Date: Wed, 22 Dec 2010 22:07:04 +0800
From: Marten Weber <webmarten@gmail.com>
Subject: A Christmas Intern

A Christmas Intern

(c) 2010 by Marten Weber

(mmf)



Paavo had been my intern, a year back exactly, in our office in Sydney,
in a hot Australian summer, in the boiling city and in the stifling
office, on the white beaches and in the Blue Mountains. We had become
friends, if somewhat tortured, and by taking two or three wrong turns,
now I was back in the snow, and freezing, and waiting for him to show
up. So hot, very, very hot: not an overly muscular or model type, but
with a supple, slender young body and an open, smiling, youthful and
kind face, always happy, always eager, friendly and welcoming. Smart
too, adorable, the type you see, and hear talk, and watch move, and fall
in love with, on the spot, and relentlessly, if you are so inclined.

We got along wonderfully during his two-month stint; except for one
little thing: I tried to seduce him, and made it clear--too clear--I had
the hots for him. As straight men tend to when their anal honor is at
stake, he in turn had made it clear I didn't stand a chance, not now,
not ever.
We had gone for a drink in a pub, and he had talked about his
girlfriend--to punish me for making a pass at him, to protect himself,
and, probably without realizing it, boring me senseless over the course
of an evening and far too many flat beers. But he was cute, and smart,
and good company: a decent, intelligent bloke; so I suppressed my urges,
and tried to be his friend, without giving in to the hopeless
attraction, or setting myself up for more pain than I could handle.
After his internship he had returned to his studies, now completed them,
and over Facebook, we had arranged to meet.
So here I was, in the snow of Finland, outside the town hall, looking at
the church across the street, and wondering how people lived here, and
worked here, year-in, year-out, instead of just moving away and seeking
the sun. Drank themselves to death, or raised reindeer I suppose.
When the streetcar stopped, and only two people got out, I knew I was in
trouble. He had agreed to meet, but cowed by my open interest in him, he
had brought protection. There was a woman on his arm: young, blond,
smiling--just the same kind and open personality. I saw that at once, as
she reached out to shake my hand. Her offered limb I took politely,
somewhat shy and at a distance, but him, immediately I reeled in and
hugged him tightly, to show her--how dare she come along and right
between us!--how close we had been--in my mind. My feeble mind. My
irrational, childish, romantic mind. But here it goes: you punish me, I
punish you. You are lucky I don't kiss you on the cheek in front of your
woman, or grab your balls. But I have learned my lesson.
What a night I had ahead of me, I thought then: dinner with a young
straight couple, too much alcohol, making a fool of myself again,
probably another pass at him, because he vexed me so with his short hair
and long, thin face, and his small, pouting mouth, and the strawberry
lips, the freckles, and the bright blue, shining eyes. He knew well the
power he had over other men, at least men like me. He was the
incarnation of light-limbed, healthy cheer and youthfulness. With her
there, I would be blase again: forced to watch them hold hands, exchange
loving glances, and kiss each other, and...
--So, Paavo tells me you fancy him!
How's that for an opening? I was startled by her frank comment as we
entered the restaurant, but more startled by the fact that he had even
told her. He had been such an arse-shy man, so afraid of gay stuff, at
the time when he'd been my intern, I had been sure he would never tell a
soul that I had propositioned him. That I, totally inappropriate as his
superior, had come on to him, again and again, during the first week in
the sun. Obviously, a year back home had changed him.
I looked him up and down, and now I saw it, in his gaze, his posture: he
was more confident. The difference was subtle, but he'd grown up. He was
a man now.
--Yes, and I still do, I said. I mean, who wouldn't, I added, turning to
her.
She nodded.
--I fully understand. He is sweet, isn't he? So handsome!
She took his arm and pulled him closer, as if to say,
--Yeah, queer guy, and he is mine!
Fuck yeah, he is attractive, and that's what I will have to put up with
all evening. Her cooing and moaning, telling me how smart and lovely
Paavo was; and how good in bed, probably. If she mentions his cock, I'll
slap her.

We ordered food, plenty--too much in fact for three people, but Thai
menus always get the better of me. I made it clear as they were students
still, that it would be my treat tonight. The wine came, and we toasted.
I gave them a quick report on how things stood at the firm, Down Under,
how we wished we had an intern again, one like Paavo, so smart and
well-educated, with such a winning personality, and so good at what he
did. He blushed a little, and I claimed victory.
Then the moon cakes arrived, and the green papaya salad, and he told me
of his studies, his uni affairs, and his love life, in very decent, very
bloke-to-bloke, matter-of-fact words, saying how he had known, upon his
return from Australia, that she was the girl for him. There it was--the
first sickeningly sweet exchange of endearing glances. Oh what a lovely
couple! Oh miserable me! They'd moved in together, and they were
thinking of marrying, only they both detested the idea of giving in to
conservative society and pandering to such an idiotic, outdated,
Judeo-Christian form of female bondage. Her words, not mine.
I made a joke, and told them to each marry a same-sex partner instead,
then live together in sin, thereby expressing their disdain for
tradition, and we talked, quite unembarrassed for a while, and found
ourselves agreeing that the strife for gay marriage was rather ludicrous
in our eyes. Why would you aspire to such a blatantly feudal and stupid
form of existence--marriage? We shouldn't aim for equal marriage rights,
but fight to abolish the concept completely. And yet, as we drank, and
talked ourselves into a revolutionary, world-changing fervor, I was
somehow sure that if I were to return in two or three years time, I
would find them each with a ring on their finger, and her with a baby on
her arm. Or probably him. They would reduce their anger at the world
into a symbolic fight: he would carry the baby, and she would drive, and
tell him to change the nappies. He would take a year off work and care
for the offspring, maybe stay home for good, and learn to iron. I could
imagine him in that role. They would live out, convinced of their own
revolutionary credentials, the sort of gender equality we wouldn't need,
if we hadn't such stupid institutions as marriage in the first place.
We spoke then of politics, the EU bureaucracy, American imperialism and
the crumbling Russian state, but the wine mellowed us, and by the time
the steamed lemon fish came, we weren't revolutionaries anymore, and
instead, we talked about sex. That is, she and I talked about sex--for
obvious reason he didn't join the discourse. She had a million questions
about what gay guys did with each other, implicitly asking, of course, I
quickly realized, what I would have done with her Paavo, if my seduction
had worked. While I talked, in very general but pornographic terms I
could feel her growing excitement. She was getting perceptibly wet,
somehow, and moist between the words--her whole body seemed to ooze
randiness and readiness. She radiated desire. He was quiet, and
pretended not to listen.
His face was flushed more from the wine and savory food than from
embarrassment. He looked at the waitress instead, to affirm his
virility, to extract himself from the talk about male-only sex, and made
sure, when someone passed--by coughing loudly--that my descriptions of
mutual fellatio and throbbing members weren't overheard. Grown up, yes;
more mature, yes, but still embarrassed: I loved him anew, the moment I
saw how uneasy he was with the subject. At last, when she spoke of her
parents--a liberal couple who'd always been an example for her--he lowered
his guard; perhaps felt the crisis was over. Eventually, he got up and
excused himself.
When he stood for a moment, asking the passing waiter the way to the
toilet, I saw the bulge in his pants. Curious.
Even more astonishing: the moment he was gone, had disappeared behind a
mauve bead curtain, she had her foot in my groin.
I was as surprised as you are reading this. I sat there, wine glass in
my hand, and suddenly felt her foot pressing against my rigid cock.
Rigid, because I had just told her about sucking same--imagining of
course doing it to Paavo--and rigid because, well, because I was in his
presence, and a year of separation, and all the snow of Helsinki
couldn't diminish my arousal when I looked at his handsome face, and
heard him speak, and saw his puny pectorals move under his pullover.
Oh fuck, girl, what are you trying to do? You trying to kill me? I am
gay. Leave off it!
I leaned forward to speak to her, tell her she didn't stand a chance
with me, that I was queer, 100%, as gay as they come Down Under, that my
cock was hard because of her delicious boyfriend, not because of her
pert breasts and long, blond hair, or thick, luscious lips. But she did
the same: leaned forward, and met me in the center of the table, her
foot now on the ground again, but under the table, her hand touching my
knee. I felt the blood pound in my cock, and in my temples.
--Do you still want him? she said, as calm as could be, looking me
straight in the eye.
I swallowed, drooled a little maybe, trying to figure out what she was
on about, then finally nodded.
--I can get him for you.
I looked puzzled.
She spoke softly, looking about anxiously, to make sure we had privacy.
--I can make him do anything... Anything!
I wanted her to explain, ask her what she meant, make him do anything,
get him for me, but we both heard the restroom curtain go, and sensed
him approach. We moved away from each other, and in an involuntary
gesture of guilt, reached for the wine glasses and toasted our silent
pact, whose nature I still tried to decipher.
--Kyle has offered us drinks at his hotel, she said, when Paavo was back.
He heard her, and for a moment, he looked apprehensively at me. Closer
to my hotel meant closer to my bedroom; my bed; my naked male body. But
he took courage in her, put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her
closer, and kissed her, then, all man and in control, he said to her,
--Sure, sweetie, no problem.
Except that he almost choked on the `sweetie', and had to swallow hard
to clear his throat, and recover his poise. And yet...
We finished our drinks, paid, and walked--no, ran through the cold winter
air, clutching mufflers, I with my hands in my pockets deep against my
groin to keep them warm, across the wide street towards the main square,
where an enormous Christmas tree stood, lit up with a million lights,
draped with angels, stars and tiny wooden slays, painted in blue and
white: it was a magnificent view. People stood around the tree taking
pictures, and the sound of tiny bells tingling in the night wind drifted
about, dancing with pockets of whirling snow. Nowhere is Christmas as
beautiful as up here in the icy North.

