My Bill (M/M, oral, anal)
by einhard
PLEASE NOTE: This story is fiction from beginning to end. The characters don't exist, and the things they do, never happened.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The lyric excerpts in this story is from the song "Bill". It was written by P. G. Wodehouse Oscar Hammerstein II in the 1920ies, and eventually used in "Showboat", with music by Jerome Kern. It's copyrighted.
I used to dream that I would discover the perfect lover someday. I knew I'd recognize him if ever he came round my way.
I always used to fancy then he'd be one of the god-like kind of men, with a giant brain and a noble head, like the heroes bold in the books I've read.
"You know, I still can't understand why you stay with me", Bill said. I sighed. In the old days, that kind of comment would herald the onset of a depression. This time, I knew he just wanted my old speech. He wanted to hear again how much I loved him, and why, and he wanted to hear it because he loved hearing it.
"What do you mean?" I asked, falling into my assigned part with the ease of long practice.
"I mean, you got it made. At 24, you've got a career. You're a lawyer. Okay, you didn't go to an Ivy League university, but you did get a degree and a job, and now you're making good money. You've got brains, looks, prospects. Me, I'm a 22-year old who only got his high school diploma last week. I don't look good, I'm not athletic or artistic, my brains are nothing to write home about, and I've got a crappy job. Why do you stay with me?"
"Come here!" I told him. He moved over in the bed to lay with his head on my shoulder, my arm wrapped around him.
"Now let me tell you something, Bill. You remember the guys I used to be with before we got together? The hunks, the studs, the desirable ones? The ones I used to pick up and have sex with once or twice, then moving on?"
He nodded.
"You know what they gave me?"
"Tell me", he prodded. As if he hadn't heard this a million times before.
"They gave me what they had to offer. Their bodies. A little of their time. And it was good. At least most times. I enjoyed those days. But those guys weren't friends or companions. I couldn't just be with them and be content. And they didn't love me. They didn't offer me themselves. Not one of them. And I didn't love them. I gave them the same as they gave me, but it wasn't what I wanted to give. That never happened until I met you."
"Go on!" I could hear the pride in his voice. God, how that boy loves to hear his own praises sung. I guess it's because I'm one of the few people who seem to think he's worth it. I know my mom isn't too keen on him. She isn't too keen on me being with a guy at all, but she seemed at one time resigned to making the best of the situation. Only trouble is, Bill's hardly the best I could make of it, at least not by her standards. I looked at him. Short, skinny and plain. Heck, he's not even well hung. Not that 5 3/4 inches is anything to be ashamed of, but to a size queen like I used to be, it had seemed laughable at the time I met him, two years back. He was a high-shool dropout back then, working at McDonalds and living in a shitty rented downtown apartment. The only thing he had going for him was the great big smile he seemed to wear all the time. To me, he was at first sight pretty much a non-entity. So how it came to pass that two weeks later I was hopelessly in love for the first time in my life, was a mystery. I tried to understand it for a while, but I couldn't. Now I don't try, I just accept it.
I kissed him gently on the cheek and kept going.
"You make me laugh. You make me feel good. You make my heart race whenever you look at me in that special way of yours. And that's not the best part of it."
"It isn't?" Christ, what a big baby. This was just like telling a two-year-old the same good night story for the hundred and fiftieth time.
"No, Bill. The best part of it is that I know I can make you feel good, wanted, loved. Because I do desire you. And I do love you. That, and you feed me well."
He tittered stupidly at that last remark and snuggled closer. His left hand moved back to tickle my balls. I gasped as desire welled up in me once more. Did that guy never get enough? Then again, why should he? I couldn't get enough of him.
But along came Bill, who's not the type at all. You'd meet him on the street and never notice him. His form and face, his manly grace, are not the kind that you would find in a statue.
