Milford Track


This story is posted for the exclusive enjoyment of readers of the Nifty Archive. While you are free to make a personal copy, no copy of this manuscript may be published, copied, posted to another web site, or otherwise disseminated without express permission from the author.

The contents of this story are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts which may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should not read further.


I found the ad in the "massage" section of the daily paper I'd picked up at the check-in desk of the hotel in Christchurch. "Male-to-male, in or out, call . . . )

I didn't want a massage. I wanted a date, a nice dinner, a gentle seduction, a loving pair of arms, the gentle snore of a man next to me, the best sleeping tablet ever invented. I wasn't particularly concerned about the cost. After all, I had several thousand American Dollars in Travelers Cheques, and a wad of New Zealand paper money, converted from Sterling at the bank down the street.

I know - you don't find soft hearts in hard-hearted business bodies . . .but maybe a good actor would do. I also have this huge problem sleeping. There's just too much of life for one lifetime, and sleep seems such a waste if you're alone.

When I was in college, I'd study until four in the morning, sleep a couple of hours, get up with the sun, or if possible a little before so as not to miss dawn, run a half hour or so, depending upon whether or not I had an early class, then shower and shave, head to the Union for breakfast, read the papers, study a little, and be at class five minutes early so as to have the best seat, halfway back on the right, where you had the best view of the board and the prof, as well as the view out the window in case the prof went off the deep end. You could admire the view, without turning your head too much away from the prof, who then thought you were quite possibly looking at him, listing to the drivel he was spouting.

Then I discovered . . . men. I plunged into that study, as soon as I found that it was actually quite pleasant to have someone wake you by massaging your morning erection with his tonsils.

My roommate came home very late from a date with his girlfriend, a very stacked but very virginal girl from the Women's College across town.

Ben had to walk home, after dropping Gina at her sorority around midnight, and it took him three pubs and an after-hours place to make the trek. It was probably around four thirty when he came in the room. The dorms were always overheated at night, frigid in day, so I had apparently thrown off my blanket and sheet, and my favorite toy was trying to touch the ceiling.

I guess Ben had had just enough to drink to say, "What the Hell, gotta try everything once."

I woke about two milliseconds before the most addictive drug of all -- a mind-blowing, eye-scrunching orgasm. When you're nineteen and still a virgin, technically (I'd been pounding pud long enough and well enough to have an MBA in Masturbatory Sciences, but my joy was until then solitary).

After that, Ben and I swapped a lot more than crib notes. But it was just a physical thing, nothing romantic or anything. (The only time we kissed was at his bachelor party, and I was drunk.) He'd take my dick in his mouth before he said "hello" when he got back from class, if I happened to be laying nude on the bed with an erection. I think I had a permanent one then. He did, too, and it was the most natural thing in the world to return the immense favor he was doing me every night, day, noon and morning. I rather liked the taste of him, after the first few tries.

It's like scotch -- whiskey is only tolerable the third or fourth time you have it., and just gets better from there on.

I managed to score at least one other guy a week, in addition to Ben, but he was my main man. I liked his technique better than all the other guys but one - an American kid from the state of Tennessee who had a full set of false teeth, following some kind of accident in a car. Wow, that was something!

But then there was graduation, and Ben's marriage only a couple of weeks later, and I was his Best Man. His brother-in-law, Robert, was even cuter than Ben, and just a year younger, so I didn't do any cradle-robbing. Nothing happened then, of course.

Next I met Robert, more than a year later, we were in queue for the cloakroom at this gay club off New Bond Street. I thought it was going to be a quickie after Napoleon's, back at my cottage in Tite street. (There was a house down the street on the same side that had a blue oval plaque that said Oscar Wilde once lived there.)

He moved in with me as soon as we determined that my penis was a perfect fit for his butt, and we had a deeply romantic affair for six years. That was when I lost my insomnia, except when he was out of town. We would make madly passionate love, then relax into tender, loving cuddling, and I would fall asleep as soon as he started his deep breathing. Never failed. I was making lots of money on the Exchange, and he was doing pretty well in the Retail trade.

Then he got the job with The Airline, and everything went to hell in a handbasket. He'd be gone for three days, or a week, or even an eighteen-day monster to Perth, Adelaide, Sydney, Adelaide, Sydney, Auckland, Sydney, Hong Kong, London, and I would be a quivering mass of jelly at his return. No sleep. Just could not get the eyes to shut for more than a couple of hours, instead of the eight we usually enjoyed. It dawned on me that I was really, totally in love with him.

