Nights and Sharks Chapter 2
Benjamin Ashton & Daniel Sharpe
Nights & Sharks
Part 2
// Nathan
I went for a morning run, an endeavor which proved more strenuous than I usually experienced. The jet lag and the early dawn warmth didn't help, and Jonah's callous revelations were now harder to brush off my mind than in my lightly drunken daze of the previous evening. I had gone to bed with a hard-on but refused to indulge in the inevitable flashing images of Jonah's fierce pounding of a stranger; I had woken up with a hard-on, fueled by a dream of that stranger and the wish to pound him myself. Then too, discipline had prevailed. If I had to think about this unsettling transformation of my relationship with Jonah (and a transformation it was, or would be, unavoidably), I'd rather be running, sweating out my unease, rather than squirting out the weirdness of what had become possible.
The "mind-blowing" fuck Jonah had recently experienced wasn't what was bothering me the most; I was more troubled by his casual admission that some sort of fooling around had happened before with other guys. And I was oddly concerned by when these happenstances had occurred. Why had Jonah become suddenly so insistent, two months ago, that I visit him in Brisbane – and for a whole month? You're the only person with who I can talk about shit like that, he had once said. I should be touched that, when in need of a confident, he thought me the best choice. Yet I knew I was probably his only choice. Was that what was bothering me?
I ran some more, trying to increase my pace and control my breathing. The air was warm, but there was something lovely about the moment too. I did like the neighborhood and I liked its morning activities. Men and women walking intently to the train station, warmly uncomfortable in their business attire, teenage girls applying make-up at the school bus stop, young mothers strolling around, parading their hipness along with their babies. Even the attractive disheveled guy, doing the walk of shame with a certain smugness in his stride. Simplicity, familiarity, serenity.
Because, yes, that was what was bothering me in the new makeshift of Jonah's sexual energy. I loathed the idea of patiently listening to the questioning musings of a 39 year-old straight man, the prospect of trite and cringing prods into shallow bits of self-realization, the very idea of being led into labelling Jonah's sexual identity. Our twenty years together, our twenty odd, nebulous and self-defined twenty years made sense only in our common refusal to label who he, I and we were sexually when we touched each other, smiled at each other, chuckled or quivered. I liked to think that this refusal was not born out of inhibition, shame, discomfort or fake bravado, but was a statement, organic and lasting, that, as a twosome, we existed outside the rules, precepts and categories of normalcy. I need to you tell you something, Jonah had said last night, lame and weak. Fuck that.
Jonah doesn't know if he will see Dan again, because, well, Dan is complicated. Will I have to listen to Jonah's insecure ramblings, will I have to tell him to wait three days to call, will I have to tell him that men are pigs and that there's plenty of fish in the sea? Fuck that.
Chloe was sitting on their porch steps when I got back. She was smoking a cigarette, next to a large suitcase. I knew she was leaving this morning for Sydney but had hoped that she might have been gone by the time I returned.
"Hey, handsome," she said, distractedly.
"What's up?"
"I'm waiting for my cab. Should be here any minute."
Not wanting to appear rude, I started my stretching next to her.
"You just missed Jonah," she said. "He's already left for work."
"That's okay."
"You want a cigarette?" she asked and I had no idea whether she was serious. I was panting, sweating, stretching.
"Nah. I'll get myself some water in a second."
"Okay."
My phone had caught the Wi-Fi signal and bleeped with new messages. Checking my email seemed to be an appropriate diversion. "When will you be back?" I asked while opening my inbox.
"I'm only gone for, like, three days. I'll be back for the weekend."
"Good," I said, distracted. I had received an answer from Adrian Kaufman, a young local architect I intended to interview while I was in Brisbane. "Where is Samford? Do you know?"
"It's outside of the city. Countryside. Never been. Why?"
"I got to interview this guy and that's where he lives. You know how I get there?"
"I think it takes forever by train. But you can use my car while I'm gone. I don't care."
"Excellent. Thanks," I said, while typing my answer. The idea of getting out of the city seemed very appealing and I suggested I drive up that afternoon.