We reached the side entrance of the hotel and an empty sofa by the
panoramic window in the bar. There was only one such setup, with three
places to sit, a table before us, and in front of it, a huge vista
through the window out to the big tree. It was a glorious spectacle.
She sat between us, as a barrier, but also, I imagined now, to direct
the scene. She had promised me Paavo on a plate--no, on his back, and I
was keen to watch her deliver him. Surely she could only fail. Hadn't I
tried myself for one lustful, disappointing antipodean summer? Yet
nonetheless, suddenly, I was interested in everything she did and said:
she, young and beautiful and slender, was the center of attention. Paavo
too noticed the change. When we ordered neither I nor he said anything.
It was only she who asked for a bottle of Calvados, and placed her left
hand on his knee, and her right hand on mine as she spoke. Paavo saw the
gesture, and flinched.
We sat and talked, and I watched her do her magic. For the first part of
the evening, over green curry and Pad Thai, she had been my enemy, an
obstacle, annoying to look at and boring to talk to. She was his girl,
and the bulwark that shielded that shy, straight man from my advances.
Not that I would have ever tried again, after what had happened Down Under.
Now, however, as we looked out over the white square, watched people in
heavy winter clothing, with hats and thick mittens, guiding children
over an icy patch, standing in awe before the big fir, pulling slays,
and playing with enormous dogs, balls of hair whirling and tumbling in
the snow, she was my friend, and suddenly so much older, more mature,
exquisitely beautiful in every gesture and movement. I found myself
mesmerized by her face, listened attentively as she spoke, was even a
little aroused, as I watched her play her game of female flirtation so
expertly. Oh she was good! She had me looking at her tits!
Oh god she was good! I have never observed so closely a woman play with
one--two--men, the way she did. We would start talking about the sparkling
tree before us, then Christmas, then Finland, then Lapland, the
reindeer, her love for England where she had studied, and which she
preferred for at least part of the year, and where she endeavored to
return, to find a place at a university lab in Cambridge. Talk of
biotech and her work led to the men she worked with, and how much more
open and less testosterone-driven they were, in England, compared to
here, or, I interjected, in Australia, I mean, just look at the sports
they play; and how, when I said there were certainly more gays in London
than in any other city in the world, relatively speaking, London having
turned into the gay mecca of the 21st century, she said, leading over
with nonchalance, and simultaneously curling Paavo's hair and stroking
my cheek, that she didn't believe there was such a thing as gay or
straight. With scientific verve, she explained that men were either
submissive or dominant, and preferred certain aspects of a body,
softness versus hardness, breasts versus pecs, and so on, but any
preference for gender was imaginary, a social construct, evolutionary
coding, but not a natural necessity. Heterosexuality, she went on to
explain, was not a natural state, it was a religious and economic
illusion, because men desire women as extensions of their own egos and
possessions, not intrinsically, as women. Men, she argued, with almost
ludicrous hyperbole, became hetero because they need breeding vessels
and trophy wives, home-makers and willing slaves. Without the economic
side of male-female relationships, there would be much more same sex
bonding experiments, buddies spending their lives together, women groups
instead of breeder nucleus families, non-gay and non-lesbian same-sex
couples, she said, challengingly, but not at all joking.
--Hetero is not in the DNA, it's in the wallet. And the bible.
Before we could object, before, that is, Paavo could disapprove, and in
the way straight men do, when they feel threatened, opine that clearly,
he, as a man, could not help himself, was only attracted to women,
naturally attracted to women, and that it was not imaginary, or
religious, or social, that attraction, and that he could never imagine
himself with a man--before all that could be said, before he had the
chance to open his mouth, she briefly grabbed his knee, his thigh, and
then his groin, but swerved about, then kissed me fully on the lips, and
said,
--I'd love to see two guys make out, it would be such a turn-on!
And again, she preempted him, when he shook his head, by turning
entirely to me, and saying,
--Especially with a hot guy like Kyle here. How did you gain all these
muscles?
She reached up at my bicep and squeezed it under my thin sweater. I
flexed it for her, and she yelped, purposely.
Then she began to humiliate her lover.
--Paavo here's got nothing like your guns. He's a weakling.
She squeezed his arm, and made it known by playful frowning that she
found him wanting. He withdrew, and blushed.
That was my signal. I came to his defense. Gallant knight, helpful
buddy. Can't let the women do that to us. What a charade!
--But he has a magnificent body. Not gym-built, but perfectly natural,
and harmonious.
--Harmonious?
She chuckled.
--So you did see him naked? she said, teasing, again grabbing him,
turning to him, kissing him.
--Can a body be harmonious? she asked.
--Sure, I said.
As if to affirm again his heterosexuality, he pulled her closer and they
kissed long and hard. I saw the bulge in his pants twitch twice.
--I've seen him almost naked, I said, drinking and putting the glass back
on the table. There were fewer people now around the tree. A layer of
fog came down over the city: the top angel was already shrouded in white
fluff.
--I saw him on the beach, when I taught him to surf.
--Oh yes, she said, extracting her blond hair from his tender embrace and
flirting with me again. He's told me about it, but I am sure you'll make
it sound more interesting. How did it happen?
She took my arm, and pressed it, smiling again as the muscles bulged.
--Do you have those thick veins running down the bicep?
I nodded, prepared to take my sweater off and sit there in my
undershirt. If she wanted me to.
She only giggled, and Paavo frowned.
--Sorry, she said, pulling me even closer. She reached for the Calvados
and took a mouthful; I did the same. Paavo, nervous, drank down a whole
glass in one.
--Now, go on! Tell me! How did my boy learn to surf?