It finally got to the point that I had to tell him I needed him with me, I missed him more than I could bear, and that he would have to choose between me and flying, because I could not go on.

He chose the Airline.

So, as a rational man faced with the diverging instincts of "fight" or "flight," I fled. I had a good friend in the travel industry that booked me a flight to Auckland (not on The Airline, of course) hotel and motel vouchers, rental cars, the whole thing, completely flexible. I took a two-month leave from the firm, and flew Business Class all the way to Auckland, arriving tipsy but upright. The first day and a half I recovered from the jet lag, thanks to a bottle of Halcion and a half-litre of Black Label.

I had always wanted to tour the South Island, then even do the Milford Track, one of the world's great trails. My plan was to pick up the car in Christchurch, drive the perimeter of the Island to Milford sound, then take a shuttle to the head of the Track. The rest of the trip was open. Perhaps Cairns, for the Great Barrier Reef, Bali, Bangkok, or Singapore, or Hong Kong, then home.

My car was ready at the airport. A little thing, but lots of pep, and easy to park. There was just me and a few bags, so no big deal. I checked into the hotel, and picked up the paper . . .

The voice that answered the telephone was rich, masculine, vibrant: "2137," it said.

"Hello," was my charming opening line. "I found your advertisement in the paper, and wondered if you might be free tonight."

"I could be," the voice said.

"I just got in from London, and I need a long massage to help me sleep."

"What kind of massage?"

"Anything, really. At least to start. Then I need . . . " and I explained the problem. "Would you consider it?"

"No sex?"

"Not in the job offer," I said.

"Where are you?"

I gave him the address from the room service menu, and he agreed to be there at six, for an early dinner and then a massage. I showered and shaved, threw on a white pullover and a camel blazer, a pair of dark brown trousers, and mahogany loafers (I only brought those and a black pair in addition to hiking boots and runners), then awaited his arrival, reading a little about the Track.

He arrived at exactly six. A good sign. I like promptness in a guy.

I opened the door, and got a surprise. He looked like a masseur. Athletic body, big hands, under an attractive but not pretty or handsome face. Somebody you'd be fine to be seen with, not getting stares all night because he was either too pretty and obviously gay, or too handsome, and probably gay, but in both cases obviously "rent" because he was with this guy who was neither young nor particularly handsome, although well-built and in shape, with fairly good economic standing.

Except he was a masseur who dressed well, casually, not at all flashy, just right. He looked perfect. Dark brown hair, the mahogany of my shoes, brown eyes, thin and tanned skin over a strong bone structure, wide features, a farmer's look, but sophisticated. Freckles on his nose and cheeks. Dark blue blazer with soft white shirt, grey trousers, black loafers and a watch but no rings or bracelets or earring.

"Hello, I'm Stuart," he said holding out his hand. A nice smile, a firm handshake.

"Hello! David Blaine," I said. "Come on in." I turned and led the way into the smallish lounge, with the bedroom off to the right. "Drink?"

"Just mineral water for now," he said, putting his large attaché case on the floor next to the bedroom door. "Nice room."

"Yes, I was surprised to see it when I checked in," I said. "My travel agent did all the bookings, and I told him moderate priced decent rooms, so I expected something more like a closet."

"You're older than your voice," he said. "But a lot younger than I expected."

"I'm not sure if that's good or bad," I said, handing him a glass with the bottle from the minibar. I put ice in, as I had seen that New Zealanders on the North Island invariably took their drinks à la the Americans: more ice than beverage. "You're better than I feared."

"It's neither. Just is," he said pouring the water while I made a light whiskey. "What did you fear?"

"Someone who looked like a hustler," I said, tipping my glass in his direction. "I'm not into ragamuffins or throwaways, and I like men close to my own age."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-one next month," I said. No point in being dishonest. "You?"

"Twenty-eight for the trade, thirty-two for the passport," he said easily.

I got the impression he was trying to gauge my reaction. My only reaction was to take a sip of my drink, then tell him my tentative plans for the evening. A quiet dinner near the harbour, as I had a hankering for whitebait and a decent piece of rock lobster, perhaps a drink somewhere pleasant, then back for a massage, and then the tough part of the job.

"I only sleep well when I'm . . . with someone," I said. "I don't have to have sex, but I need a good night's rest, at least tonight."

"Why tonight?"

