's
rays. I took the opportunity to run an appraising glance the length of his
body. I'd not been wrong in my first opinion -- good, firm legs, and the
way he was sitting meant that his t-shirt emphasised a well-developed
chest, and strong shoulders. The contours of his crutch, which strained
against faded denim, didn't go unnoticed, either. This was definitely
interesting.

Without opening his eyes, he let out a deep sigh, and it wasn't one of
contentment. He twisted round, and sat up, cross-legged, and as he looked
down at his hands, he was frowning.

"You seem troubled," I said. And it was as much of a question as he might
choose to make it.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Well, no -- not really. Not seriously." He
paused. "It's just that I've got some really major exams, next week, and I
should be buried in my notes, revising. And I just can't seem to make
myself do it. Instead of which..." He sighed again, indicating with his
hand the surrounding area, and his grin this time was rueful.

"Definitely, the gravitational pull of the hormones, in that case," I told
him. "It increases, in direct proportion to approaching exams; it's a law
of Nature." And it was true. I've never wanked so often or so furiously as
when I was revising for my finals. For some reason, for me, theories of the
german enlightenment had inevitably led, within minutes it seemed, to
wandering thoughts, and wandering hands, and from there to the nearest box
of tissues.

"What's your subject?" I asked, and when he told me that he was studying
medicine, I grimaced. "Rather you, then me. When I comes to prodding and
poking at the human body, I've only ever done it for pleasure. Never
professionally." And I got a laugh from him, at least, for the
doctor-hustler comparison.

"I remember what the revision thing was like, though," I said, and I
proceeded to describe how, when I'd last been in the same situation, I'd
found myself fantasising endlessly over a particular demi-god who'd
attended some of the same lectures as me. And who was blond and blue-eyed,
with dashingly dark eyebrows, and who was dreamlike, and so, so deeply
unattainable.  "He was a half-blue in the ski team, I remember," I added,
squinting into the distance, as I recalled the details. "And he came from a
family of Christian Scientists -- so, I suspect he didn't do vice. Or any
of the highly pleasurable things that I had in mind for him to do to me,
when in fact I was supposed to be studying. And," I considered the matter
further, "I think there was also the unhelpful detail of him actually
having a girlfriend."

I got an appreciative grin in response. Visibly, he'd relaxed.  I reached
across, holding out my hand, and I told him my name.

"Mark," he replied. And his handshake was warm. And lingering.  Before I
let go, I made a point of catching his eye, once more.

"In fact," I sat up and I reached for my shoes, "I was just thinking of
heading home, when you turned up. A cup of tea seems in order." Shoes now
on, I reached behind me for my shirt, and I began to brush off the bits of
leaf and grass that were attached to it. "Can I offer you one?"

"Oh. No. I can't," he protested. But he looked pissed off, at the same
time. "I've really, really got to get back to work."

"Oh, well." I smiled at him, and I pulled my shirt over my head, and
re-tied the drawstring of my shorts, before I reached to pick up my book
and my car-keys.

"Where do you live?" he asked, uncertainly. And now I smiled inwardly, as
well, reeling him in. I told him where my house was. "No. Definitely, I
can't," he confirmed. "That's miles away".  He was clearly torn, though. He
stood, and I registered his hands brushing down the back of his jeans. As
I'd guessed, he was about the same height as I was -- perhaps an inch or so
shorter.

I held up the car keys. "I'm parked just outside the main gates. We can be
at my place in less than ten minutes. And, I'll drive you back again,
afterwards." Neither of us needed to explain precisely what that
`afterwards' referred to. I watched, as he wrestled with his better
feelings.

"You're sure?" he asked, his resistance wavering, and I held up the car
keys in response.

"Of course."

He struggled, and then he caved in. "Oh, God. I really
shouldn't. Oh... Ok... alright, then."

And, before he could change his mind, I propelled him onto the path, my
hand on his shoulder, and we set off in the direction of the cemetery
gates.