So I told her. I spoke of the summer, the hot sun, the warmth, the beach
at Sydney, which now, in this Finland winter, in front of this Christmas
tree, seemed preposterously remote and far away. Like speaking of
another planet. And looking at the fur-coated frolickers in the snow, I
spoke of Paavo in skimpy swimming trunks on the beach at Manly, playing
frisbee, lying in the sun, oiling each other up. I told her in long and
winding sentences, and with my deepest, most seductive voice, how I had
enjoyed touching her boyfriend, rubbing the thick white sunscreen over
his elegant slender back, his spindly legs, how I had attempted, very
deliberately, to reach too close to his bum, and how he had tried to get
away from my intimate touches. She looked over to him as he blushed, and
kissed him, and said to me, not to him,
--Isn't he adorable when he blushes! There is nothing sweeter in the
world than a blushing man!
For some reason, I myself blushed when she said it. Maybe because she
had discovered my secret fetish. There she sat, flanked by two Rudolph
the reindeer, faces aglow in the dark hotel bar.
She'd referred to Paavo as `he' in his presence: that was the start. For
the rest of the evening indeed, he was a `he' and nothing more. It was
as if she and I, by the sharing of my Australian beach story, had become
an intimate item, sealed again with a Faustian pact, while he had turned
into an object, a mere thing we toyed with, but which we both adored and
loved.
I recounted to her how I had put him on a surfboard, day after day, and
at the beach told him how to move, how to balance, use his body weight,
and how I had taken every opportunity to touch him.
--He never mentioned any of this, she said, only that you taught him how
to surf.
--Yes I did, but I spent far too long on the dry beach, telling him he
had to rehearse his motions again and again, with me standing behind
him, touching his shoulders, his arms, his hands, fingers, as he gripped
the board; not, as straight blokes would, just telling him to move his
legs apart, but instead seizing them, pushing them and placing them in
the right stance, thereby stroking the fine blond hair on them at the
same time, until on the third day, he stepped away from the board,
clearly uncomfortable, and said abruptly,
--Look, I know you are enjoying this, feeling me up, but can you accept
that I am not gay, and stop touching me!
--Oh wow, she said, gasping, turning to her silent, red-faced lover. He
said that? He isn't usually that direct.
I was amazed at how she pulled it off. She didn't address him directly
anymore. Instead, she spoke to me, about him, in his presence, just as
if he weren't there.
--That wasn't nice of him, she said. He could have...
--To be honest, I was overdoing it. I got the message on day one, when I
told him I found him irresistible and he told me he was straight and
that was it. I should have let go then. Certainly, I didn't need to
fondle him on the dry sand for three days. One hour would have been
enough, and then throw him to the sharks. Let him figure it all out by
himself. Most blokes do, rather quickly. But...
--Well, she said condescendingly, but he is silly, isn't he, insisting on
being so straight when he has a hunk like you going after him. I am
surprised, to say the least, that he didn't let you have your way with
him. He is quite submissive, really.
Her last sentence hung in the air like the tinkling bells of the
Christmas tree. I looked at Paavo looking at me. The red in his cheeks
was now spreading over all his face and neck. Any minute I expected him
to stand up and leave. No straight man could bear to have his pride
assaulted like this by his woman. Being called weak and submissive in
front of a gay man, and one so openly interested in him. Surely, time to
put her in her place.
--Submissive, really? I said... Sexually? With you?
She took a long swallow from her glass, and then turned towards me,
twisting her whole body, and opening a button on her blouse. Her breasts
stood out, well-formed, hard, very much in my face.
--He is, yes. I can make him do anything, and he enjoys it. I only have to...
Someone passed behind us, the waiter probably, and she broke off the
sentence. I rubbed my crotch instinctively, only stopping when I saw how
he stared at it. If we overplayed our hand, I thought, he would bolt.
And I had to leave it to her. She was clearly the expert. He was her
toy. I had failed at seducing him, miserably so. Neither my sixpack, nor
my thighs, my big package, nor my cute arse had done anything for him,
back in the Sydney summer. But that was then. He was older now, more
mature, a man. If he blushed, it was not the childish blush of
embarrassment anymore. He didn't throw tantrums. He didn't sulk, or get
up and leave. Maybe, just maybe, he even enjoyed being objectified like
this, by her, in front of another man. He was different, for sure, and
he had had a whole year to regret missing the chance of a lifetime:
being with me. Well...
She turned to him, and while she did, spoke loudly back towards me,
--Here, I'll show you!
To him she said,
--Come here!
He moved closer, on command. I looked on, putting the glass down, mouth
agape.
She looked about briefly: we were the only people this side of the bar.
The sofa faced the glass window, so we were unobserved, except by the
angels on the Christmas tree. Slowly, she opened another button on her
blouse and said,
--Dig, boy.
Immediately, he buried his nose in her cleavage, sniffed and licked her.
She pulled her head back sighed, and let him caress her. After half a
minute, she said,
--Stop,
and he withdrew.
--You see? I trained him like a dog!
--Really? I said, realizing that she wasn't kidding. That this was not
something she--we--did here, this night, because of all the alcohol (a
bottle stood empty, and another had appeared from thin air) but that
indeed, in their relationship, she was the dominant one. She told him
what to do and when to do it; she controlled him. And that's why she had
promised me him, tonight. In a sudden flash, I realized that I would
have him. She had not been joking. That tonight, at last, I would see
his cock and arse, would touch them, would... I smiled broadly at her, and
she beamed back, seeing that at last, I understood. Briefly, I wondered
how I could have missed these signs a year back. Had he become
submissive in the past year, and not been so before? How can a man
change like this, in such a short time? He had grown up, and
become...someone else. Or had it taken a woman to bring out his sexual
nature? Had he refused to let it be uncovered by a man, this submissive
side?
--Let's go, she said, buttoning her blouse, and standing up, adjusting
her skirt. She waved for the waiter, who came with the bill. I signed
it. She carried the second Calvados bottle with little left in it,
played with it in her elegant, slender hands.
All the while, Paavo didn't say a single word. Instead he stood and
walked beside or behind her. As if the change from you to he had
silenced him, deprived him of his personality, put him in his place as
her lapdog, he followed us to the elevator--where she insisted on feeling
my pecs and guns again, while he looked away, embarrassed by her sexual
advances toward me, my physical presence--up the to the top floor and
into my junior suite.