"Well, . . . " I launched into my plans for the ten days I had alloted for the South Island, the circle tour along the coast, the drive across the southern route to Milford Sound, the trek on the Track from the Eastern side, which I had heard was the most breathtaking of all, then up the west coast, a chopper trip over the glacier, and so on. He made a few comments on the routing, told me about the hotel I remembered was booked for Milford Sound, the boat trip I was to take under the waterfall.

Somehow during all this, we also managed to finish our drink and drive to the restaurant he selected as pleasant, slightly but not overly up-scale, and having a good kitchen. The receptionist (or the woman maitresse d', I never quite know how to call them) took us to a table by the window, overlooking a small park. (He said the fish restaurants by the harbour were not as good.)

We talked about the Island, the city "Way small" he said, the scenery "eye candy is too crass." He was the first one who told me there were ten times as many sheep on South Island as people, that I should leave the camera in the bag so that I wouldn't miss anything.

I felt very comfortable with him, no pressure, no doubts of what the relationship was to be. (We had agreed a price of two hundred for the night, which I felt was exceptionally reasonable, as long as there was no sex. I gave him half the cash before we got out of the car.)

We ended up having a drink in the restaurant lounge, as it was a weeknight, and few places would be interesting. I told him specifically that I did not want to do a gay pubcrawl, not even one step. When we got back to the hotel, it was only nine o'clock, but the city seemed already to be asleep. He said something about rolling up the sidewalks at dusk.

"Why don't you undress, and I'll start that massage," he said. He picked up the attaché case and took it into the bedroom.

I followed, with a nitecap for me (he demurred), and set it on the night stand, then undressed without ado. He was undressing as well, and I couldn't help admiring his mature and muscled physique.

"You must work out a great deal," I said. "You've almost no body fat." As far as I could see, he had none at all. Chiseled, he was.

"It's partly heredity, partly exercise, partly diet," he said. "You probably noticed I ate only fish and vegetables, and drank only one glass of wine." He took off his underwear, but I looked away. I assumed he was going to put on gym shorts, or something.

"I figured you were trying to get me tipsy," I said. "Make sure I was manageable if I got ugly." I busied myself hanging things in the wardrobe.

"Not a worry," he said. "I know people pretty well, up front." When I turned, he was naked as a jay. His sex hung low and well, and his form was quite beautiful. A modest tan line, smooth skin with hair only on his chest, golden brown, and a narrow trail to his pubic area, darker brown, but not the same mahogany as his hair, slightly redder.

"You needn't do that," I said. "I was quite serious."

He actually blushed. "I'm sorry. I've had one of these 'no sex, please, we're British' customers before. He was definitely fibbing."

"I'm not," I said. "I never lie. You are attractive, but I want to sleep, not make babies. If I wanted a . . . " I paused. I almost said 'whore' . . . "sexcapade, I would have told you that up front."

"Well," he said, I've not brought my massage outfit, so we'll have to do with these." He pulled on his y-fronts and singlet, neither of which was in the slightest bit effective in hiding his treasure.

"Where do you want me?" I said, indicating the bed.

"On your stomach to start with," he said. "I need a bath sheet under you to absorb any oil." He fetched one from the bath, and draped it down the centre of the bed. "You, unlike me, need to be naked."

I took off my T-shirt and Boxers, and got on the towel, front down, my face tilted on the pillow he placed under my neck.

For a solid hour, he massaged me back and front, and it was heaven. He knew what he was doing - I learned that he trained as a physical therapist, then went to a professional sports massage school. We talked lightly, easily.

Naturally, there was one embarrassing moment when my body became erect, but he handled it well. "Shall I take you at your word?" he said, gripping me lightly. "It's quite a nice example, and it would be a pleasure to relieve any tension there."

I said something absolutely stupid. "It's just an erection. Ignore it. Or if you know how, do that thing they do in hospitals to make them go down."

"You'd rather have blue balls," he said. "It hurts!"

"Suit yourself," I said.

My penis betrayed me. It refused to soften, no matter what I thought of. Stuart was pretty good, though. He completed the massage and threw a towel over my loins, creating a circus tent.

"You have remarkable staying power," he said, putting away his lotions, going into the bath.

"My lover said I was a satyr," I said lightly. "It takes me a long time to get off unless I'm very, very excited."

"Okay, he called from the bath. "Into the shower."

"After that?" I protested, but lifted myself off the bath sheet. "It will wake me, not relax me."

