This story is my first posting, so all and any constructive criticism will be welcome. Write to me at firstname.lastname@example.org. Although it is obviously a story about gay sex, it is not really intended to be a J/O tale, so please don't write complaining that it didn't get you horny! The first chapter, in particular, is intended to set the scene.
For those of you who like hunting for the facts in their fiction, forget it. This is entirely a work of fiction and all the characters are figments of my imagination.
Otherwise, normal disclaimers apply. If sex between consenting male adults is not your thing, or you are a minor under the law of whatever state or country you live in, then I suggest you read no further.
By Redbear, August 2002 (email@example.com)
"Hey, Jonnie, your turn to get breakfast."
Jonathan grunted as he felt a stubble-covered chin rasp against the base of his neck, then smiled and stretched.
Jonnie. He had never thought of himself as a Jon or a Jonnie; once he left school, he had shed those names, along with his childhood. Being "mature" was an integral part of his character. Even at the age of 16, he had never been queried in a pub when he ordered a round of drinks. By his mid-twenties, he looked and acted as if he were in his mid-thirties. He put it down to a number of factors. His early-onset baldness (which he always considered to be a fortunate improvement over the curly red hair he had previously sported), his thick and hairy chest and deep voice, and his initial choice of career as a Chartered Accountant (yawn), all contributed to making him seem older than his years.
And perhaps he was. Unlike many of his fellows, he left school knowing exactly what he was going to do. He would (and did) take a degree in accounting at university before joining a Big Eight (as they were then known) accountancy firm. After qualifying, he stayed with the same firm for several more years, before growing dissatisfied with his work and deciding to move on. Jonathan wanted to work closer with people, rather than viewing businesses through a veil of numbers, so chose a path to general management through a finance director's role. This led him to spend several years in France as Finance, then Managing, Director of a subsidiary of a European manufacturing group. He then returned to England, in a similar role within the same group, but felt a growing itch to move on once more.
A sharp tickle in his ribs brought Jonathan back to full wakefulness. "Come on, you lazy sod, or am I going to have to kick you out of bed?" came the playful voice. God, he could lie like this forever, snuggled back into the chest of the man he loved.
"Give me another couple of minutes," he groaned. "It is Sunday, after all."
Throughout his career, Jonathan had never really had a deep relationship with anybody, male or female. Sure, there had been a couple of girlfriends, one of them semi live-in. There had also been a few brief stands with other men. But something in his character held him back at each time. Perhaps the "older" part of him restrained him from exploring his true nature. Whatever the reason, when he was in a relationship with a woman, every so often he would find himself wishing he was with another man. Unable to confront the issue, certainly not capable of talking it through with the woman concerned, he would break off the relationship rather than risk hurting the girlfriend more through seemingly no longer being attracted to her.
Sometimes he felt it would be so much easier if he could just come out and declare himself to be gay. But there lay the rub. Not only did he feel inhibited by social mores, the fear of losing friends and standing, but, quite simply, he did not feel himself to be gay. He had never met a man that he felt he would be comfortable entering into a relationship with (at least, no gay man). His few flings with other men, enjoyable as they were from a purely sexual point of view, left him unfulfilled. Worse, he often found himself, in the middle of the act, wishing he was with a woman. In other words, the same problem, in reverse, that he had with his girlfriends. Uncomfortable with his mixed feelings with regard to sex with either sex, he ended up by giving it up. It had never been a driving part of his life and had started, rather, to become a source of stress.
He felt a pair of knees slide up his back, then a pair of feet, flat against his buttocks, sent him crashing out of the bed and onto the floor.
"Bastard!" he roared, leaping back onto the bed. He grappled with his partner through the duvet, tickling him before giving him a quick peck on the lips. "I'll get you back later", he smiled, as he climbed off the bed and wandered into the bathroom. He stretched again before allowing himself the luxury of releasing his pent-up bladder into the toilet bowl. The "vay-say", as they pronounced it in France, taken from the English, WC.