In the car, the conversation was sparing. Perhaps, on purpose. Between us,
an unspoken tension had developed, which was all part of what was maybe -
probably - about to happen. Casual conversation would have been
inconsistent with the slight edge which came from a sense of things to
come.

Unspoken, and all the more exciting for it.

After a gear change, at one point, I wordlessly slipped my hand onto his
thigh and I let it rest there, casually. Mark said nothing. Although, when
my hand landed on his thigh, he seemed to sink further back into his seat,
and his legs splayed further apart. I resisted the temptation to go for
broke and push my hand right up between his legs. This was a game which I
sensed was going to be all the more rewarding for being played out slowly,
and although, after every gear change, I automatically returned my hand to
the warmth of his thigh, I took it no further. When we paused at one red
light, I turned and I met his gaze intently, before I smiled broadly, still
with nothing said, and I squeezed his thigh. His gaze was equally
unwavering, but there was no answering smile, and instead he appeared to
swallow nervously.

Sexily.

Inwardly, I smiled again. This was going to be good!



"Wow!" he exclaimed, as I ushered him into the entrance hall, and I closed
the front door behind us. It was pretty much the standard response. After
travelling through streets of increasingly grotty industrial grittiness,
the antique interior of the house was nothing if not surprising. Wood
panelling, and a bowl of lemons in the centre of the hall table; logs piled
in the grate, and the rich colours from the dutch flower painting which
hung above the chimneypiece; a smell of beeswax, and from somewhere nearby
the sonorous ticking of a grandfather clock. The modern world, the outside
world, had been left behind, on the other side of the front door.

"Would you like the full tour?"  I grinned at him, and then, before he
could answer, and as though it was a standard house-rule, I added: " You'd
better take your shoes off, and leave them here."

Not thinking twice about it, he did so at once; he didn't bother to untie
the laces but instead heeled his sneakers off, with a well-practiced
manoeuvre, and he set them down neatly beside the doormat. He didn't
initially notice that I made no move to follow him, and that I'd kept my
shoes on. And when he did, he pointed at my feet. "Aren't you....?" He
began.

"No," I smiled. And I offered no further explanation.

His unfinished question hung in the air.

Suddenly, the relative vulnerability of his bare feet and the fact that I'd
not removed my shoes, re-created the tension which had developed between us
in the car. Heady, and unspoken.

I was acutely conscious of my own hardness within the tight confines of my
briefs.

I rested my hand lightly on his shoulder, and I gently propelled him
towards the back of the hallway.

"Let me show you the house," I said, as I opened the door to the dining
room, and I manoeuvred him through the doorway, slightly in front of me. It
gave me the chance to enjoy once more the view of his bum, beneath the
bottom of his t-shirt, which was rucked-up on the waistband of his jeans,
and the enticing sexiness of his arse was presented to perfection. I kept
my hand on his shoulder, and I stood much closer to him than would have
been socially normal; I could tell he was awash with a confused mix of
sensations: impressed at his unexpected surroundings, and at the same time
Horny As Fuck. As he stood there and he took in the tapestries, and the
trompe l'oeuil, and the enormous circular table, I lightly kneaded his
shoulder, before I ran my hand down to his upper arm, where I toyed with
the sleeve of his t-shirt, and I gently ran my fingers over the smooth
warmth of his arm.

"This is the dining room," I told him. Which was kind of obvious. And I ran
my hand back up to the neck of his t--shirt. I very gently scratched the
back of his neck with my fingernail. He shivered.

"Well." He said. "Yes..."

"Come on." I took his hand in mine, lacing my fingers through his. "There's
more to see."

Unresisting, he allowed me to lead him from the room, and up the creaking
wooden flight of stairs to the first-floor landing.  For him, nothing
seemed unexpected by this stage, and when I opened the door to the library,
with the view beyond out and across the river, he said nothing, but merely
allowed me to lead him into the room, where, still holding his hand, I sat
in one of the low, upholstered chairs beside the desk. He stood beside me,
and he turned his head, taking in the contents of the room and the view
beyond.