"Not this shower," he said. I heard the shower begin to flow. "Come on."

I went in, and he was nude again, towel on the floor in front of the shower, and also on the warming rack. Thank god, the hotel provided lots of towels.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," I said. His dick looked a little bigger than when I had first seen it. A little longer, a little more angled.

"Don't worry, I'm just going to finish the massage," he said. "In you go." He sort of pulled me and pushed me into the spray. It was just the right temperature. He got in behind me.

"Now, face the front," he said. "Get your hair wet, and your back a little as well."

I did as I was told, brushing lightly against him with my butt as I leaned forward. When I straightened, he put his hands on my head and began to massage there as well, and the smell of the shampoo he had applied to his hands was of almonds and honey. It was wonderful. Ten minutes of bliss, followed by a thorough soaping if my back, then he told me to turn 'round.

I was erect. So was he. I didn't see, because my eyes were closed against the shampoo. We had a one stroke sword-fight. I laughed. "I promise to send you home in the morning horny."

"Shut up and let me work," he said. There was a laugh in his voice, though.

He washed my front as well, quickly and thoroughly. Including my penis, but slightly roughly, not at all sexual. My balls were carefully cleansed, and the skin of my inside thighs. My legs were next, and I was afraid of poking him in the eye, but daren't look.

"May I have a taste?" he said.

"Of what?"

"Your juices," he said. "Pity to let it all go to waste. You're flowing like a faucet."

"It happens," I said. "But I do not want anything to go any farther. Just a taste."

The head of my dick was engulfed in his mouth the instant I said 'taste,' and I felt the suction of his mouth drawing my fluids. It felt fabulous. But I wanted no more, and I pulled back after a few seconds.

"Nice," he said. "Sweet."

"Thank you. Now, I think, we should rinse and take to bed. I want to sleep six hours."

"You're serious, aren't you?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Okay, rinse off and get out of the shower."

I rinsed, keeping my eyes closed, turning under the showerhead. Every time I turned, my dick encountered his, as hard as mine. We traded places as he rinsed, and my dick seemed to be in contact with his skin more oft than not. The crack of his butt seemed particularly prone to catching me in its embrace. I have to admit, I was getting a little turned on.

He shut off the shower, and stepped out in front of me, lifting a towel to welcome me. I stepped into it, and he briskly rubbed me, all over, drying me thoroughly, and at the same time bring the blood to my skin. I tingled all over.

While he dried himself, I quickly brushed my teeth, and left him in the bath whilst I shut the light, then opened the bed and got in, on the left side. I heard the toilet flush, then the water in the sink, the sound of my toothbrush clinking against the sink as he rinsed his mouth.

He shut the light in the bath as he came out, not before I had the chance to admire the "v" profile of his upper torso, the slim hips, the . .  .erection that remained.

"How do you want me to sleep?" he asked, crawling into bed next to me, facing me. I was on my back.

"We'll start with you snuggled into my shoulder," I said, your right leg over mine, your arm across my chest. We'll probably end up in a spoon, your back to me, my arms around you."

He took up the position, and I put my left hand on his arm, just lightly, to feel it there. His leg was just under my balls, and light as a feather. His erection was against my thigh, and it pleased me that I did that for him.

"Night, Stuart," I whispered, and brushed my lips across his forehead. "Sleep well."

"Night, David," he whispered, his lips on my breast.

I slept immediately. I was vaguely conscious of him turning on to his back, and I followed, and we rolled into the spoon. I think I was a little erect still, because I felt my dick slip between his legs. I went back into my deep and satisfying sleep.

"David!" I dreamed I was at the breakfast table, and my Mother was trying to get me to eat my porridge, which I rather liked, but was determined to get a reward for eating.


I woke with a slight start. I remembered immediately where I was. Stuart was in my arms, held close to me, and he felt soft and warm. My dick was a steel bar between his legs.

"What Stuart?" I asked innocently.

"I can't sleep."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm so horny I can't think," he said. "Couldn't we just . . ."

"I'd have thought you had more than enough of that," I said

"Not in a week," he said. "Most of my clients are . . . passive oral. Or just want a wank. I haven't slept with a man in months. No, years."

"Really?" I said. But I knew he wasn't lying. It had the deep ring of truth.

"Couldn't we just bend the rule, just so I can get some sleep?"

"I don't do prophylactics," I said. "If I do a guy, he gets my seed."

"Are you . . . ?"