Jonathan had enjoyed his years in France. Long before the Internet had come into popular use, the French had invented the "Minitel". By this means, Jonathan had been able to log onto chat rooms and pick up one nighters (most did not even last that long). But his closest friend during that time was actually a colleague from work, Marc. At first, their relationship had developed from playing squash together during the long French lunch breaks. Then, when Marc discovered that Jonathan subscribed to Canal Plus, and so could watch key live football matches, he started going round to Jonathan's house on football evenings, for supper and to watch the match. This developed into a routine and one or other of the two men would often stretch out along the couch they shared in front of the television, resting his legs or head on the other's lap.
Marc was relatively short -- 1m70 (5'7") -- but compact in build. He had that light brown hair which turns blond in the summer sun. Although his chest and stomach were almost hairless, apart from a short treasure trail, his arms and legs were covered in long, soft hairs which turned golden against the skin's tan. Jonathan was particularly enamoured of the soft tufts of hair which sprouted at Marc's wrists, below his thumbs. His nose had been broke in an accident, giving him a slightly skewed appearance and adding character to his impish smile. He was prone to the odd blackhead on his face, chest and shoulders, which Jonathan, perversely, loved to squeeze.
The growing mutual bond between them was real. At one time, when Jonathan jokingly suggested he would be returning to England soon, Marc started to weep and Jonathan found himself holding the other tightly in his arms, reassuring him like a father with his young son. And Marc was not averse to open signs of affection from Jonathan (behind closed doors): they soon started to cuddle up to each other on the couch and Marc would let Jonathan open his shirt and caress his chest. Marc would also allow Jonathan to kiss him, on the head, the eyes, the nose, the cheeks, but never on the lips, nor elsewhere on his body. "Arrete," he would say, "je ne suis pas pede." (Stop, I'm not queer).
Jonathan loved Marc unequivocally. Marc, for his part, was genuinely fond of Jonathan, and trusted him totally, but his feelings stopped there. In due course, Marc found a girlfriend with whom he started to live. His visits to Jonathan became less frequent and Jonathan found himself missing Marc deeply. Jonathan confided in Marc, during this period, that he had had sexual relationships with other men. Marc was shocked; he had assumed that Jonathan's affection for him was merely a slightly stronger version of his own, "manly" fondness for Jonathan. He remained close, but was slightly more wary thereafter whenever Jonathan hugged him close or tried to kiss him. Jonathan often wondered what might have been had Marc reciprocated Jonathan's full feelings; perhaps his long period of self-imposed celibacy might have come to an end.
In due course, Jonathan's group transferred him back to England. Although he and Marc stayed in regular contact, they met up only infrequently, when Jonathan was on business in Paris.
Jonathan smiled as he thought of Marc. Marc would always rank as one of his closest and dearest friends, someone he could trust with his life. As he stumbled down the stairs towards the kitchen, he reflected on how, inadvertently, Marc had been a factor behind the next change in his life.
After returning to the UK, Jonathan found himself faced with the challenge of running several companies in one division, with the objective of returning them to a more profitable level of performance. In his previous role, he had been very hands on, getting to know personally all the personnel, both in the offices and on the shop floor. He had insisted that everyone in the French plant use the informal "tu" form with him, a culture change many of the older hands found difficult to make, but one which created a strong sense of belonging throughout the employees. The new job, however, forced him into a greater distance from the workforce, dealing primarily with site managers and directors. His workload and the aloofness of his position made it difficult for Jonathan to make new friends in the business and he missed Marc, or someone similar to confide in, desperately. As the excitement of his promotion wore off, he came to realise that he was growing further away from his main passion -- working closely with people.
During a long Sunday afternoon phone call to Marc (Marc's girlfriend was at a dance class), Jonathan talked of his disillusionment with his career. "All I'm doing in this job is shuffling money around, making more for our companies at the expense of another, ultimately at the expense of the consumer. I know we need industry -- it's just not what I want to spend the rest of my life doing. I need to feel like I am contributing something personally, making a difference to people's lives."