Chloe sighed very heavily. "Jesus, what's the hold up? The cab should have been here, like, five minutes ago."
"You want me to drive you?"
"No", she said, frowning at the oddity of the suggestion.
I now felt like I had to wait with her for her cab to arrive. She had offered me the use of her car, after all.
"Do you think..." Chloe asked, uncertain, and with a definite tonal shift in her voice, "do you think Jonah is happy here?"
"I don't think I could tell. I just arrived, you know."
"Right, but still. Does he seem happy?"
"Yes," I chose to say. "Why? You don't?"
"It's just... I mean, we moved across the fucking world for him, you know, for his promotion. I don't care, I can do my job from anywhere on the planet," she said, repeating her mantra, "but I don't know that he is happy. He's hard to read, which is fucking annoying."
Jonah had always seemed to me one of the people the most transparent about his mood. I was starting to resent the position she was forcing me into, the implied request that I help her figuring out Jonah's state of mind, but the cab arrived, relieving me from any obligation to commit to the task.
"You boys have fun," was all she said as she walked off, not looking back.
I drove for 40 minutes in a shiny white Mini, guided by the loud GPS and, for the final stretch, by Adrian Kaufman's directions. I knew what the house looked like, for having done my research, but was still amazed by its striking beauty when I made the last curve of the drive. It was in a wooded area, not far from Samford village, but eerily remote once you got there. A large, horizontal concrete rectangle presented itself, seemingly buried in the woods, surrounded by the trees, with just a wooden door breaking its flat uniformity. Behind it, however, lay the renovated structure of a house built in the Californian style of breezy and quaint bungalows. My recent research and writing was about design efforts to renovate old structures by keeping some original features or segments and combining them with innovative elements. Historic city centers all over the world had seen many buildings keeping only their facades and the trend had been decried by purists. For the last two years, I had been travelling around the United States to identify and showcase more successful and interesting endeavors.
Adrian opened the door and greeted me with a smiling welcome. I smiled back and shook his hands. I guessed he was gay.
The house was floodlit with the afternoon sun and decorated with a mixture of antiques and 1960s pieces as well as several Tom Dixon lighting fixtures. It was splendid. Adrian, 34 year-old, tall and elegant, a mop of flowing black hair, striking blue eyes, was barefoot, wearing a crisp pair of dark jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons open. The sexy architect type.
Adrian offered me tea and we sat in his living room, in a large sofa facing a row of French doors, opening to a patio from which glowed an astounding view of the Samford Valley.
We quickly started talking; Adrian was loquacious and charming, and I was listening intently and comfortably flirting back. The house had been built by his father in the seventies, tailored made for one of his friends, the writer Jack Garatta. "Do you know him?" he asked.
"I can't say I do."
"He is not very well known. But he is fantastic. A mix of Jack Kerouac, Thomas Pynchon and... I don't know, any very Australian, gritty, sexually charged author."
"Christos Tolkias."
"Exactly! Anyway, Garatta lived here until his death, ten years ago. The thing is, I used to read his books in secret when I was a teenager. My parents thought them highly inappropriate, but they also made them easily available on our bookshelf. So I became a little obsessed with the guy. My father and he had fallen out, so I never met him and had never seen the house. I only heard about it or seen some vague picture. My father died when I was twenty, so this house became an obsession too: it was Garatta's house, it was also one of the hidden treasures that my father had built in the middle of the woods."
"Good story."
"Ah, yes. I guess. So anyway, when Garatta died and the house was on the market, I used some of my inheritance money to buy it and, a few years later, when I felt ready, I reimagined it myself. I made it my own. Which was daunting, but incredibly liberating somehow."
I stood up and paced around the room, inspecting it.
"It's beautiful, Adrian. It's a little remote, though, isn't it?"
"Not really. And I have a tiny flat in town, in Paddington, for when it's more convenient to stay in the city. And I'm often in Sydney or Melbourne for work. So this is a nice retreat from it all."