Inside, before I could put down the key, and usher them in, considering
already how to arrange them comfortably in the small living room area,
she turned to me, pressed me against the inside of the door, and kissed
me full on the mouth. She stretched out her hand with the bottle in the
direction of her lover, and Paavo took it, standing there, holding it in
his limp arm, eyes to the floor. The change in him was so amazing and
abrupt, and the assault of her femininity on my hard body so sudden, her
alien scent in my nostrils so overpowering, my mind went blank for a
while. She ripped open my shirt, even tearing off a couple of buttons,
and when she had me bare-chested, she took a step back and said
appreciatively,
--Wow! Paavo wasn't kidding. You have a magnificent body! How much time
do you spend in the gym?
I was about to answer her, when she placed her mouth upon mine again,
and with a hand grabbed my crotch. My cock was rock hard. She broke the
kiss.
--Oh, and he wasn't kidding about that either.
I laughed.
--Surely, Paavo hasn't told you about the size of my cock. He's never...
I looked at the submissive boy I myself had failed to make submit. He
blushed. I knew in that instance that he had told her about me.
--He has? He has...
--He told me you had quite a package in your swimming trunks.
--What?
--He also told me he felt your cock on his bum when you instructed him on
the surf board. Pressing against his lower back.
I looked at him, flabbergasted. I expected him to protest, but he didn't
say a word.
--And he told me he has seen your cock in the shower. Half hard.
I swallowed. I had misjudged him, completely. He wasn't the dim-witted,
unobservant straight boy, at all. But why would he tell his girl such
things? As if guessing my doubt, she stopped licking my neck, my
pectorals, and my tits, and said,
--I made him tell me everything. I made him deal with it. He was quite
disturbed when he came back.
I wanted to say, `was he, but why? He's never acted disturbed with me,
why would he be disturbed if he made it so clear that men didn't
interested him,' but she had my left nipple between her teeth and
pulled, and with both her hands was rubbing my washboard, the hairy
trail down the center, and I lost my train of thought again. Without a
shred of shame or hesitation, she broke the touch abruptly and stepped
back, then reached for my fly, and pulled out my cock.
--Let me show you how submissive he is.
She made way for her lover and pulled him closer.
--Get on your knees, Paavo.
The handsome Finn fell forward on his knees.
--He's been wanting to do this for a year now.
She looked at me.
--He admitted fantasizing about you. After leaving. After he came back.
He was too shy and inexperienced when he was with you. And you are
quite...look at your body...! You are intimidatingly muscular--she stroked my
cheek--and handsome. But I showed him that it didn't matter. That labels
weren't important. That he should try what he wanted to try, and wonder
less about the consequences. That a man could have a go at another man's
cock once in a while, without losing his self-esteem.
--Has he tried with anyone else?
--No. I set it up once, but it didn't work out. He wanted only you, it
seems, in the end, because you were the first who made him think about
it. Maybe he is in love with you.
She said it so calmly, it took my breath away. Paavo lifted his head and
opened his mouth to speak in protest. She raised a finger.
--Not a word from you, boy. Suck his cock! Now!
And then she pushed him onto my rigid prick, and he swallowed me in one
big gulp. I felt a tingling in my nape, and lost my wits for a second,
and my orientation. I didn't know where I was, and felt only the tip of
my cock, sliding down a wet chute.
I had him.
I had wanted him so badly back on the beach. In my apartment, where he
had come for drinks. In the bars and clubs I had taken him to. In the
office, every day, every hour. I had rearranged the whole layout so he
could sit closer, so I could watch him, unobserved, every working day. I
had taken him under my wing, even after he had made his position clear,
and not let him out of my sight. I had told a girl he had picked up to
piss off, and that he was mine. I had ruined two other dates for him in
Sydney, reminding him that he had a girlfriend back home. I had been
selfish and mean, and utterly devastated when he had left. I had seen
him off to the airport, called in sick, and cried for a day and a half.
I had pined for him badly for a whole year, chiding myself that with all
my looks and self-confidence, I had fallen for such an impossibly
straight, weak, remote boy, who could never be mine. And still longing
for him, unable to rid myself of the image of his pale body on the
surfboard, falling again and again into the violent waves of the
Australian waters. Saving him twice, when he lost his strength, and
pulling him ashore. We were never closer than when I saved him from
drowning.
And there he was, before me, on his knees, strawberry lips ajar, face
red now, not from shame but from my boner poking down his throat,
tickling his tonsils, making him gag. Maybe he thought he owed me. Maybe
he wanted me, because I had saved his life twice. Maybe the bond between
us was not sexual, yet one of dominant and submissive male, the sub
ready to do things that were not in his nature, but which he wanted to
do, showing gratitude, and his vulnerable self, to the alpha male who...
My head swam with all this nonsense and fruitless thoughts. He was good,
took my cock deep, and willingly impaled himself again and again,
suppressing all the usual reflexes. In between he looked at her, maybe
wishing to be released--maybe the opposite. Her hand disappeared under
her skirt. In perfect silence, only the slurping of her boyfriend's
mouth on my cock audible in the room, she looked on. When I pulled out,
Paavo held his first cock in his fist, and looked at it as if examining
an alien species. The tip of his tongue came out to try my slit, work
its way around my head, and around the rim, then up and down the shaft.
He took my balls in his mouth, and then once more the whole shaft, as
deep as he could manage.

Suddenly she knelt down beside him and began tenderly to stroke his hair.
--You happy now? That what you wanted? Is it all you thought it would be?
He nodded and I saw tears running down his cheeks. Or was it just the
deep-throating that made his eyes well up? He looked at me, pleadingly,
in total submission. To whom? Her? Me?
--You like it? I said, with as much tenderness in my voice as I could
manage.
He nodded. She asked him the same question, and he turned to her,
cock-in-mouth, and nodded again. Suddenly she became dominant again,
pushed his head back on my tool so deep he gagged violently as she shouted,
--Then suck on it, boy!

For a while, they both took me, and shared my thick cock between them.
For a while, on the floor before me, they became a loving couple,
experimenting, being courageous. I saw clearly that they were together,
of one mind. I saw also, in that instant, that any hopes that he might
be gay after all, and only had a difficult coming out, were unrealistic.
He did like her, love her, he was comfortable with her. Sucking cock was
a kinky act he had dreamed about since meeting me--maybe, very likely,
the first openly gay man he ever met. He had fantasized about these acts
as kinky sex, not because he wanted to fall in love with blokes. I saw
that in the playful interaction between them, how they passed each other
my organ, from hand to mouth, and mouth to mouth; how they kissed while
they fondled it, how their tongues met and danced over my glans. He was
not gay. He was just doing gay, now, two nights before Christmas,
fulfilling his little kinky fantasy, being forced to be queer, by the
woman he loved. The woman he fucked on all the other days of the week.
And would fuck, again, when I was gone. And would love, and fuck, and
marry, possibly, and stay with, forever.