"I get tested every six months. I haven't slept with a man other than my just-departed lover in five years. You?"

"I've never let a guy into me without a rubber, and I get the test every three months. It's been a year"


"I want to sleep with you," he said.

I rolled him to me, and whispered into his ear. "I will make love to you, my love, until you can."

He rolled further towards me, and our lips met, the sweet lips of this immeasurably attractive man inviting me into his mouth, into his soul and body.

Our erections were pressed into our bellies, as we writhed in anticipation of our mating, as our breathing increased as if we were running.

He rolled me on top of him, and spread his legs slightly so mine fit between his, my dick now massaging his balls and the underside of his dick.

"Oh, God, David, that is so wonderful!" he said as I moved my tongue down that tiny golden trail, circled around his navel, there encountering his sweet liquid for the first time. His dick fairly leapt into my lips as I breathed on the tip, and his entire body shivered as I took perhaps half of his 22 centimetres into my mouth, the thickness of it a little more than I was able to get into my throat, especially at this angle.

My hands were busy with his tits and his balls, my little finger on his rosebud, gently massaging it, letting it know that it would soon be a major participant in the mating of its master. The lips opened to me, only slightly, and my fingertip was inside the outer coil, pushing ever so lightly against the ring of muscle. His dick throbbed in my mouth, begging for release, but I held it still, massaging only with tongue and throat muscles, savouring the sweet syrup pouring forth.

My middle finger replaced its brother, and was welcomed into him with a moan from his upper body and a further opening of the lips, and the tip passed through to the soft velvet of his most private place, searching, pushing farther into the cave in quest of the spot he could not control.

A sudden quiver of his loins told me I had found the measure, and I recorded the distance for later transit, even as a second brother digit began to press at one side of the entrance. It would not be an easy entry for my member. Though not as thick as Stuart, it is not far behind, and the ring of his sphincter was too tight for the second digit to enter until I wet it thoroughly with the juices he was pumping into my mouth, where I kept it in reserve for the needs of the coming moments.

I took the opportunity to wet the third finger as well, as there was no way I would try to enter that Vise until it was ready. He moaned and said something, but my ears were roaring with blood, and I was too busy to stop and listen. I drew more syrup from him, then felt the telltale signs of impending climax under my fingertip, so I let him out of my mouth, and ran my stubble over the underside of his manhood to take away the threat for a moment, pulling my finger out with a snap. This also was to distract him as I moved the tips of my three fingers into him, slowly, smoothly, imperceptibly.

I pooled some of his syrup in his navel, ready for the next phase, and gratefully swallowed the remainder, so quenching of the fires in my belly, but only for a moment.

The ring of his butt was fooled only for a moment, and I felt it go towards contraction, which would cause him pain, so I removed one of the digits and massaged carefully the almost-cramping muscle back into docility. On the next try, I got the third finger in up to the first digit, before the cramping almost began, and I repeated the manoeuvre seven or eight times, until I was finally able to get all three fingers into him as far as the third knuckle.

Whilst this was happening below decks, I was nibbling his tiny nipples, his Adam's apple, his lips, his eyelids. He was moaning constantly now, occasionally grunting, but with lust, not pain.

"Are you ready?" I whispered in his right ear as I removed my fingers, leaving a void he was now going to want filled, and as quickly as possible.

"Oh. God, yes!" he hissed, as his legs moved farther up my torso, his butt lifted up farther from the bed. I was not going to need to push his legs back, his rosebud was at a perfectly acceptable angle for the landing sequence to begin. My hand searched for and found the little reserve of "lubrifiant" and coated my member towards the base. The head was already fully prepared from my own syrup, now flowing in full stream.

The head of my dick introduced itself to its counterpart in the coupling, and smeared it more with syrup, to ease the path for the invader, now at the portal, now pushing lightly against the ring of muscle. The ring was expecting only the three digits, unaware, relaxed, inviting.

I covered his mouth with mine, and sucked great volumes of air from his lungs as my dick made first contact, and he shuddered, began to blow out with me, cooperating in the exchange of breath, his lower body relaxing as his diaphragm pushed down.

The head of my dick popped past the ring of muscle, and the mating had begun. He opened his eyes with a snap of surprise, recognizing that I was inside, no longer outside, surprised that there had been no pain at all. His eyes focused on mine as I withdrew from his mouth, allowing him to gasp in pure fresh air to replace what I had sucked from him.

"Wow!" he said. "That's good."