I looked for signs that he shared the space with a significant other, but couldn't find any.
He started asking questions about me, which I answered without dwelling too much. I was interested in him, in his work, in his thoughts, in his smile. The afternoon slipped by, the light was changing, we switched to chilled red wine. Adrian was seated cross-legged on the sofa, facing me. His pose intelligently combined a warm and engaging eagerness, an upper-body slouched back and a head cocked, knowing smiles, serene silences, and the distracted grazing of his naked ankles by his large, silky hand.
My phone rang. Jonah.
"Sorry, Adrian, I need to take this. What's up Jonah?"
"Nate. Listen, I can't talk right now, but something's come up. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I don't know when I can get back to the house, but probably not for dinner.
"I can fix myself some food."
"Yes, I mean, I might be late. Like late late. I really don't know. You shouldn't wait up."
"No worries."
"I'll tell you all about it. Promise. Later, my friend."
"Everything's all right?" Adrian asked, smiling, after I hung up.
"Yeah. It's just the friend I'm staying with."
"Jonah, you said, right?"
"Yes, Jonah."
"If you have no plans for dinner, I have a bunch of delicious left-overs here. I had a dinner party last night and I still got tons of hummus, tabbouleh, tomatoes and the likes. I haven't had lunch, so I'm starving."
"That actually sounds good."
We ate on the porch, opening another bottle of wine, watching the very slow descent of the late summer sun. I helped him clear the plates and, as we bumped into each other in the kitchen, our eyes locked and we stopped. I placed my hand on the back of his neck and gently nudged him towards me. We kissed.
We lay on his sofa, me on top of him, kissing some more, his legs often wrapped around my back. We kissed, drank, kissed, talked and smiled, and kissed some more. After an hour, we both only had our opened shirts on and our underwear, tented and wetted by our erections.
He made me stand in front of him while he stayed on the sofa, and slowly pulled down my briefs. He took my cock in his mouth and closing his eyes, started to suck me, slowly, tenderly, eagerly. I tried to reciprocate but he wouldn't let me move. After a while, I knew he had to stop if I wanted to refrain from cumming. I pushed him on the sofa, lay on top of him again and kissed his neck, bit his ear, grazed his light stubble, licked his nipples. He lifted his legs and arched his back, he moaned, then smiled, his blue eyes shining below his thick, dark eyebrows. I sucked him but he pushed me back after a few seconds.
"I'm way too excited, sorry," he blushed, attempting to bring my lips back up to his. But I lifted his legs instead, grabbing the back of his knees and licked, kissed and lapped his hole. His groans grew louder, he looked and sounded and smelled beautiful. I moved up, seized his ankles, spreading his legs wide, and felt my hard cock guide itself towards his ass. I rubbed the wet tip of my dick around and across his shivering hole. His moans were quivering now and the head of my cock, red and engorged, pushed easily its way through the first circle of his anus.
"Stop," he said suddenly, pulling me up towards him.
"Sorry," I said, a little confused.
"No, no. It's alright. I want to. I really want to. Just... you know, not the first time."
"Of course," I managed to say.
We hugged, our grip tightening with the depth our tongues were darting in each other's mouths. He grabbed my cock and I grabbed his, he tugged at it with force and speed. I did the same and we came on each other's stomach, before my body dropped on his, our cum and sweat gluing our panting torsos.
When I left, he gave me two of his favorite Jack Garatta novels ("I've got loads of copies, it's not a problem" he demurred), Nights & Sharks and The Road Up There.
I parked Chloe's mini just beside the rear entrance of the house and used the backdoor to let myself in the little courtyard with the stairs towards my studio. But when I pushed the wooden door open, I saw Jonah, sitting by the pool, sipping a beer in silence, staring at green lit water. He had changed into shorts and tee, and his feet were tapping against the surface of the pool. Everything else was dark in the courtyard and the whole neighborhood seemed eerily silent.
"Hey," he whispered.
"Hey," I said, walking towards him. I took off my sneakers and socks, rolled the legs of my jeans up, and sat next to him. "So... Something came up?"