"The Library," I said, in explanation.

And although he only gave a confirmatory "Mm" in response, there was
something about his tone which suggested that he'd got over his initial
surprise about the place. Which was good; the object, after all, was to
fuck, and not for him to get overwhelmed by home furnishings.

As he stood beside me, I ran my free hand up his thigh, to his waist.

"I think," I said, "that it's time that these jeans came off. Don't you?"
My tone was low, and conspiratorial.

He didn't answer - and anyway the question had no logic. But, I carried on,
as though Mark's lack of response had in fact been clear agreement. And so,
with one hand I held the waistband of his jeans and I drew him closer, my
fingers slipping slightly inside the top of his jeans, and with my other
hand I undid the button on the waistband and then, as I carefully
unbuttoned his fly, the fingers of both of my hands slipped down into his
crutch, following the progress of his opening fly. The backs of my fingers
pressed against his underpants, and I was conscious of the hot thickness of
his cock against my hand. As I undid the final button, and with the backs
of my hands inside his jeans and pressed into his groin, I looked up at his
face. He was looking down, and through half-closed eyes he watched intently
what I was doing. His breathing, if not exactly laboured, was certainly
ragged. I held his gaze, as I moved my hands, still inside his jeans, down
to the exposed tops of his thighs, and I worked my way around his hips,
easing his jeans out and away from him and down, as I went. And finally, my
hands clasped that glorious arse, from which I pushed his jeans down, so
that the jeans were now clinging tightly just to the tops of his thighs.

From outside, the sun streamed in, across the faded colours of the carpet,
and on the other side of the room a fly buzzed angrily, as it beat itself
repeatedly against the glass of the windowpane. Way off in the distance,
there was the sound of a boat on the river. But, the World outside the room
seemed far off, and all the energy that there was, right at that moment,
was concentrated on my hands as they carefully worked Mark's jeans down his
thighs.  And as he stood there, and he concentrated in turn on what I was
doing.

I resisted the urge to press my face against the front of his underwear,
and instead, being entirely business-like, I worked his jeans down his
legs, until they were free enough, around his knees, for him to step out of
them. Which he did.

Where the denim had been tightly moulded to him, it still, to a degree,
retained his shape as it came free from him, and an intoxicating scent of
hot, excited youth was released from inside his jeans as they came down.

Once his jeans had been cast aside, I lifted the front of his t-shirt, and
I held it up, so that I could take a proper look at him. His briefs, cut
high at the sides, were of some flimsy kind of fabric, and were patterned
with a green and yellow paisley design. His cock was clearly outlined
within, as it stood, thick and rigidly to attention, pressed up and against
his thigh; his balls were tight, where the fabric of his briefs clung to
them. The flatness of his tummy, muscled abs clearly defined, rose and fell
with his heightened breathing.

"These are nice," I complimented him, as, I ran the tip of my finger the
length of the shaft of his cock, through his briefs, and I lightly touched
the tip, where maybe a pearl of pre-cum might be encouraged to appear.

"It's an `it'," he corrected me, "not a `them'". His voice was thick, and
noticeably breathless. "I've only got the one."

I grinned. He was keeping up.

"I meant these," I said, as I slipped the tips of my fingers under the
elastic of the leg of his underpants and I pulled slightly at them. As I
did so, my fingers brushed against his balls, and he moaned slightly.

"Although, of course, `this' seems pretty nice, as well," I added. And I
gave his cock a perfunctory squeeze, before I slid my hand between his
legs, pushing my fingertips inside the leg of his briefs as I did so, and I
could feel the damp heat inside his underwear, between his legs and behind
his balls. Gently, I pressed up and against him, and instinctively his
knees bent, and he pushed his crutch down against my hand as I did so. I
lingered, enjoying the moment.

And then, I stood up. My hand rested easily against his cock, and I
casually fondled him as he stood there, his eyes slightly glazed. Giving
himself over entirely to whatever I wanted to do.