"Tu devrais etre Prof," came back Marc. Jonathan groaned. He tended to be pedantic about his employees' grammar, so he assumed Marc's suggestion that he should become a teacher was a joke, and changed the subject.
The comment, however, stuck in his subconscious and gnawed away at his softening defences. At various stages of his career, psychological assessments had shown that he had a strong aptitude for teaching, and this fitted with his own need to develop people's strengths. Why not become a teacher? Money, for a start. Teachers earned a fraction of what Jonathan was paid. And friends who were, or had been, teachers all warned him against the bureaucracy that had invaded the system, killing the pleasure of imparting knowledge.
But the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he could manage it financially. It would mean a drastic change in lifestyle, but thousands of teachers managed to survive every day. And it was something he knew he would be good at.
He approached it methodically, contacting all the nearby universities and colleges to find out about the teacher training courses they offered. Learning that he would have to undertake a Post-Graduate Certificate of Education, lasting a minimum of one year in his chosen subject, he narrowed his choices down. Everybody he spoke to encouraged him to take Business Studies -- after all, it fit his degree and his career -- but he finally opted for Maths. After applying to his preferred universities, and being offered a place, Jonathan took the final, irrevocable step and resigned from his job.
The relief he felt was almost tangible. It was as if a huge burden had been lifted from him overnight. Even in his worst imaginings he had not realised just how much he had grown to dislike the work he was doing. At the same time, he experienced a rush of excitement at the thought of the massive career change he was making and the new life ahead of him. A range of questions faced him: would he succeed; would he enjoy it; would he be able to retain his enthusiasm and avoid becoming a jaded old cynic like so many other teachers he had known?
The biggest regret he felt was that he had no-one close with whom he could celebrate his new-found freedom and happiness, and thrash out his worries. Marc was too far away.
Jonathan padded around the kitchen, grilling sausages, bacon, black pudding, tomatoes and mushrooms whilst preparing a tray with other breakfast items. They only ever had cooked breakfasts on Sundays. There was not enough time on other days and, in any case, neither of them fancied the extra workouts that would be needed to consume the additional calories should they eat them every day. This Sunday it was Jonathan's turn to do the honours and he revelled in the quiet moment of domesticity. He still found it difficult to believe that he had found a man that he loved and trusted enough to live with him.
Jonathan had a break of about a month between finishing work and starting university. He did not feel he could afford to go away on holiday, as taking a year out of work, while he still had a mortgage to pay off, was going to leave him financially tight. But it was summer, he was free of care for a few weeks, it would be his birthday soon and he could enjoy himself wherever he was.
On impulse, he decided to post a short note on uk.adverts.personals.gay-lesbian-bi. This reminded him of his Minitel days in France but, as it was a newsgroup posting, it lacked the immediacy of a chat room.
"Subject: Be my birthday present! -- Bristol/Bath area
"I shall be 46 in a few days and can see the big five-zero looming over the brow of the hill. So how would you like to be the one to make an ageing young man happy? Can you see past the shiny pate, the greying red fringe and the sagging muscles, to recognise the happy young soul within? I'm a keen skier, play squash enthusiastically but poorly, and will follow you up a hill on a mountain bike or on foot. I also enjoy more sedate activities, such as cinema and theatre, and have an eclectic taste in music, from hard rock to the classics (missing out techno and brass bands!)
"Get in touch! The days are passing.
Hardly inspiring, thought Jonathan, as he clicked on "Send". He doubted strongly that he would get any replies at all, let alone any he might like to follow up.