Abruptly, again, the mood changed, and she pulled him away. She held
onto my cock, but ordered him to strip naked. We watched him undress
completely, and then instinctively--and I saw that they had done this
before--he knelt before her, naked on the floor. She took me by the hand
into the bedroom, leaving him there. On the way to the bed, I lost my
jeans, and for a while, we were alone and she feasted her eyes, and
fingertips, on my hard body. I stood before her like a god of iron.
--Wow, she said, tracing the V of my loins, how do you get such
definition? It's amazing! I've never seen such a cut V-shape. Such deep
muscles. You must...
--I am very active, I said, not the least bit ashamed. I am used to being
adored for my physique--and it's the climate in Australia. I am always
outdoors. Climbing, playing rugby, surfing, I am always... and running.
And of course the gym. I have my own gym at home...
--I have never seen such muscles. So perfectly hard and... You could model,
you know, for...
--I do. I mean, I did. And strip at hen's parties.
--You didn't!
--I did.
--Well, I believe you. You've got the body for it.
I smiled.
--There are some pictures of me, about on the Internet. With sunglasses
and... shirtless. Many, in fact.
She nodded, then knelt before me.
--I'd ask you to strip for me, she said, but you are already naked. My
flaccid cock hung before her. She took it in her mouth and sucked on it.
I had trouble getting hard with only her here, and I was terribly
nervous. But I enjoyed her even so. When I was back at full mast, she
shouted,
--Crawl in here, dog!
I looked on perplexed as Paavo, completely naked, shuffled into the room
on his knees, eyes to the floor. If he was embarrassed, it didn't show.
--Lick me, she commanded, and pulling her panties off, spread her legs to
give him access.
Still on all fours, he nuzzled his head into his mistress' groin and I
heard lapping sounds while she worked on my cock. It was the hottest
thing I had ever seen: the man I admired and adored, tall and sexy on
his surfboard, now submissive, treated like a sex slave, licking his
girlfriend on command. I had to tell her to stop or I would have shot my
load over her face. She understood the urgency, let go of me, and told
Paavo to back off too.
We panted, all three of us, and laughed at the shared feeling. She
pushed me back onto the bed, patted her boy on the head, then went to
the minibar in the living room. I heard the clinking of glass and a
bottle being unscrewed; then she came back with two drinks, and handed
me one. I took a small sip only--I did not want to get any more drunk
than I already was. She took a mouthful and bent down to her lover. They
shared the whiskey between them, and at the end of it, she slapped his
face lightly. He licked her breasts when she took off her blouse and
skirt, and hugged him, gently. I lay back, stroking my cock, watching
their rehearsed intimacy with burning jealousy. I was aroused, seeing
him in his role; and I was mad with anger, that after all he wasn't mine.
Suddenly she raised a finger and said `Stay!' to him, then crawled on
the bed, straddling me, and inserting my cock into her cunt, without any
foreplay. She rode me hard, and with a keen vulgarity screamed at me
over and over again to just fuck her!
Until that day, I had never penetrated a girl before, in my entire life.
It was fantastic: soft, moist, so different from a man's arse, my dick's
usual abode. I missed the hardness of the body, the clear lines, the
beard stubble, but I was aroused nonetheless and fucked her hard. It
occurred to me that I had so often exhorted curious men to try gay sex,
but that it had not once occurred to me to do the reverse.
Here I was, Mister Sydney Mardi Gras, shagging a sheila. Maybe she was
right, maybe gay and straight didn't exist. Only active and passive,
dominant and submissive, alpha male and all that shit. It occurred to me
that by insisting on being merely gay, and so openly provocatively,
since my teenage years, I had missed out on discovering the other side:
women weren't, after all, repulsive to me, or alien, just a little less
attractive. That attractiveness was greatly increased as she took
pleasure in my chiseled body, stroked it, touched it, explored my
muscles, licked my nipples and squeezed them with her fingers the way I
like it, then bit them, all the while bouncing up and down on my rod
like there was no tomorrow. She tossed her hair back and looked at her
dog, kneeling before the bed, staring at us with keen eyes.
--Are you watching? Are you watching baby? I am riding your hunky
boyfriend. He's got a bigger cock, and look at his muscles!
Paavo licked his lips.
--Are you watching baby? Are you watching his fat cock slide in and out
of my pussy? Come and lick his prick!
Paavo climbed onto the bed and tried to reach my cock with his tongue,
but there was too much flesh about, and her arse kept bumping into his
head. He slid off again, and resumed his kneeling position, watching us,
stroking his long cock. It wasn't much shorter than mine, in fact, but
considerably thinner. A lot more elegant: beautiful, like his whole body.
--Wait!
A sudden idea made her get off me and turn over on all fours.
--Take me from behind, she said to me, and I got up. I walked out of the
room, found my jeans, and pulled out a rubber--being gay, I felt forever
safer with it, and was used to its protection. I returned quickly,
properly sheathed now, and before she caught on what I had done, or
noticed the condom, I plunged back into her red wetness again, from
behind: my favorite position. Suddenly it didn't matter whether I was
fucking a man or a woman. I grabbed her hips and pounded away. She was
facing him now, talking to him, telling him how she loved my cock up her
pussy, what a fantastic fuck I was, and how she enjoyed being taken by
another man. She told him too, between her signs and groans and
exhortations, how she had the power to make gay men straight,
--You see! He's fucking a girl!
and how she had too the power to make straight men gay. And didn't he
see, she said, didn't we see, we men, stupid, caught in our world of
meaningless classifications, what idiotic labels they were, in the end,
and that the only thing which counted, was whether you enjoyed yourself,
active or passive, fucker or fucked, on your knees, or on top, thrusting
your cock in some hole, she said, and moaned and screamed and gave a
curiously high yelp I had never heard from a man before, but which
excited me beyond measure--I was close to shooting my load.
I slapped her bum, and again she yelped with pleasure. I pulled out to
rest for a little while. She told Paavo to stand up, and at last she was
quiet, as his cock entered her mouth. His posture changed immediately,
just with that single act: now he was man again. He stood before her,
pushing his hips forward, his tool sliding in and out. All the time on
his knees he had avoided looked at me; now he sought my approbation. He
grinned. We were suddenly two blokes taking a girl between us. The
tables had turned with the simple gesture of her taking him in his
mouth. Now we were dominant men, and she the submissive girl between us.
I resume fucking her. He smiled broadly, having recovered his manhood,
but as he did so, with his inviting mouth, and his strawberry lips, he
saw that I was not: I was not smiling at him in fraternal complacency. I
was not his buddy who shared a cunt with him, even though I plunged in
again and slapped her arse hard.
I assume he looked at me and saw my sorrow. We realized together, he
with his cock in her mouth, and I, looking at him, standing there,
hairless, slender, smooth of skin and even-faced--the body I had coveted
on the beach, on the surfboard, in the office, the body I had saved
twice from the obliteration of the surf, that I was in love with him,
deeply and irrevocably, that I desired him, wanted him more than I had
ever wanted any other man in my life. For all the rationalization you
could have about sex; love was something else. He looked down and met
her eyes, and I realized he would never love me back.
I thought these thoughts, and while I did so, missed my own climax
approaching precipitously. It was awkward, too soon, too clumsy: I
pulled out, pulled the condom off, and shot my load almost at the same
time, splattering my seed without any directional control. A few drops
sailed over her back and reached as far as Paavo's abdomen. Some landed
on the feline arch of her back before me, but when she realized what was
occurring, she let go of her lover and whirled round, as the last spurt
of cum landed in her pubic hair, and quite a lot, dripping too from the
condom I was holding, onto her clitoris.
I doubled up, exhausted, fell into her arms, but she pushed me away, sat
up, and in a violent gesture, pulled Paavo by the hand and ordered him
to kneel before her. She grabbed him by the ears and drew him into her
lap, ordered him to lick her.
I was breathing hard and my head was spinning from the orgasm. For a
moment I didn't realize what his licking entailed: he would, if he
followed her order, eat my cum off her vagina. I stood up, moved aside,
keen to see him do it, but also embarrassed that she used him thus. He
too, I think, had felt the awkward moment, as he dug in his tongue
between her lips. He looked up at her. She beamed with mischief, and an
almost evil grin.
--How does he taste? she said, and laughed.
I felt a burst of shame assault me, that she had tricked him in this
way, and I had let her. I felt protective, wanted to whip him away, hug
him, and comfort him. But he lifted his tongue from her lips and leaned
back. Then, with his forefinger, he collected those drops of cum that
clung to his own belly, and, demonstratively, as if to say, `you can't
trick me into doing anything,' he brought the finger to his lips. Not
tentatively, not hesitatingly, but eagerly, with sparkling, defiant
eyes, he licked my jism from his finger. And as if that were not enough,
he slid across the wooden floor to where I stood, and before I could
prevent him from doing so, he took my dripping faucet in his mouth, and
licked it clean. Not gingerly, not delicately, but loud and vulgar, with
his tongue going under my foreskin, and up and down the shaft,
collecting every daub, every drop left, and smacking his lips. I heard
her gulp, and saw her rub herself. When my cock was clean, and limp in
his hand, she said,
--Oh wow, baby, you are filthy! That was awesome!
She lay there, surprised, I think, by how far things had gone, and how
easily, and quickly. I was thinking the same thing.