"Come on," I said, suddenly changing the mood. "We've not finished with the
house tour yet." I gave his cock one final squeeze, and then I moved my
hand round to his arse, which I groped as I moved him once more towards the
door, and ahead of me and back across the landing.

"The Drawing Room," I announced, as we went through the door opposite, and
as he entered the room, I deftly moved my hand up to the small of his back,
and I pushed my hand quickly back down, inside the waistband of his briefs,
so that I was now caressing his naked arse inside his underwear. The
muscles of his bum were firm, and I explored enough that the tip of my
index finger found the puckered edge of his arsehole. Which I pressed
against; to find that it wasn't entirely resistant.

Mark stood in front of the fireplace, dressed just in his briefs and
t-shirt, and while he appeared to be studying the painting in front of him,
his concentration was in fact entirely on the touch of my finger against
his arse, and on my breath against the back of his neck.  I moved my right
hand round, inside his underwear, untiI my fingers closed on the shaft of
his cock, and at the same time my left hand insinuated itself beneath the
front of his t-shirt, and slid up, to touch the sensitive hardness of his
nipple. As the ball of my thumb roughly grazed him there, I gently bit the
back of his neck. He made a slight noise, half-grunt and half-groan, and I
felt his cock jump in my hand, and a slight wetness.

It was almost too much.

Since I didn't want this to end too soon, I quickly withdrew my hands from
inside his underpants, and from inside his t-shirt, and I wrapped my arms
around him and embraced him tightly from behind, so that I could feel his
heartbeat returning to a more normal rate, as I held him and he came back
from the edge.

"Not much more," I said, and I gently kissed his ear. "The tour's nearly
over."

"That's a shame," he managed, breathlessly. He pushed back against me, and
I pushed against him as he did so.

"Well." I considered, and I murmured into his ear "Maybe you'll find
something that you like in the gift shop, at the end of the tour."

"Do you think I might?"

"I think it's a distinct possibility."

"Great." His voice was almost normal, once more. "That's if the size of the
tour-guide's tip doesn't wipe me out." With his right hand, he reached back
and made to grope me through my shorts. And since that wasn't entirely
on-script, or not my version of it, anyway, I reached down to grab his
hand, and then I held both of his hands in both of mine, and like that I
went back to embracing him as I'd been doing before.

"Well. Let's see about that, shall we?"

And with that, I led him from the room, and up the last flight of stairs,
to the bedroom floor.

Not to a bedroom, though, but to the bathroom. Where, once we were inside,
I sat on a stool beside the bath, and I positioned Mark directly before
me. I reached over and I turned the taps, to start the water running, and
then I ran my hands up and inside the legs of his underpants and I flexed
my palms against his hips.

"I think maybe you could do with a nice relaxing bath," I said. "After
getting all hot and bothered ."

He smiled, in a dazed way that suggested that he'd stopped making any
choices for himself, and that he was receptive to ...whatever.

And, with that, I gripped the waistband, and unceremoniously I stripped his
briefs down to his knees. His cock sprang out, and it obscenely tented the
front of his t-shirt. In one go, I pulled his briefs down the rest of the
way, and he stepped out of them altogether, and they were left on the
floor, damp and discarded.

Then, I stood, and I took the bottom of his t-shirt, and I raised it.

Like a small child, Mark lifted his arms, and in one swift move, the shirt
was gone, and he was, finally, sexily, naked: trim, and perfect in every
way, with his hard cock protruding rigidly, and demanding attention. I sat
back down on the stool, and I ran my fingers up the velvety softness of the
skin on his shaft. His foreskin was pulled back, to expose the rich, dark
plum of his cock-head, and I leant forward, holding his cock and pointing
it towards me, to take the plum gently into my mouth. As I moved my tongue
over his cock, and began to work his shaft in and out of my mouth, he
groaned loudly, and his hands came to rest on my head. He began to make
little noises in time with the movements of my tongue. I moved my hands
round to his buttocks, and as I sucked him, I kneaded his firm buttocks,
and I probed between them for treasure trove.