He was kept busy with reorganising his mortgage, signing on at the Job Centtre and preparing for the return to university, so it was a couple of days before he checked his e-mail again. Having almost forgotten his impulsive newsgroup posting, he was surprised to find that he had received a fair number of e-mails from unknown senders. He really had not expected much of a response. He started reading through them and quickly realised that he was going to be able to discount many of them. The majority could be classed into two broad categories: the flames, which derided his age (and which Jonathan quickly deleted), and the older readers, attracted like moths to someone younger. Jonathan quickly responded courteously in the negative to these latter messages. It was not so much that he had anything against meeting someone older -- after all, there was an older partner in all couples. It was just that this was his birthday; he felt he merited something more.
There remained two e-mails: one from a young guy called Dave, aged 24, the other from a man called Mark, no age indicated.
Dave came across fairly cocky -- the type, "I'm good looking and a lot younger -- you would be making a big mistake to pass me up." His e-mail was brief and to the point -- a few bodily stats (impressive!), a photo and a mobile phone number. The photo was of an extremely attractive young man, the lower half of his body twisted side on to the camera, displaying a firm, bubble butt and down-covered legs; the upper half of his body was turned towards the lens, showing a handsome face, topped with short-cropped blond hair, a sun-tanned body, smooth chest and stomach and a coy pair of hands hiding his manhood.
Mark (that magic name, but he could never compare to Jonathan's Marc) was more circumspect. He did not describe himself at all, confining himself, instead, to asking further questions concerning Jonathan's professed interests. Where did he ski? Did he ski off piste? Was he in a squash club? Did he have his own mountain bike?
The decision was easy. Out of politeness, Jonathan dashed off a response to Mark's questions and asked him if he shared similar interests. He then picked up his phone and dialled the number Dave had sent him.
"Hi, is that Dave?"
"Yes, who's that?" A fresh young voice, speaking slowly with a marked Bristol accent.
"My name's Jonathan. You sent me an e-mail yesterday. I only picked it up this evening."
"Oh, right, the birthday boy. How're things?"
"Fine, thanks. Listen, do you want to meet up?"
"Sure. When's your birthday?"
"In two days -- Thursday."
"OK, tell you what. Let's keep this a surprise and meet for dinner on Thursday. How does that sound?
Jonathan laughed. "Fine, why not? Any suggestions?"
Dave suggested Las Iguanas, on Whiteladies Road in Bristol, and said he would make the booking for 8:00. Jonathan was to ask for the table booked in the name of Meadows.
Jonathan was delighted. He had never imagined his posting would lead to a meeting. As one does, he started to fantasise as to how the dinner would go, before realising that Dave had no description of him, other than the broad brush painted in his posting. How would Dave react to him, a man nearly twice Dave's age?
He pulled the photo back up onto his computer screen and began to picture himself with the younger man. Closing his eyes, he pulled his T-shirt out from the top of his jeans and started caressing his nipples with his left hand. He could feel Dave's lithe, warm chest rubbing against his own as their mouths grappled for each other. Meanwhile, his right hand undid the buttons on his jeans and stared to stroke his growing manhood. In his mind, Dave's mouth worked down his chest, across his nipples, then further, onto his stiff shaft. He imagined the heat and dampness surrounding and engulfing his cock, while he rubbed Dave's short hair and cheeks. Before long, it was too much and he came in a gasping rush.
"Shit!" Jonathan looked down at the mess on his jeans and swore again. He cleaned himself up and shoved the trousers in the wash. He was supposed to be meeting the next morning up with some friends who were holidaying in the region, and had planned to wear those self-same jeans. He just hoped they would be dry in time.
Thursday came around quickly.
When he had returned home on Wednesday evening, Jonathan had found a further e-mail from Mark. This time, Mark was more forthcoming about himself, talking about his own interests. Like Jonathan, he tended to horde his holidays to use them for skiing. He was very proficient, having been skiing several weeks each year since his early teens, and enjoyed snow touring (somewhat more than he, himself, was capable of, thought Jonathan). He was also an active mountain biker, spending at least one weekend each month in Derbyshire and North Wales, with occasional longer weekends in the Yorkshire Dales and the Lakes, in addition to going out most weekends into the Mendips and the Cotswolds. (Jonathan felt exhausted just reading the e-mail. He liked to feel that he kept fit, but this went far beyond his own efforts).