"Yeah," he smiled.
"You saw Dan."
"Yup."
"How was it?"
"I don't want to talk about it. I mean, it was great. I just don't want to talk about it right now."
"Okay."
"What about you? What have you been up to? Man... have you taken a shower? Where?"
I just smiled, looking at the wavelets made our feet.
"Right. What's his name?"
"Adrian."
"Isn't that... Isn't that the guy you wanted to interview while you were here?"
"Yes."
"Man, you're such a horn dog."
"It wasn't like that."
"I know you, Nate."
"Yes."
We stayed silent for a while. He handed over his beer and I took a sip. "I'm going to head to bed," I said.
"Wait. Have a dip with me. Just come in the water for a little while. It's one of the greatest perks of this house." And he stood and removed all his clothes, before letting himself fall down in the pool. I got naked too, after glancing around to see how exposed we were. Every window was dark. I jumped next to him.
We swam under water, circling each other, jabbing at each other, our eyes open and disfigured by the blurry water, bubbles of air coming out of us, floating angrily back up to the surface. I saw his penis swimming along and I saw him glancing at mine. Our cocks. Jonah's and Nathan's cocks, friends again, playing around, grazing as our bodies collided. Our cocks. Jonah's must have recently been inside Dan's ass, mine inside Adrian's mouth. Our cocks, carefree in the pool, maybe better friends than Jonah and I might ever be.
I felt the hints of his erection when he hugged me goodnight and was happy to notice I barely thought about whether his throbbing came from flashes of his recent fuck or from flashes of our comfortable and uncomplicated past.
// Dan
After my shower, I jumped on my bicycle and headed back down towards the river. The newly-reinstated bike path was glimmering in the sunlight, and as I turned right to head upriver, I joined a steady flow of riders, joggers and walkers. While the 4 kilometres between home and the university might have seemed too far to commute on foot, more often than not I found myself invigorated by the parade of hard, sweaty flesh on display. Say what you want about commuting in Brisbane – I'm not complaining about spending twenty minutes each way in the prelude to a Bel Ami porn flick, with better tans and fewer questionable neck tattoos.
As if on cue, just such a specimen appeared on the horizon, powering down from Toowong. He wore the shortest, tightest of running shorts, lime green in colour but just sheer enough to reveal the sports jock underneath. His long legs were motoring away; I could guarantee every man, woman and dog on that track was imagining what those legs would look like spread beneath them. As he got closer, his nipples stood out – bright spots of pink in a sea of deep tan – and my cock hardened in my own shorts. My new friend smiled at me in appreciation as he jogged past. It was going to be a good day.
A good day. i need to see you again, Jonah had written. Jonah. Fuck. Blank. Blank him.
I arrived on campus with three minutes to spare before my class – enough to deodorise, but not to change. I locked my bike outside the Quadrangle, and stashed my cleats in my backpack, before I realised I hadn't brought a change of shoes. Oh well: barefoot it would be. I strode into the lecture theatre, slung my backpack over the back of the chair, and brought up the first slide of my class. I thought about doing up one more button, or pulling my shorts down a little so they resembled a respectable length. I decided against it – give the people what they want, after all. I began the lecture.
"GAY PANIC: Queer Masculinity in the novels of Jack Garatta"
"This is Jack Garatta", I began. First slide. "On his property in Samford Valley, where his great novels were written. As you can see, he exudes a very particular kind of masculinity – hard, mean, confident. Look at the way he is turned towards the camera: face forward, jaw set. He's clearly flexing some of the muscles in his chest to get that effect where they look sculpted. And that pose of his legs is very natural; he's not displaying himself to us, he's just a man, sitting in his garden, cock out". There were a few nervous giggles at the word cock, but I pressed on. "The whole effect is very straight – the wild chest hair, the Akubra hat, and so on".