And when I found it, and pushed, Mark suddenly made a low noise in his
throat, and his hands clamped themselves to the sides of my head. He
stopped me, and then he eased me carefully off and away from his cock. He
wanted this to last, too, and once again we'd come perilously close to
finishing too early.

He stood, breathing heavily, as he came back from the brink, and I could
see from his expression that all was well. When he smiled at me, weakly,
his eyes were bright, and hungry, and it was clear that we were still
on-track.

"Bath," I commanded, as I stood, and I smacked him lightly on his bare
arse, which showed starkly white, in contrast with his distinct speedo
tan-line.  Dutifully, he climbed into the bath, and he stood there, with
the water and foam about up to his knees, and as he stood there he gently
and instinctively began to wank himself. As he watched, I stripped off my
shirt, and I took off my watch and put it to one side. Standing there,
naked and hard, with his short haircut, and smooth, athletic body, he
looked like the sexiest schoolboy in the world, hormones rioting,
sex-for-days. With him standing in the bath, and me standing outside it, I
rested my hands on his hips, and I pulled him gently towards me.

"You. Are.So.Fucking.Sexy." I told him, before I kissed him. Lightly at
first, as I ran the tip of my tongue slowly over and around his lips, and
then more seriously. He rested his hands on my shoulders, to steady
himself, as I made a slow and thorough exploration of his mouth with my
tongue, and then I played the tip of my tongue against the tip of his. He
gave as good as he got, and my hand slid down the side of his body, and
found his hard cock.  I broke the kiss, and then I put my hand behind his
neck and I brought his face down to suckle my nipple. He got the idea at
once, and as he sucked, I encouraged him gently, and I groped his balls and
pressed my hand up against his taint. He was driving me to heaven!

Reluctantly, I broke the contact between us, and I reached for a washcloth
and some soap, and I began to douse him in warm, soapy water. I hoped it
was the sexiest bath he'd ever had; certainly, that was my intention. The
cloth, and my hands slid everywhere. And after the soap had been rinsed
away, my mouth and tongue followed. His nipples, his cock, his balls, his
toes. And in between, I placed long and lingering kisses on his mouth. I
turned him, and massaged from his shoulders and down the expanse of his
back. I soaped the globes of his arse, and then got him to put one foot up
on the side of the bath, to give me access between his legs and between his
arse cheeks. At one point, I dispensed with the cloth, and he gasped and
then groaned deeply as, without warning, I slid one soapy finger right up
and inside him, and then I rinsed off with a handful of water, and I ran my
tongue over the bud of his arse, and flicked the tip of my tongue back and
forth. By now, he was making a series of low, whimpering sounds, as the
nerve-endings jangled throughout his body.

Before he collapsed entirely, I grabbed a towel, and he surrendered himself
to being dried, which I did carefully, and touching each and every part of
him as I did so. Again, like a small child, he even held out his hands so
that I could dry between his fingers, and he raised his arms, to be dried
underneath. I don't know if it was the sexiest bath he'd ever had, but it
was sure-as-hell the sexiest bath I'd ever given.

Eventually, he was done. He stood beside the bath, naked and hard, and I
smiled at him. We seemed to have moved beyond words. Once more I took his
hand, and I led him out of the bathroom, and along the landing to my
bedroom, where I pulled the bedcover down, and I laid him down on the bed,
his head on the pillow. I looked down at him, supine, and his cock stood so
hard and proud from his body that it resembled some kind of periscope. I
grinned, at the thought, and he looked at me quizzically; I shook my head,
to dismiss his implied question, and I let my grin down-grade into a
smile. Probably lewd, and certainly with lascivious intent.