I wondered what would happen next. Paavo knelt there on his knees, cock
still hard, looking from me to her, and back again, waiting for orders.
When none came, I saw him look at the back of his hand. There was some
cum left, just a tiny spot he saw only now: he licked it off almost
instinctively, and noticed too late we were both observing him. Caught
unawares in the act of relishing cum was different from his defiant
display seconds ago. He blushed rapidly. I felt like petting him, but
repressed the urge.

I was exhausted, and angry at her for having tried to trick him and
laughed so viciously when he had first dived into her cum-stained cunt:
I hated her, suddenly, for doing this to the man I loved, for treating
him like she had, this evening, for having used him, made him the
plaything of our secret pact to seduce him together, for having offered
him to me, and for not letting him be what he wanted to be, so clearly,
a normal man, fucking his woman, with just a little kink on the side,
kinky enough to make life worth living. I was so agitated, now that my
climax had subsided, and filled with sudden anger, that I decided to
take charge of the situation.
I stepped forward, stood proud and tall, and made my chest muscles
bulge. I caught my own reflection in the mirrored cupboard doors. I
pointed my hand and told her in a commanding voice to slide up on the bed.
--Lie there, I said, and shut up! A bit higher.
She did as I commanded.
I think intuition told her immediately what I had in mind, and she
smiled. For a moment, I had really been angry, and forgotten that it was
all playacting, and after all, the most exciting and generous of human
activities: hot sex. She got in position and spread her legs willingly.
Curiously, at that moment, we may have both shared the urge to rescue
Paavo from his own depravity, and restore the balance of his dented
manhood. If there is such a thing.
I helped him up. I took his face between my hands, and looked at him. I
wanted him to know that I understood him, that I knew what he felt, what
he was experiencing. That he shouldn't be afraid. That I knew he wasn't
for me, for long, and that I wouldn't pursue him. That even on his
knees, with my jism on his lips, I did not consider him a man who'd
suddenly discovered his gay nature. That she, his inventive,
experimenting girlfriend was, after all, right. Stupid labels!
So I kissed him, full and hard, smack on the lips, and saw his
reluctance, and still, sensed his excitement, to feel a man for the
first time: the sense of wrong, of depraved strangeness. But then, just
as I wanted to let go, his tongue came darting out, just a little, very
delicately, just enough to tell me he forgave me for being such a
conceited prick. That he didn't hold it against me that I had tried to
seduce him, that a year ago, in Sydney, I had--typical male!--only tried
with my own, macho means, to make him interested in the male sex,
instead of listening to his desires, his kinky dreams, instead of
fulfilling his decadent wishes, more concerned with my own. Men are
selfish, and this selfishness destroys all chance of sexual
understanding. I had tried to make him gay, make him like me, instead of
satisfying him, and finding out his needs. Now his tongue flicked more
enlivened, danced a little around my teeth, and suddenly he pulled me
closer, wrapped his arms around me, and I almost fainted again with the
assault of chemicals in my mouth, his urgent maleness entering my
bloodstream, his sudden dominance shaming me. He pressed me lower, down
to his height, he, the pale weakling, the submissive I had witnessed
scuttle on his kneels, eating out his girlfriend, the pale boy on the
surfboard now took me into his arms, my tall and commanding frame of
pure muscle, and he held me and my neck and pressed his tongue into my
mouth, as deep as he could, and caressed my back, and squeezed my arse,
and all the while we heard her scream on the bed,
--Oh yeah, oh fuck, that is so fucking hot guys, oh kiss him baby, kiss
him, kiss him!
Now, in his embrace I succumbed to him; I surrendered in his arms. He
was all man again, all dominant, powerful, virile being, and he took
what he wanted. My cock grew hard, rock hard, boring into his groin,
edged next to his, in a tight all-male embrace. Twice I thought I would
shoot my load without touching myself, but it was only the tingling
sensation from the earlier orgasm. He held me so long and kissed me so
deeply that my head swam and my mind went blank, and I had trouble
breathing and concentrating, and I wanted to shout at him, through the
kiss, through his lips and mouth I wanted to shout, 'oh god, I love you,
I want to be with you forever!'
At long last, the kiss broke. We took each a step back, and looked at
each other, dumbstruck. I saw him for what he was: the full and complete
person, all of him, for the first time. And I said to him, wiping the
wetness of his mouth from my sore lips,
--Go, fuck your woman.
He smiled. He understood that I would let him be. That I would not
pursue him, and try to have a relationship with him. That having sex
with a confident, out gay man, did not mean that he to be queer, or
effeminate or a promiscuous slut for the rest of his life, or live with
me and go on rainbow cruises. He saw now, as I set him free, that I
respected him, that we could have fun--sex--together, and still be
friends, and that I wouldn't take him away from the girl he loved. He
nodded, without stopping to smile, and stepped forward again. This time
we didn't kiss. Man to man, we embraced, patted each other on the back.
He had finally forgiven me. I was close to tears, and watched him turn
around, and take care of her.