"It certainly seems to accord with the image we have of Garatta from his novels, doesn't it? All of these strong, lonesome men taming the land around them. But what if I told you that this photograph was taken by the man who built Garatta's house? What if I told you it was one of a series of increasingly explicit photographs that were recovered after the builder's death?" Next slide. Garatta, still with the hat on, staring down the lens of the camera, hard cock pointing toward the viewer, one hand gripping the back of his neck and exposing his sweaty, hairy armpit. The giggles had died away. "If we knew these things, would we still describe the effect as `straight'?".
"Now, the photographer is no Robert Mapplethorpe". A loud "ha!" from the one outrageous queer in the room – you know the type – and some looks of incomprehension. The sweet little straight boy in the front row who I'd been perving on for weeks wrote down the name, and then frowned down at his notebook. He looked up and caught me staring. Unfazed, I winked before continuing. "But there is clearly some desire going on here. Not only the obviously desire of the photographer for the subject, but the desire from the subject to be seen. And that, more than any speculation about his actual sexuality, tells us a lot about Jack Garatta's work".
"Think, for example, of what drives the set text for this week, Nights & Sharks. Obviously, the shark that occupies such a prominent place in his imagination in the second half of the book stands in for threat, for the threat of the Australian landscape. But think about how much the protagonist wants to give in to the shark, desires to be literally consumed by it. In particular, think about the ecstatic moment when the shark bites him, the way Garatta describes the pain of the pressure of the teeth on his skin giving way to the almost orgasmic rush of pleasure as the shark's teeth enter his flesh".
For the next play to work, I need a target. Sweet straight boy looked up. Bingo. "Now I'm not arguing that he is describing the agony and ecstasy of being split open by a hard cock – though he's not wrong there". I was holding his eye, daring him to look away. "But I am suggesting that he is describing the pleasure of giving in. To what? Well that's up for debate. And that's at the heart of the queer modes of masculinity that his work describes". Pause. The boy in the front row looked away. I'd made my point, and moved on with the remainder of the lecture.
Forty-five minutes more of literary analysis and pop psychology, and I was done. I made sure to make no further contact with the front row – whenever I needed to single someone out, I made sure to single out a generically handsome rower type, taking this course because it was a low enrolment elective taught at the right time. I bestowed smiles upon their excitable girlfriends; even the queer boy up the back got some time. When we were done, they all slouched out of the room, as I purposefully took my time putting away my notes and shutting down the projector.
When I looked up, he was standing in front of me.
"Sir?" he said tremulously.
"Oh please", I responded, "I'm not your high school English teacher – I'm just a grad student. Call me Dan".
"Okay, Dan, well, I'm – "
"Tom. I know. What's up, Tom?"
"I just... I just wondered. Um. How do you spell that photographer's name?"
"Mapplethorpe?"
"Yeah. I wanted to, um, check out his work?"
I told him how it was spelt, and lent over toward him as he wrote it in his notes. As I was standing there, close to him, I murmured, "It's pretty explicit stuff. Just so you know. Do you think you can handle it?"
He turned, and straightened up. He looked me straight in the face, and then grabbed my cock through my shorts. I was semi-hard already, but I jumped to full mast with this contact, and the shock of the unexpected move. He smirked. "Yeah I think I'll be fine", he said. The uncertain boy of a few moments previous was suddenly back, and he dropped his hand, and looked around.
"Are you going to invite me back to your office?" he asked.
"Oh no, I don't fuck on campus. You want this, you come to me".
"Like, to your house? Isn't that – "
"Yes. To my house. At 8pm. Tonight".
I didn't give him time to respond, but left a card on the desk, picked up my bag, and left the room. I knew that I'd done what I needed to do, and there was no way he wouldn't be there. Step one was done. I pulled out my phone and sent a text.
"tonight. my place. 8:30"
i need to see you again, Jonah had written. He will. Blank. Blank him. This is a good day.
* * *
I spent the rest of the day idly doing research, reasonably productive research at that. If grad school had taught me anything, it had given me a mean ability to separate out the different parts of my life, and not let one bleed into the others. In this case, it meant that I could spend my afternoon deep in Modernist Australian literature, without obsessing over what tonight would bring. Sure, Tom's face and the outline of his cock tenting his baggy shorts drifted through my mind, but they didn't derail my day. Soon enough it was time to cycle home.