As he watched, from only inches away, I untied the drawstring of my shorts,
and I levered them down, until they fell around my ankles. Before I stepped
out of them, I pried off my shoes. Not surprisingly, the front of my briefs
was soaked, and I reached down and with my hand on the back of his head, I
pulled his face into my groin. As he began to nuzzle, through the white
cotton, he put his hand round and onto my arse, and he held me steady
against the onslaught from his tongue and his lips, as he worked his mouth
along the length of my shaft. I reached down to lower the waistband, so
that I could feed the head of my cock into his mouth. He sucked, eagerly,
and as I gently fucked myself against the roof of his mouth, I pushed my
briefs down and managed to free myself of them, so that I was now as naked
as Mark was.

Having indicated that he should make room on the bed for me, I stretched
out beside him, and as we came together into a kiss, my hand slipped
between his legs, which he spread, wantonly, to give me full access. As the
kiss deepened, my finger moved to his bud, and in time with the games my
tongue was playing in his mouth, my finger traced up and down and pressed
against his pucker. And, as he pushed back -- clearly indicating that he
wanted more -- I carefully pulled away from him. When he saw that I was
reaching behind me, into the bedside drawer, he moved forward and began to
lick and suck at my nipple, in place of the kiss that I'd just broken. It
was my turn to moan, and by the time I'd located the tube of KY, and turned
back to him, I was finding it difficult to concentrate. Breathing hard, and
struggling against the sensation he was generation in me, I managed to
unscrew the cap, and as I leant forward to part his legs wider, he had to
concede defeat and break contact with my nipple. As I gently began to apply
KY to his arse, he lay back against the pillow, and spread his legs, to
surrender to my fingers. I probed inside, deeply, with just one, to start
with; he groaned, his face screwed up, with something more complicated than
pleasure, and he raised his hips and pushed back against my hand.  I added
a second finger, and watched his expression, as I moved my fingers inside
him, twisting, and probing, and playing him. His whimpering gave way to
deep moans, and he reached forward to pull his own knees back and
apart. The expression on his face, lost in animal lust, was as wantonly
depraved as I've ever seen. Or could imagine.

It. Was. Fucking. Amazing.

I knew this couldn't last for long, and so, I manoeuvred myself up and into
place, kneeling on the bed, positioned against his arse. As I withdrew my
fingers from deep inside him, he continued to hold his legs up and apart,
exhibiting his arsehole, red and puffy from my intrusion. Quickly, I lubed
my cock, and before he probably even realised what was happening, I took
hold of his ankles, one in each hand, and I lowered my hips, to get my cock
into place. His eyes opened, in realisation, as the end of my cock pushed
into him. Just the tip, at first, and as his muscles tightened around my
shaft, I could feel him pulsating. I fucked rapidly in and out of him, just
with an inch or so to start with, teasing him, sending waves of pleasure
through his body, and he raised his hips and pushed himself against me, to
match my rhythm. I knelt up, to change my angle, and as I pushed deeper
inside, he moaned loudly, and then he reached behind him with both hands,
to grasp the pillow, to try and ride the sensation.

And, then, without warning, I thrust in deep and I bottomed out, inside
him. He cried out, and he reached up to clasp my shoulders, and I as I
fucked in and did it again, his eyes suddenly opened wide.

"Oh! God!" he shouted. In panic. And a jet of cum suddenly fired across his
shoulder, and decorated the pillow beside his head.

And as I fucked into him, again and again, he continued with a sort of
high-pitched keening, as bolt after bolt of his cum followed, leaving thick
ropes across his chest and abs. The sight was too much -- that, and the
sensation of his arse, clenching tightly around my cock, in the throes of
his orgasm -- and I shouted out, in turn, as I shot deep inside him: once;
twice, and again...

And it was only when I'd finished, that I looked down and I met his eyes,
as he lay there, panting, and exhausted, and bathed in sweat amongst the
ruins of the bedclothes. His cheeks were pink from exertion; his hair was a
ruffled mess. I struggled to get my breath back, and as I did so, I smiled
raggedly down at him, to be met with an answering ragged smile of his own.

No words.

Done.