Mark rounded off his e-mail by asking Jonathan when his birthday was and what his plans were. Jonathan sent back a short reply, staying well clear of further discussing his own sporting shortfalls compared to Mark. He recounted the e-mail he had received from Dave and the fact that he would be meeting Dave for dinner the following evening, for his birthday. He saw little point in getting Mark's hopes up, not that he knew anything about the guy. He still did not even know Mark's age, although he guessed, from his strenuous lifestyle, that he was unlikely to be much older, if at all, than Jonathan.
Thursday afternoon found Jonathan in a panic. His "flings" in France, as he liked to call them, had not prepared him for a genuine "date" with another man. What should he wear? How was he going to impress the good-looking young man he was due to meet? Surely Dave would be disgusted by the sight of the older man? (In truth, Jonathan was not that bad looking and kept himself in good shape. But he knew that he was not getting any younger and could not hope to compete with the youthful and more liberated men that could be found rampant on the gay scene).
At 8:00 on the dot, he strode into the restaurant, desperately trying to dry his palms against his trousers. He had finally gone for the conservative look, sporting a pair of chinos and a polo shirt. Looking around the tables, he recognised Dave immediately; no need to ask a waiter. He walked up to the table scanning Dave's face for any signs of horror or disgust. He need not have worried. As he approached the table, Dave stood up, smiling, and put out his hand.
"Jonathan, I presume."
"Hi. Pleased to meet you. I recognised you from your photo." Jonathan hoped he did not sound too nervous, as he took his seat opposite Dave.
The meal went well. Dave turned out to have an easy confidence which allowed him to lead the conversation and keep it flowing, talking about himself whenever Jonathan dried up, then turning the talk back to Jonathan. He was also extremely funny. The cockiness apparent in his e-mail did not prevent him from having a scathingly self-deprecating humour, recounting damning anecdotes about his own failings. He was clearly an instinctive psychologist, playing up his own weaknesses to encourage Jonathan to forget his own feelings of inadequacy.
By the time they were drinking coffee (and a brandy for Jonathan), Jonathan was amazed to realise that, not only did he find Dave immensely fanciable (woofable, as one of his mates would say of an attractive woman), but he also was falling under the charms of the younger man.
"Fancy coming back to my place?" asked Dave.
Jonathan grinned goofily back. "If you don't mind."
"Of course not. I wouldn't have asked otherwise. You're really nice, you know; you shouldn't put yourself down."
Dave waved at a passing waiter and allowed Jonathan to pick up the tab.
Walking back to his flat, Dave put his arm around Jonathan then slid it down so that his hand cupped Jonathan's buttocks. Jonathan reached round and took Dave's hand. They intertwined their fingers and Jonathan rubbed the back of Dave's hand with his thumb. He felt indescribably happy and found it difficult to believe he was strolling along the road, hand in hand with this beautiful young man.
Dave entered the flat first. As Jonathan came through the door, Dave reached past him to close the door, then pushed him back against the door frame. Jonathan's head bent into Dave's kiss as he felt Dave's hands tugging his shirt from out of his chinos. As their tongues grappled for position in the other's mouth, Dave worked his right hand up Jonathan's back, under his shirt. Jonathan worked his shoes off with his toes then started to manoeuvre Dave into the living room. They sat side by side on the couch, mouth still glued to mouth, noses rubbing and bumping, while Dave brought his hand round to start pulling at Jonathan's nipples. Jonathan groaned and Dave pulled away.
"Just sit back, birthday boy," he told Jonathan, as he turned and put some soft guitar music on the CD player.