I met him at an end-of-term party two years earlier. I was in a good mood that night. Law school was going well for me. I wasn't in en elite university, but it was reputable, and I was in the top third of my class. I had prospects, and I looked forward to a comfortable career. Plus, there were guys a-plenty to fuck around with. I barely noticed Bill at the party, but he was there when suddenly, on the way home, the guy I was hoping to manouver into some steamy action started depositing his insides in some bushes. I would probably have dropped him right on top of the recent contents of his stomach (I wasn't altogether sober myself) if Bill hadn't rushed to the rescue. Then we got the guy home. Even if alcohol did loosen sexual inhibitions, I preferred my tricks to be conscious, so we left him there. One thing led to another, and two hours later I was having my ass plugged by a dick I would have thought of as puny only hours before. I don't know what it was that made sex with Bill so great. Maybe his enthusiasm. Anyway, we met again a couple of days later, and then once more, and the ball got rolling. By the following weekend, I was all trepidation at the mere thought of seeing him, and a week after that I acknowledged the truth that everybody else had seen a lot sooner than me: I was in love. The sickening, puppy-dog kind of love. The kind where every moment spent without Bill seemed wasted.
"You remember those first few weeks?" he asked. I almost gave a big sigh in exasperation. That was exactly what I was doing, wasn't it? But then, he could hardly tell if I didn't say anything.
"Mmm", I answered lazily, rubbing my fully erect manhood against his probing hand. We did have places to go, but there was still time.
And I can't explain, it's surely not his brain, that makes me thrill.
It quickly transpired that Bill wasn't excactly a Great Mind. Not that I was either, but compared to him, I was Einstein. He had trouble figuring out simple sums, he barely read anything except comic books, and even then he was a slow reader. I couldn't for the life of me understand why he wanted to go back to high school to get a diploma. There was a very real risk he wouldn't make it, and then all he would get out of it, was hurt. But he did want to. So what could I do, except tutor him, bolster his confidence and tell him constantly how well he was doing, even if he wasn't? Any suggestions? I think I worked it out on my own. I could love him, and I could tell him and show him constantly that I did. That, and conceal from him that I was spending more money on the joint household than he did. Yeah, we moved in together about three months after we met. Despite his cheerfulness, he had zero self-confidence. He had hardly ever been told he could do anything well, or that he himself was worth having. So, whenever he would ask me why I bothered with him, I'd tell him why. And eventually, he started believing me. And with the confidence that gave him, he started doing much better in his schoolwork. Not least, I discovered the two things in life he really excels at. For all I know, there may be others. I hope to have at least another 50 years to figure that out, but at the moment, I know that Bill cooks like a demon. Which proves him wrong; he is artistic. The other talent is in his fists. You don't happen to work at a fun fair or something, do you? Run one of those machines which is basically a big ball that people are supposed to punch? Be on the lookout for Bill. That boy packs such a mean wallop that he just might wreck the machine.
It's just as well he can cook, because I can't. It's become one of my favorite activities these days, just standing in the kitchen door, watching Bill cook and listening to him sing (not one of his great talents). It's like he isn't even working; he's just dancing around, somehow ending up with a wonderful meal. Except sometimes, when he's making one of his bold experiments. Like when we watched "Four Weddings and a Funeral", and he got so inspired by the mention of "Duck a la Banana" in the funeral speech, that he decided to make a dish to go with the name. Don't try it.
"Tim?" Bill was stroking me slowly, and the precum was beginning to flow again.
"Yeah?" I answered, recognizing that tone of voice.
"What time do we have to be at the Zoo?" We were babysitting for my brother and sister-in-law for the rest of the weekend (for their kid, duh!), and the plan was to pick up the little brat at the Zoo, where she would goggle at the giraffes for an hour before getting back here to be spoiled rotten by one William, with me trying to be the sensible one, hoping to soften the temper tantrums when her parents came to take her away from "Uncle Bill" and his cakes and his ice cream and all the other stuff he loved to feed her. Not to mention the stories he told. Actually, that might be his third talent. He's getting pretty good at making up stories to delight a kid.