When I arrived I thought briefly about showering, but decided against it. If Tom wanted a man, then he should get all that a man could be. Much as I hated the idea that he would be one of those boys who needed to get drunk to make this work, I got out a bottle of wine and two glasses and put them next to the couch in the front room. For good measure, I added the screwed up jockstrap from this morning to the same table. The glassed-in room, the old verandah of the Queenslander in which I lived, had the kind of beautiful light that made skin dance – and so was perfect for seduction.
I thought about changing, but decided that I'd be better off staying in what I'd worn earlier in the day. Two advantages: in Tom's mind, there was a chance this was a continuation of what we'd already started; and I had the lived-in funk of a day spent in the same clothes, which had the chance of being as much of an erotic trigger for him as it was for me. I lounged on the couch as I waited for the evening's entertainment to begin. At 7.53pm, I saw Tom appear on the street below my house, and at 7.55pm he was knocking on the door.
Unlike me, he'd made an effort. His ginger hair was coiffed up on top of his head, and he'd substituted his baggy shorts for a pair of skinny jeans rolled up to expose his ankles. His trim thighs were highlighted in their full glory, and I found myself admiring the young man who stood before me on the threshold before inviting him in. "Good evening, Tom" I said as I stood back and motioned him through the doorway. "Hi", he stammered nervously as he came into the room. There was no trace of the forthright young man who had grabbed my cock in a lecture hall only a few hours ago.
I led the way over to the couch, and he sat down at my prompting. "Drink?" I asked, and turned toward the wine bottle, but not before I saw his eyes widen slightly at the sight of the jock. Just you wait, I thought to myself, as I turned back to him. He was perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch, which only made him more desirable.
"Actually", he said, "I don't drink".
"Works for me", I said, hiding my surprise as I put the bottle back on the ground.
"I'm sorry".
"What on earth for? You've come to my house, arrived on time, dressed beautifully..."
"I just meant – in case you had a plan".
"There's no plan here, Tom. You're in charge".
"But... What do you mean?"
"Well. Why did you come here? What did you want to happen?"
"You told me to come here".
"Try harder".
"I..."
He trailed off. I could see I would have to change tack if I was going to stick to my timetable. "How's this, Tom", I said. "One by one, let's do something to the other person. Just one thing, it doesn't have to be too much, it can be whatever you want to do". I waited for him to nod quietly before I continued. "I, for example, would like to do this".
I leant across the couch towards him, and put one hand either side of his body. I bent down towards him and held my body a few inches above his, so that he could feel the heat between us. I tilted my head towards him, and brought my mouth around his earlobe. I ticked it with my tongue, before quickly nibbling on it. I could sense Tom's body underneath me beginning to writhe delicately on my couch. I released his earlobe and settled back onto my side of the couch. His eyes opened; they glowed with a new energy.
"My turn", he said as he leant toward me. His hands went straight for my thighs and slowly pushed my shorts up along my legs, revealing my sparsely haired skin, goose-bumped in anticipation. He leant down and kissed his way along my quads, from the knee to where it joined my crotch. As he neared the top of my thigh, the strap of my jock was revealed. "Oh!" he exclaimed, and went to pull on it. I swiftly sat up and pushed him backwards. "No, no, that's not in the rules. It's back to me".
I pulled his t-shirt up and hooked it behind his head, exposing his chest and stomach. The tiny thatch of ginger hair behind his pecs caught my eye as I leaned in to his body, until I was suddenly distracted by his stomach. I had exposed a muscular set of abs, alabaster white in the dying light of the room. "You kept that quiet", I mumbled, but – remembering my own rules – I returned to my original target, and began licking up the sweat that had settled in Tom's clavicle. His skin was unbelievably soft, as if it had never been touched, and he tasted of salt, and soap, and sin.