Delighted, pushing back the sadness of my loss, I remained on the
sidelines. Kneeling beside the bed, I watched him lick her thighs, her
belly, her tits, her neck, and then kiss her, longingly. I imagined her
tasting me on his lips. He told her he loved her, looked over to me,
smiled, told her again, and kissed his way down her neck and breasts. He
took them each in a hand and squeezed softly. His cock was drooling
again, and a line of pre-cum reached from her groin to her belly. She
saw it and caught it, and rubbed it in. Then she looked up to him, into
his bright eyes, and said,
--Fuck me baby.
Oh, to be so in love, so secure in mutual adoration, that one could
play, so freely, so equally, so unpossessively with a stranger.
He entered her gently. The fervor of my fuck was replaced by their sweet
and loving union. I watched enviously, unconsciously touching my own
hard body, masturbating slowly along with their joint motion.
Now he had only eyes for her. She pushed up her pelvis and welcomed him,
deeply. They entered a well-rehearsed dance, a delightful undulating
motion, his perfectly shaped, pale, buttocks rising and sinking into her
loins. I crawled to the foot of the bed to see him, his ball sack, his
bum, his cock even as he pulled out far enough, and before he thrust in
again: never too fast or too hard, always gently, and with an enviable
familiarity. He had been there so often, he knew what he was doing. It
was so beautiful, so intimate.

I stood up. He was lost in her embrace, her soft and warm body, her wet
cunt.
He didn't notice that she was looking over his shoulder, and when she
moaned
--Baby, I love you, and when she said, fuck me, fuck me deep, baby, she
was looking me right in the eye.
I was mesmerized by the performance. On the beach in Sydney, and earlier
here, in the bar, and when he had been naked on all fours, he seemed to
me like the man I had fallen in love with at home: slender, elegant,
thin, pale and weak and adorable in his frail boyishness. Now that I saw
his hard glutes and the firm lines of his young back, his broad
shoulders--as they suddenly seemed to me--he was strong, and
all-conquering. He pounded away, moaning and panting, and I fell in love
all over again. I knew I had to possess him. And I knew, instinctively,
that he would let me, and that now, somehow, it wouldn't change a thing
between us.
She gave a deep groan and told him to go slower, and faster, and all the
while he did his own, perfectionist dance. What an accomplished fucker
he was! He knew how to love her, he knew in advance what sensation each
move caused her: with his cock, but also with his mouth and hands. His
arms embraced her, his hands found her breasts, stroked them, squeezed
them, then slapped them gently and she yelped, that same curious sound
again, and got high on his tenderness. She groaned louder, and screamed,
and said,
--Baby, fuck me, fuck me baby, take me!
Then she was abruptly silent. I could feel how close he was, and she
felt it too. She didn't want it to end.
Her breathing slowed on purpose, and so did his.
The motion came to a halt.
He rested inside her, and kissed her, taking a necessary pause to
prolong the act.
They lay without movement for two minutes. I stood still at the foot of
the bed, entranced by the view before me, stroking my semi-hard prick.
When his bum moved again, when he felt he could continue at last, she
pulled him closer and tighter. I saw her fingernails dig into his
muscles, tear his flesh: red lines appeared where she dragged them. But
she looked at me while she did it.
Then she let her hands glide lower and lower, found the dimples of his
lower back, and finally arched up to grab his round buttocks. There was
a single red pimple on the left cheek; now she covered it with the flat
of her hand. Her skin looked dark against his wan complexion.
I expected her to spank him, maybe, but surely to push him inside her,
draw him closer, wanting him deeper. She moaned again as he pushed
harder, but instead of pushing him into herself, she spread his cheeks,
as wide as possible apart. Her left hand withdrew, and she wet two
fingers with her mouth, then returned to play with his rosebud. She
showed me his arse, and saw that I was thrilled by what she was doing.
She slapped him, spanked him, not breaking for one second the rocking
motion of his cock inside her. He wriggled his bum, as if to encourage
her, as if to welcome the caress of his nether entrance. A finger
disappeared into his hole, careful and slowly, not to hurt him with her
long nails. She did it only once, then she withdrew, and pulled his
cheeks apart again, wider than before. I saw the pink ring spread apart
,the hole gape open.
She looked me in the eye, and said with a raspy, deep voice that was
entirely different from her earlier high pitch,
--Fuck him, Kyle!
Paavo stopped all motion and looked up. His head turned.
I saw fear in his eyes, apprehension.
I smiled, softly and kindly, and not making a move. I wanted his assent.
I wouldn't take him on his girl's behest. Only if he wanted me. Slowly,
he resumed his fucking motion, and push by push, thrust by thrust, the
fear dissipated. He turned to me again, and at last, he gave a short,
quiet nod. His mouth found hers, and he drowned the rest of his own
dreadful anticipation in her kiss.
I went for another condom, put it on, and knelt behind him to get ready.
I pushed my tongue in so deeply, and licked him so ferociously, he again
arrested his penetrating motion and concentrated on what I did. Now he
groaned, and sighed, as I fingered his hole and dug deeper with my
tongue. She held still and they were looking at each other when I spread
him wider and my tongue plunged deeper. Drawing in air, he sighed `oh
yes,' and she smiled. I knelt between both their legs, placed my cock at
his entrance, wondering if we would ever succeed: my tool looked far too
big, dark and menacing for his small pale bum; it looked for too thick
ever to gain admission to that virgin channel.
I held still, my tool in place, and waited for him to do all the work.
Now, if he wanted to continue fucking his girl, he had to back up, and
slide onto my cock. There was no way out for him. It was either that, or
rest motionless inside her. It was up to him what happened.
He was in a vise.
He moved a little.
I felt the pressure, and pushed against him--he withdrew.
She lifted her pelvis, shoving him up and against my cock. Her arms
found my bicep on either side and caressed it, tracing the purple lines
of the thick veins, and smacking her lips.
--He's such a fucking hunk, baby, she said admiringly, and I leaned
forward to kiss her, Paavo's head bent sideways. Her mouth was sour and
almost bitter, compared with his earlier sweetness, which was still on
my lips. Her hands stroked my pecs, and my shoulders, and the caress of
my muscles, as she drew me in, pressed Paavo flat between us.
My cock slid inside him without me even realizing it was happening. I
noticed only when he gasped, and gave a loud,
--Ouch!
I pulled out quickly. I didn't want to hurt him. She, on the other hand,
looked at him, and said, very decisively,
--Come on baby, be a man! Take him! It doesn't hurt for long. Take him
for me!
He hesitated. She said again, with a stricter tone,
--Sit down on it. You fucked me in the arse. I didn't flinch. Back up on
his cock. Take him inside you! He is such a fucking hunk, don't waste
the chance!
He really was submissive, and liked to be told what to do, for now, with
just a little encouragement from her, he wiggled and arched back against
my groin, and despite the pain he was surely feeling, he pushed full
force, and took my cock up to the hilt. I watched him sideways: his eyes
were wet, his face contorted with pain; the poor kid was biting his lips.
--Yes baby, good boy, she said, stroking his hair, and wiping with her
fingers the tears from his eyes. Take your lover up the arse. Take his
big cock!
I moved a little to distract him, but it was too much: I could not
control myself. His arse sucked me in, and her renewed screams and
commands turned me on.
She kept on saying,
--Fuck him, Kyle, fuck him. You've wanted to fuck him for a year now. I
told you I could give him to you. Here he is. Take my baby, fuck him for
me. Oh yes, fuck my boyfriend. Fuck my man for me!