"Not for another two hours."
"Good." He got to his knees and brought his face down to my groin, sticking his tongue out to lick my balls. I groaned and hissed (one after the other; it's easier that way), and he sucked one testicle into his mouth, pulling at it. I gasped, and he pulled harder, painfully, then letting go just at the right time. He repeated it with the other testicle, and by the time he was done and his tongue was moving up my shaft, I was on my back, breathing like the proverbial beached whale.
"Ooohh, I like this!" he whispered, letting his tongue swirl round my exposed cockhead a couple of times before taking three inches inside his mouth. He bobbed up and down a few times, and had me thrashing wildly on the bed almost at once.
"Soft or rough?" he asked, lifting his head off me.
"Rough!" I told him. He lost no time, and within thirty seconds, he had lubed us both up, raised my legs in the air, and penetrated me with his full length. I was trying to regain my breath. It's not that he's very long or thick, and I am used to him, but still, such a violent entry is painful. It soon stops, though, so this is not what "rough" means. "Rough" is the way he slams himself into me, like he's trying to push all of his body up my ass at once. "Rough" is the loud slapping of his groin on my ass. "Rough" is when both he and I have bruises after he's done. "Rough" is when I'm almost unconscious after he's been straining half his muscles to hold back his ejaculation and the other half to penetrate me with all the force he can muster.
"Oh, yes, Bill! Fuck me hard, man! Harder! Faster! Yeah! Don't cum yet, keep going!"
He didn't reply; he needed all his concentration to make sure he didn't slip out. I did what I usually did; I counted. I couldn't go by the feel of his cock hitting my depths, it was simply too fast. I had to count by the sound. 40 hits, 60. He was just finding his pace now. 80, 100. Still, he seemed pretty relaxed, fucking me steadily. 120, 130, 140. His breath was getting just a little bit ragged, and I reached for my own seven-incher, now spewing pre-cum in large quantities. 150, 160, 170. I began stroking, slowly at first, then a little bit faster. 180, 190, 200. Time to speed up; somewhere between 250 and 280 was usually Bill's limit.
"Oh, my! Oh, yeah! I'm getting close, Tim!"
I knew. He was just passing 230, and I was up to full speed with my hand. Another 30 or 40 strokes would probably do it. My balls were almost inside me, and it was only because of my long practice that I could keep up the count. 250, 260, 270...
"I'm gonna cum, Tim! I'm gonna shoot, baby! Yeaaahhh!"
He was past 290 when I lost the count. Freezing, with all my muscles tensed up, I felt the first shot hit my nose, then a long string landing all over my chest, another on my belly.
"Waaaaooouuuwww-haaaaaahhh-unnnnnnggggghhhh!!!!"
Bill shot inside me, and my involuntary contractions pushed another spurt out of me. The next few seconds were spent watching the strange contortions of my lover as he continued orgasming inside me.
"Wow, Bill! You must have passed 300! Good one!"
He shook himself, smiled and then slowly, gingerly, he leaned in to kiss me. Not hard, but soft, our lips touching lightly. Then he withdrew, slowly again. Still, it hurt just a little bit. He lay down behind me, pulling me into a tender embrace.
"You sore?" he whispered.
"A little, but I'll deal with that in the shower. Let's just stay here for five minutes."
He didn't answer, and I just relaxed, basking in the warmth of him. My ass needed a bit of care, but nothing I hadn't tended to before. Anyway, we only did it rough once a month or so. Right at the moment I was busy enjoying the afterglow of coupling with my Bill.
And I can't explain, it's surely not his brain, That makes me thrill. I love him because... Oh, I don't know... Because he's wonderful, because he's just my Bill!
This story is copyrighted by me, einhard. (c) 2001. All rights reserved.
Any comments? Did you like the story? Hate it? You can mail me at: einhard@excite.com