Without having to be invited, he pushed me off him, and undid the buttons of my shirt, before splaying it open. Tom suddenly looked as if he didn't know what to do with all of the options now open to him, before he shook his head and continued his work to get rid of the shirt. He pushed my arm upwards above my head, and buried his face in my armpit. I was suddenly glad I'd remained unwashed as his tongue went crazy in there, lapping at my scent. I resisted the temptation to bring my hand to the back of his beautifully styled head. Instead, I had to use that hand to push him off, when he tried to move his ministrations to my nipple.
I wasn't ready for him to push back, and I fell onto my back as he said "Fuck that", and brought his mouth straight back onto my nipple, starting to bite away. I wasn't about to complain, and gave in, moving my hand to the back of his head to press him into my body. It wasn't until I saw him fiddling with his trouser button that I pushed him off me properly. "Leave that to me", I demanded, and I started to undo his trousers, while staring into his eyes. His huge hard on was making it difficult to remove the tight jeans, but I persisted, and then shoved my hand straight into his underwear and grabbed his cock. His eyes widened as he moaned uncontrollably.
I had to move quickly if the plan was going to work. I tugged on his cock a few times, making his moaning increase in volume and cadence. I turned him around, pushed him onto the couch, and pulled off the underwear to expose his snow white ass cheeks. I cupped them in my hands, before prising them apart to reveal the pinkest, tightest hole I'd encountered in quite some time. It was crying out to be consumed. I dove in with my tongue, and began to lap at his pucker. His ass tasted as his collarbone had, with the added tang you get nowhere else but butt.
I could tell that this attention was driving Tom wild, as he crushed his cock into my couch. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands, alternatively running them across the back of my shoulder muscles, gripping the back of my head, and stroking the fabric of the couch. I kissed up his back, following the line of his spine, and then going to town on the side of his neck; kissing, biting, sucking. He threw his head back in a pose of ecstasy and I took this as a sign that he might be willing to move to the third step of the plan.
"How would you feel about getting fucked?" I whispered in his ear, moving my fingers to his hole and tickling his pucker lightly.
"I'm not – I don't...".
"We can go as slow as you need", I added, with one finger starting to slip into his hole. He closed his eyes, and nodded slowly.
"One word, and we stop. It's all in your control", I told him.
Without taking the finger from his hole, I rifled around under the sofa cushion until I found a tube of lube stashed there from previous inventions. I added the lube directly to his hole, and then reached around to tug on his cock as I introduced a second finger. He started whimpering, and I moved my mouth to his neck, lighting kissing the back of it as my fingers inched forward towards his prostate. Once his whimpers had turned to moans of pleasure, it was time for a third finger. This time he screamed, and I reached across to find the dirty jock, before draping it over his face. "Bite down on it, Tom", I instructed him, and he began to do so while breathing deeply through his nose. My scent was now in and around him, and he quickly calmed down as I claimed him.
It was time. Now or never. I pulled all three fingers out of him at once, and left his hole gaping and contracting as it adjusted to its new reality. Almost as if he couldn't control himself, he made a noise of disappointment.
"It's time", I told him.
"You'll use a condom, right?".
"Of course I will, Tom", I said as I rustled under the couch cushion. Success.
"Can I put it on you?"
"Please!"
He turned back around, and dropped to his knees in front of me. He pulled off my shorts, and revealed the jock I'd been cycling in all day. He shoved his nose into my crotch, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Once he had his fill, he pulled the pouch down, and my hard cock bounced out in his face. He put his tongue out to catch the drop of pre-cum that appeared and then – remembering why he was there – he ripped open the condom, and rolled it down my cock. He watched as I added a generous amount of lube. Over his shoulder, I saw the clock at 8.25pm. Perfect.
I grabbed Tom's hand and let him over towards the window. "You'll need to brace yourself", I told him, and moved his hand to the curtain rail above the window. I admired my handiwork. Spread out in an X shape before me was the slim, muscled body of a cute boy who wanted nothing more than my cock inside him. Slowly I moved toward him. Slowly I wrapped my arms around his middle, and gripped his pecs in my hands. Slowly I positioned the head of my cock at his hole. Slowly I began to push my weight forward.