"We're good together," I said. "The fit is fine."

"More," he said, pulling my mouth back to his.

I put my right hand under his butt to improve the angle, made sure his dick was pressed between our bodies, lubricated by the syrup I had smeared over him, as I sank slowly and smoothly into him. I felt the prostate, right where I had expected, and moved his butt a little higher, so that it was directly in the line of penetration.

I reached the second, softer ring within him, and gradually lubricated it, with tiny fucking motions to milk from me a little more lube, and moving forward a little, felt it close around the head of me. I moved in a little bit more, and was stopped by the base of my dick, now flush with his butt.

His kiss was urgent, his breathing labored, as he made little hunching motions against me, trying to help in the progress of my dick, assuring me that he was enjoying, not tolerating the coupling we were accomplishing.

"David, David," he said when I went to kiss his nose, "This is something."

I kissed his eyes, his nose, his lips, and began the slow thrusting which I could maintain for as long as an hour, should need be, and he moaned his pleasure, pulled me in on the downwards plunge, not just with his hands, but with his diaphragm, relaxing his ring, then tightening it on the up stroke, pulling my blood towards the tip of my dick, making the corona flare out so much that it could not pass through his sphincter without great force, trapping the beloved invader within.

His dick was being slowly fucked between us, as he moved his belly against me. Just as my dick was passing from prostate to inner ring, his was being pushed into my upper belly, and his moans became gradually longer in duration, lower in tone.

His hands flew over my back and sides, then one sought out my sac, rolling it between his fingers gently, as if he could encourage more of my seed to stand at the gates, ready to march into his inner recesses. But the barrels were full. I had not had a climax inside a man's body since Robert, and every reservoir was filled to the point that they overflowed every other night or so.

I increased the speed of my thrusts slightly, as I felt the first signs of tension in his legs, and looking down, saw the head of his dick, an angry pink, the skin of the glans as smooth as glass, signalling his readiness.

"David, I'm going to come soon," he whispered in my ear. "This is the most . . . don't let it stop . . . oh god it's so good . . ."

I sealed his mouth for the count, and increased the tempo a little more, and plunging just a little farther into him, the head of my dick getting a rich laving by the little cavern behind the rectum. I let my climax more room to grow, opening the cage door just a little. My strokes were now full length, and his moans began the upward climb to the keening of climax, his muscles began their coiling, writhing, ready to . . .

"Aaiieee," he crooned in my mouth, and his intestines grasped me in a vise like I hadn't felt since I took a young guy from Belgium, years ago. My plunging slowed, as I felt the first volley of his cum lance between us, and my cliimax hit. I yelled into his mouth as my muscle contracted under his fingers, and the first rush of semen was exploded through my dick and into his deepest recess, the head penetrating the inner ring just as it fired into him.

He launched another volley, and because I was at a different angle, the head was free, and there was the splat under my chin that told me his aim was good, that his orgasm was better. Seldom have I seen a second shot go so far. His heels beat on the small of my back, his ass muscles trembled around me, as a second shot followed my first, then a slightly weaker third, fourth and fifth, then the flowing began, when my climax is in the deepest phase. I was filling him with the seed of weeks and weeks of economy, and I felt it flowing even as he finished, as his muscles relaxed, my dick head going in just a tiny bit further.

I let my weight press down on him, as his hands went round me, and moved my lips to his temple, his ear. I whispered of the love I felt we had shared, the great pleasure he had brought me, the beauty of his body and his kisses, the joy I had in bringing him to fruition. Words, just words, but so important that the beloved hear them, even if he is to be beloved but a few hours, a few days,  weeks or months.

He knew this too, and told me how I had pleasured him, how the anticipation had been building since he first saw me and wanted a little more than massage. How my eyes sparkled in the candlelight, how my voice brought my plans to life, made the tour sound so very special. How he began to wish  . . .

He ran his fingers lightly over my back, sending ripples of pleasure through me, and we rolled to one side, his right leg lifting over me so he was almost side saddle on me. I was still hard, of course. It sometimes takes an hour to go soft, especially inside him like that, the blood trapped by his sphincter.

We lay like lovers, caressing, touching, whispering things I no longer wish to share. I pulled the covers over us, and we continued like that until sleep overtook us both, the peace of loving companionship overcoming all else, even the dawn. We slept thus entangled, still joined by my penis, until far into the morning, when we woke to the morrow with our plans thrown asunder, our passions reborn, and our loving only just beginning.