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Even The First - PART EIGHTEEN
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Even The First - PART EIGHTEEN
I think Vince must have fucked me for about an hour. We had a go at everything. His nob was a steel insatiable jabbing nail which he forced up deep, powerfully filling me with his relentless mechanical gyrations until he ejaculated again, groaning like he'd been hit by a bullet, sweating and straining to force every last cell of his testicles into the drain of my stomach.
When he finished he collapsed back on the bed, breathing hard and wiping his face and holding his cock like it was painful, sore, kneading the foreskin back and forward, wiping it with his fingers. I lay on my back, knees still up where he'd held them, his jizz leaking out of me all into the bed. I was nursing a dull muscular strain where I'd been holding my position, him hurting me with his rhythmic consistent thump, and my balls hurt like billy where he'd crushed them.
When he had recovered a bit he rolled over, pushed down one of my legs and lay on it. "Peew, shit," he said touching his nose. "Better take a shower."
He went first, rinsing his gear quickly and then a quick spray all over, then I got in and washed, whilst he watched me like I was the floor show. That was nice. He told me to squirt some up my arse. When I farted noisily he just laughed. "That's normal," he said, reassuring me. Like I didn't know.
Afterwards, he helped me change the sheets and remake the bed. As he spread his legs to pull the bed flat I looked at his cock dangling down. Again. "You have the most beautiful penis," I said. "Ohh, me and my beautiful penis!", he mocked. "Penis, cock, manhood, dingle-dangle, whatever ... Sir" I said with a grin, "I like it." He laughed. "I've noticed you can't keep your eyes away." "No Sir, and the balls too ..." "Yeah, right well I think we can dispense with the 'Sir' this, 'Sir' that now, ok." "Oh, sorry ... Vince. I thought you liked it." "Well I kinda do but, then again, not. It's naff. I mean, we know I'm the top and you're bottom so, you know, I don't need it, you know, from a role angle. I'm not insecure." "No you're not." "Nor are you; you know what you're doing." "I suppose I do." "Oh, you most certainly do; you're great. I mean if it makes you feel better I could humiliate you verbally, how's that? but it does nothing for me." "I'm not used to that," I said. "Not used to that? Not used to verbal abuse?" "No, I meant not used to, being equal I guess, Vince," I said carefully. "Well get used to it," said Vince and he called me by my name, which sounded really odd.
Then I asked if I could go into the kitchen and make him a meal and he told me he would be very happy to let me do that, so I did.
He'd put the sheets, and my clothes, into the washer and put it on so that the sounds of it filling and tumbling and draining and refilling became like a background soundtrack.
I felt at home in his kitchen and I knew my way around having cooked for Paul so many times in the past. I made him dinner and set the table and arranged everything nicely and then served it all up. He was impressed, laughing when I placed the salt and pepper shakers down in the table in front of him and carefully arranged them to be central and aligned with his plate, within reach but not too close - I was habitually scared of getting the details wrong.
"Hehe, I could get used to this," he said, tucking in and gulping down a beer. I crouched down, resting one knee on the floor and the other up, supporting my hands - the "ready" kneeling position - but immediately he said, "Man, sit in a chair for christs sake, what's wrong with you?" The plastic seat cover felt uncomfortable against my bare arse as I sat watching him eat. After nearly finishing he pushed the plate away, towards me, saying, "You wanna finish that up?" So I did.
The washer sprang into a spin which it pursued for a while - a while that seemed long - before refilling and going into a soak.
Vince asked me where I lived. I told him I didn't have any place of my own. "So where's all your stuff?" "I don't have any stuff." "No stuff?! What nothing at all? No change of clothes? No money? No passport? No identification? That's not possible. Were you planning to crash here tonight?" "I ... I've got some thing's ... nothing important." "You're fuckin' strange, you know that? But you don't look homeless. You must have a base or something. You can't just wander around with nothing - not looking like that ..." "Like what?" He paused. "Like fuckin' rent. I mean you got decent clothes, even if they're all wet, and you've obviously got access to a gym. You look like all you do is work out an'screw! Is that how you live?" I looked down and hoped we could change the subject. "We got different bodies," I said, "yours is more lean - you look like a boxer." "I do a bit of kickbox; you gotta be lean, mean, and tight!" he smiled. "Cool! Kickbox - that's a sexy sport." "Any sport's sexy if you do it right." "Not snooker ..." "Like I say, perhaps you weren't doing it right!" I laughed. "I never play snooker," I said, stupidly. "Not knowingly," he replied, and we both laughed, because that didn't make any sense. "What do you like about me?" he said. "Your abs, and your cock, and your eyes, and your hair," I answered immediately as if it was a school book test. He laughed. "In that order? Abs maketh the man, I guess ..." his eyes roved over my face, shoulders and back. "... not my personality?" "You've got a kind personality," I said with honesty. "I just think ..." he looked down at his hand on the table playing with a knife, "... you need a bit of kindness."
I loved him for that.
"So ..." he said, "... you lift a lot of weights, you look after yourself, you aren't homeless you just haven't got a home, you look great, you're a great cook, a great fuck ... you let people beat you up ... I don't get it: What are you exactly?"
So I told him.
It was a long story - though you know it if you've been reading this since the beginning and haven't just dipped in for a wank.
He let me tell it without interruption. When I was finished he put his hands behind his head and arched his back with a groan and reached up for the ceiling, stretching like it was the only plausible response. Then he crossed his legs, arranging his bollocks over one thigh, and looking at the floor, deep in thought. He'd become serious.
"This is not good," he said at last. "No, I suppose it isn't." "I don't understand how you let this happen," he said without looking at me. "I suppose I gave up." "You gave up alright! Fuckin'hell man, you got that right! Man, it's like you're pathetic and ..." - that hurt me and he immediately realised, "... hey man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to sound quite like that. You're not pathetic - you've just let yourself get used ... because ... I don't know why exactly. I'd nev'r've got into a fix like that, I don't think I would. I mean, I would've had more ... self respect, I guess. I mean ..." he smiled, still staring straight ahead like he was nervous of looking at me, "... you got to respect yourself to put up with all that and endure it and not be completely destroyed but, oh man, for christsake, what were you thinking? What'd'you think you were doing all that time trapped into that ... lifestyle. It was LITERALLY slavery, man, Didn't you think, like, 'Where is my life?', ever?" Uncrossing his legs and turning towards me, he stabbed the table with his finger. "No," I said. "Well why not?" "I mean I did, at the end, when I found that book, but until then I thought, like he said, he was looking after me, and I was safe, and he ... he ... he loved me, I guess that's what I thought. Sounds strange I know."
"Strange isn't the start'v it," Vince snorted.
We sat in silence for a bit. I could see him thinking. I wondered what he was thinking. I watched him staring at a point on the ground and wondered what he would say when he eventually spoke.
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END OF Even The First - PART EIGHTEEN
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