I did. I fucked. I banged him hard, and he banged her, but I wished at
that moment she would just shut up.

Yes, true enough, I thought, I fuck him for her, on her behest. But he
was still her man. I was fucking her man, and he'd be hers, even after I
was done.
That, however, was the last conscious thought I managed. After that, it
was a wild tumble of senses. He pushing inside her, coming back, sliding
up my pole, sticking out his cute, pale bum into my groin so willingly,
so desperately, enjoying completely the sensation of being plowed by a
fat cock. For a while I held still and let him find a rhythm, his cock
inside her, my cock in his arse. When he had fucked her earlier, he had
been manly and quiet, in control, and it had been she who had screamed
and squirmed. Now that he had a cock up his channel, he was the
screamer: he moaned and shouted and groaned, let go of all reserve, was
all body and sensual thrust, and fuck machine, perched between us.
--Oh god, oh god this is good, this is unbelievable! he caroled.
He emitted a flurry of animal noises, and she joined him, and so did I,
but in the back we all three heard Christmas music playing, drifting up
from the square, or some part of the hotel.
When the rhythm broke for no discernible reason, and he stopped moving,
I took over: I fucked her through him. He became a passive layer between
us: he felt my cock inside him. The sensation was so real, so deep and
intense, he put his hands by his side and let me manipulate him. He
turned a little sideways and said to me,
--Fuck her!
I thought at first he wanted to get out, and let me have her directly,
but that's not what he meant, clearly, for he stayed put, and with both
hands held onto my thighs. He felt it too: that strange sensation: I
felt not just him, his arse, wrapped around me, I also felt his cock, as
it was inside her. We all felt it. It was marvelous. People, as close as
they physically can be.
She said,
--Oh Kyle, fuck me yes, it's like having two swords inside me, one behind
the other.
Paavo became so thin, just a sheet of flesh between her and me, that I
felt I was tearing through him, hurting him, and at last, I had to stop.
I was close again, and wanted to rest, but as I stopped moving, he
picked up the motion and plunged inside her, then backed up, and his
arse slid up my pole, devoured it, moved sideways, wriggling a little to
get the full feel of my manhood up his rectum, thereby shifting his own
cock inside her, and making her squeal. He increased his rhythm, faster
and faster, and faster, until there were only screams left between the
three of us.
I said
--I am coming.
She said,
--Oh God, yes,
And he just groaned, load and deep, like a lion, a primeval grunt, and
shot his cum inside her the same moment I erupted into my condom. He
kept pumping and pumping until she too screamed, seconds later, and the
shudders of her body, her massive convulsions, echoed through Paavo, and
into me. I collapsed on top of him, and he on top of her.
We lay in a pile of wet and moist flesh, hugging and kissing each other
softly.

A little later, unable to bear the weight, he rolled off her, and I off
him, and we came to lie all three, side by side, Paavo in the middle. I
pulled off the condom and put it on the nightstand, just before she
reached for the blanket and covered us all.
The Finnish winter night crept over us. It was almost three in the
morning, by the bedside clock. The temperature in the room had fallen,
now that the heat of passion evaporated fast.
We did not get up to shower. Instead, we clung to each other, wet and
with all the smells and stains of sex encrusting us.
This is how we lay: she hugged him from the back, and I heard her kiss
his nape. He hugged me: his hand was on my abs, playing with my bulging
muscles for a while, and grabbing playfully with my limpid dick; after
that, as he dozed off, cupping my balls.
Outside the wind blew cold but softly, spiked with the tingling of the
little bells on the Christmas tree.
I lay thoughtless, exhausted, happy and content. Drowsiness overcame us.
His hand on my hard body felt almost miraculous. I was thick with
emotion, and my head swam from the second orgasm, and the intensity of
the act.

I think I fell asleep for a while--we all did. When I awoke, the light
had changed a little. I realized outside, the tree had been switched
off, and wondered why they bothered to, now, if they had already left it
on past three in the morning.
The cold aroma of sex was still in the room.

I heard her even breathing.

His head was up at my shoulders. I felt his warm breath on my naked skin.

I thought for a moment that he was asleep too, so quietly he lay, and
motionless. The warmth of his body against me was sweet.
Then a jolt raced through my body. I was instantly wide awake, when I
realized I was lying in the arms of the man I loved. I promised myself
to stay awake, all night if necessary, as long as he cradled me so
sweetly, as long as his finger rested on my abs, and I resolved,
solemnly, to remember this moment for the rest of my life. Never to forget.

After a while, I noticed that he wasn't asleep at all. His thumb and
forefinger were twirling the hair around my navel, in a delicate, shy
motion. Then he lay his palm flat on my abs again, and pressed gently,
exhaling himself as if he couldn't believe how hard they were. Trying
not to wake her, maybe, he moved only softly, and his mouth reached the
side of my head. His tongue darted out and touched me--he licked my
earlobe, then the whole ear, and when the tip of his tongue closed off
my whole ear canal, titillating my senses, I suppressed the urge to
shudder all through my body.
I felt so utterly wanted and loved as he held me, I pushed back my whole
body into his embrace. There is nothing else to life than this: to feel
loved by another.

His generous, playful tenderness surprised me. How could a man who had a
year ago rejected all my advances, had insisted on his imaginary
straightness suddenly hold me so tightly, so lovingly, so sweetly, and
now, surprisingly, and utterly unexpectedly, gently, but decisively,
speak into my ear: as if this entire evening and all that had happened
had not been the result of her and my devilish ploy, as if it had all
been his doing, his alone, his wish fulfilled, his--or his and her plan,
maybe--from the beginning, and I the one being used; as if he had from
the very first intended to offer himself willingly and lovingly, to make
up for his rejection a year ago, or just because, because he wanted to
have me and touch me and hold me as much as I wanted him, he clutched
the muscles on my abdomen, seized them hard, digging in his fingers,
almost painfully, and, again tickling my earlobe with his warm breath,
said softly,
--Merry Christmas, Kyle.



For more of Marten Weber's writing, go to
www.martenweber.com or find me on Facebook

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