Jonathan relaxed back onto the couch, sinking into its deep leather cushions, and watched Dave start to strip. He tried to move forward to participate, but Dave just pushed him back down. Holding Jonathan with his eyes, never letting go, Dave lifted first one foot, then the other, and pulled off his shoes and socks. He placed these carefully on the floor behind him then, still locking onto Jonathan's gaze, started to gyrate his hips in time to the music whilst slowly rolling his T-shirt up to his armpits. Jonathan dropped his eyes from Dave's and allowed them to travel over Dave's exposed torso. He noticed that, contrary to what he had thought from the photo, Dave's chest and stomach were not smooth, but closely clipped, leaving only a light fuzz across his front.
With a final movement, Dave flipped his shirt over his head and dropped it off his arms. Still watching Jonathan closely, he began to stroke, with a circular motion of his thumbs, his own nipples, all the while softly swinging his hips with the music. His hands then started to make small circular movements, working down over his ribs and hard abdomen until the tips of his fingers, with each circle, were digging into the top of his trousers.
Jonathan wet his lips with his tongue as, transfixed, he watched Dave's hands undo Dave's belt buckle and the buttons of his 501s. Dave's wrists had small tufts of blond hair, similar to those of Marc. His hips still swinging, his gaze on Jonathan unwavering, Dave pushed down his jeans to reveal a pair of white, 2(x)ist briefs (where did he get those? wondered Jonathan to himself). Jonathan barely had time to register the bulge in the briefs before his eyes were caught by the beauty of the legs that were being unveiled before him -- golden blond hairs stood out against the bronzed tan of Dave's skin, stretched tight around the muscle of his thighs. As Dave stepped out of the jeans, displaying for the first time the thick hair on the top of his feet, he turned his back on Jonathan. He kept his head twisted round so as to continue watching Jonathan as he pumped his arse muscles around in front of Jonathan's lusting face. Tucking his thumbs under the elastic of his briefs, he drew them slowly down over his legs, then feet, before stepping backwards and sinking into Jonathan's lap.
Jonathan pulled his polo shirt over his head so that he could feel Dave's naked skin against his own breast, then put his arms round Dave and started to caress his chest and nipples whilst nuzzling with his mouth and tongue at the base of Dave's neck. Dave, meanwhile, stroked the sides of Jonathan's thighs before reaching round behind to undo Jonathan's trousers. He then slid to his knees between Jonathan's legs and pulled Jonathan's chinos and boxer shorts together to the floor.
Both men were now naked. Still on the floor, Dave licked the inside of each of Jonathan's knees before working slowly up his thighs with his tongue. Leaning forward, he licked around Jonathan's tight balls and, ignoring the stiff rod rising above them, licked his way up Jonathan's hairy abdomen and chest. Pushing Jonathan further back into the couch, he lifted the other's arms and thrust his tongue hard into the pits. Jonathan yelled as he was tickled, but Dave ignored him and carried on licking around Jonathan's neck, back down between his pecs, and finally down onto Jonathan's neatly circumcised dick.
Jonathan groaned loudly as his daydream from two days' earlier became reality. Dave took him fully into his throat, then slid slowly back up the shaft, working it with the rough surface of his tongue. Jonathan thrashed around, then reluctantly pulled Dave's head up towards his own.
"No, not yet," he said. "I need to taste you first."
Kissing Dave, Jonathan slid to the floor and pushed Dave onto his back. He caressed the inside of Dave's thigh with his hand whilst gradually working his lips and tongue over Dave's fuzzy chest. As his hand worked up to Dave's balls, so did his mouth work down towards Dave's leaking rod. He licked first at the glistening puddle on Dave's stomach, marvelling at its sweetness, before engulfing Dave's meat in his mouth. The heavy male scent assailed his nostrils and he noticed, for the first time, that Dave's pubic hair was also closely cropped. Sucking Dave down into his throat, he worked at Dave's balls, then arse crack, with his hand, walking his fingers gradually around, then into, Dave's puckered hole. Drawing his mouth back, he used his hand to bunch the skin of Dave's cock upwards, so that he could slide his tongue under Dave's foreskin and around the sensitive glans.