That was when Jonah appeared on the path in front of the window.
I quickly pulled the back of Tom's hair so his eyes looked upwards to the ceiling, but I needn't have bothered, as they were firmly pressed shut. I looked straight out the window, and locked eyes with Jonah as he came close enough to see in the almost full-length windows. He would have seen the porn star-perfect body of Tom pressed against the window, his hard cock stuck against the glass, and my head looking over his shoulder, staring out at Jonah. The timing could not have been more perfect. I pressed forward into Tom.
Centimetre by centimetre, my cock began to fill him. Moments later, I passed his ring and his body suddenly opened to accept me – in an instant I was in to the hilt. Tom's eyes snapped open and he screamed. I pulled his head back toward me so I could kiss his mouth while murmuring "Shh" as I tried to get him to calm down. Outside Jonah was furiously rubbing his crotch through his trousers. Once Tom's breathing had stabilised, I pulled slightly out of him, and began to slowly fuck him. He made a slight noise each time my balls slapped his arse, that eventually became recognisable as a moan of pleasure.
I couldn't move my cock far at all; the vice-like grip of his ass kept me deep inside him. For this to work, I needed Jonah to be able to see the bliss that his fucking was inducing in Tom, but when I looked out to him, I saw his cock was already out of his trousers, and he was stroking himself along to my fuck-rhythm. I smiled out at Jonah, and then bit down on the side of Tom's neck. He moaned again, and I thought I heard Jonah moan outside in response. I twisted on Tom's nipples, and he pushed his ass backwards onto my cock. We were definitely ready. I leant into his ear, "Get ready for this".
It was time to jackhammer Tom into orgasm. I grabbed his cock in one hand, and began to furiously thrust into him. He started to get noisy, making sounds somewhere being intense pain and intense pleasure, as his body tried to cope with the change in its treatment. Jonah too was getting more involved in his wank, and I looked out at him, making sure not to break eye contact. My hips hit terminal velocity, Tom's noises merged into one continuous hum of pleasure as his cock slid back and forth through my hand, until he exploded a fountain of cum across the window in front him.
The contractions of his sphincter set me off, and I felt my cock expand and throb into the condom in five long spurts. When my eyes refocused, I saw Jonah through the window, wiping his hand on one of the shrubs that lined the short pathway in my garden. Tom's eyes had obviously performed a similar trick, because he suddenly pulled away and ducked downwards, causing my cock to slip out of him. He tried desperately to cover his own shrinking cock with his hand, but it was still too big for him to get the job done.
"Oh fuck, Dan – there's a guy out there!"
"What? Oh my god you're right! FUCK OFF, PERVERT!" I yelled, at the top of my lungs.
Jonah looked up at me, dumbstruck. Leaving Tom on the floor, I threw open the door and yelled out into the Auchenflower night, "FUCK OFF I SAID. FUCK OFF YOU PERVERT". I could hear rustling begin in the neighbouring houses. Jonah must have realised I was serious, because even before he'd fully righted his underwear and trousers, he set off down the hill. "AND DON'T COME BACK!" I yelled after him, for good measure. I waved at my neighbour across the street, who'd come out to see what was happening, and said "sorry about all that". All this before I realised a full condom was hanging off my half-hard cock. I waved again, "good night!", before going back in.
i need to see you again, Jonah had written. He had seen me again. Blank. Blank him.
Tom was in my shower, washing away what we'd just done. Shame. I would've liked to mark him a little more. No matter – I followed him in, took a loofah off the hook, and began to soap his beautiful body all over. It would be such a shame to never have him again, but I felt safe in the knowledge that other men would, in time, benefit from what we'd done. "Thanks", he mumbled, and I realised he meant for all of it. I leant in and kissed him tenderly, pressing our bodies together. "Do you want to stay the night?" I asked. Why not enjoy the time we had?
Blank Jonah, just blank him. This had been a good day. As good as could be.
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