It was Dave's turn to moan, and he pulled Jonathan around until he could get his head into Jonathan's crotch. He licked his middle finger then worked it into Jonathan's arse whilst slavering heavily over his dick. Soon, both men were suckling on the other as if in a competition to see who could bring the other off fastest. Jonathan was the first to feel the familiar pressure building in his groin and tried frantically to pull himself away from Dave's ravaging mouth and fingers. Dave hung on like a limpet and Jonathan was soon screaming in the throes of the best orgasm he had experienced in many years.
Withdrawing himself from Jonathan's mouth, Dave moved down between the other's legs. Lifting them up, Dave bent to apply his tongue to Jonathan's exposed rosebud. Still soft and exhausted from his intense orgasm, Jonathan felt Dave's tongue pushing around and into his arsehole. He watched Dave's cock swinging as he got up to fetch a condom from a drawer and lay passively as Dave started to push his sheathed rod into his tight sphincter. Pushing back down Jonathan gasped as the head of Dave's cock penetrated then continued its slow ravishing of his insides.
Jonathan felt his own prick stiffen anew as Dave started to pump rhythmically against his prostate. He pulled Dave's head down and kissed at his mouth whilst hearing and feeling the slap of Dave's sweating torso and hips hammering into him. Unbelievably, Jonathan came a second time before, with a great shuddering sigh, Dave reached his own climax. Jonathan let his legs relax as Dave collapsed on top of him.
"Shit, that was fantastic!"
"Thanks," mumbled Dave, "I always aim to please."
They lay quietly, sneaking the occasional snog, until Dave's softening penis plopped out of Jonathan's hole. Dave rolled over and pulled off the condom, and Jonathan snuggled up and placed his head on Dave's chest. He stroked his hand lovingly over the fuzz that covered Dave's abdomen and pubis.
"Why do you keep yourself so closely cropped," he asked.
"Oh, I guess it's more comfortable," Dave replied, "and most of my clients prefer me that way."
It took a moment for this to register, then Jonathan lifted his head and looked Dave in the eye.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, shit, didn't you realise? I'm a male escort -- a high-class prostitute, if you like."
Jonathan pulled back.
"What the fuck! Do you mean someone's paid you to give me a birthday fuck?"
Dave sat up and put his arms on Jonathan's shoulders.
"Calm down, it's not like that. Well, not quite, anyways."
He gave Jonathan a slow kiss then pulled back again.
"I saw your posting in the newsgroup and I thought it would be different, giving myself to someone for his birthday for a change, instead of always being paid. Nobody has paid me to do this, it was my own idea. Why, didn't you enjoy it?"
Jonathan had, and there lay the problem.
"But what about the future?"
"Sorry mate, today's your birthday so this is on the house. Next time will be standard rates. I've never done this before and probably never will again, but I've enjoyed it."
"If you've enjoyed it, why don't you want to continue?"
Dave gave a wry laugh. "If I started to do it for free with someone, it would mean I was getting into a relationship with them. And that wouldn't be compatible with my lifestyle. So I just stick with my own set of rules. Business is business."
"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Jonathan felt his eyes stinging. He really had thought that he had found the one.
"Listen, Jonnie, the night's not yet over, it's still your birthday. You're the first and only person to have had a freebie off me. Make the most of it, mate. Afterwards, you can always come back, and I'll make you just as welcome - only you'll have to pay."
Jonathan sighed. Dave was right. So what if this had turned out to be just another one-night stand. Dave was a fun guy to be with, and a great lover, so he should just make sure he got the best out of what remained of the night. He lay back down next to Dave and cuddled up to him.
"Come on mate, let's get into bed. It's warmer and a damn site more comfortable." Jonathan agreed and they retired to the bedroom for the rest of the night.
End of the first part. More to come, so please let me know what you think.