Service Out of the Ordinary 5
Notice: The following account depicts homosexual acts between consenting persons and is intended for mature readers only. Exercise your own judgment, in consultation with the appropriate laws and moral standards of your community, in deciding whether or not to read this work. While this story depicts significant events in the lives of certain individuals, readers are cautioned not to assume that their experiences are in any way representative of those of most homosexuals. Any connection between persons named herein and real persons, living or dead, is vigorously denied. Comments may be sent to paulsgoodboy@hotmail.com. This story may not be copied or distributed without the express written consent of the author. Copyright 2001 All Rights Reserved.
Chapter Five. A Long Distance
The sum of a year, the difference of a day.
I woke up the next morning from a thick, heavy sleep. My eyes were red and swollen, my mouth dry as cotton, my limbs unusually heavy. I was sleeping under only one sheet, and I was naked except for my boxers, yet I was hot and pasty with sweat. I tossed and turned a bit before trying to sit up and open my eyes. Memory was slow to emerge as I tried to figure out what happened the night before. My head hurt.
“Matt!” I yelped in a startled voice. He was sitting on the end of my bed, why and for how long I didn’t know. Seeing him reminded me of the confrontation with Paul the night before. “What happened? What are you doing here? What time is it?” My questions effectively conveyed my confusion. I looked around, trying to find some clue as to what was going on. Matt had a very earnest look on his face.
“I came over to apologize.” Matt’s words surprised me. Apologize? To me? “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me again after the way I treated you, so I came over to tell you first thing that I’m sorry and I didn’t mean to talk to you the way I did. I was just angry with Paul, not you, but somehow you got mixed up in the middle of it, and I was just so pissed off, I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m really, really sorry.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. No one, and I mean no one, had ever apologized to me before. Not in that way, anyway. Matt had come over to make things right with me because our friendship was more important to him than anything, even his own hurt feelings. Then he really surprised me. He moved over next to me on the bed, and hugged me! Matt!
“Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I just... I just couldn’t help myself. I’m so confused. I never meant to get mixed up between you and Paul, and I never meant to hurt you. Please, please believe that...” The words just spilled out of me between sobs. Matt held me tighter, pressing my heaving chest into his, my cringing face into his neck and shoulder. His warmth penetrating my skin, his fresh manly smells filling my nose.
I clung to him, and for a brief moment that morning things were back to normal again. I belonged to Matt, the boy who loved me despite himself. I belonged to Matt, the boy who treated me as an equal despite my obvious failings. I belonged to Matt, the boy who was my best friend, my companion, my ally, my leader. The tears I shed last night came back, because for a brief moment, sitting there in the arms of the boy who meant nearly everything to me, I was home.
“Hey, man, it’s okay,” Matt said tenderly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who acted badly. I’m the one who hurt you. You don’t need to apologize for anything... Not for anything. It’s okay... it’s okay... everything’s going to be okay...” To Matt, the only thing that happened last night was that he got into an argument with his brother, unintentionally pulled me into it, and then let his vanity get the better of him when I didn’t handle it well. To me, I had acted a complete traitor to my best friend, had done something tantamount to stabbing him in the back. I had hurt Matt far more deeply than he realized, had abandoned even myself, by willingly submitting to Paul. I suppose you might be thinking, “What’s the big deal? So you briefly forgot your duty as a friend to one brother because you had sex with the other. Get over it!” But to teenage hearts and minds, this was the stuff of mythic sorrow and anguish. Though Matt didn’t know it, this is what my apology was meant to express.
If you look up “champion” in the dictionary, you’ll see a picture of Matt. Though he wasn’t perfect by any means, in the competition between him and Paul, he was obviously the superior man. He had a generous heart, and, unlike Paul, he instinctually lived beyond himself, looking out for the welfare of those weaker and in greater need. In the companionship between us, he was again the champion, always ready and willing to fight for and defend me, always willing to advance my cause. What good in me he saw, I didn’t know. Perhaps if he had ever told me, the questions in my mind would have been resolved and things would have worked out differently for us in the end. Perhaps I would have remained loyal to Matt, perhaps I would have seen that he was clearly the superior brother, perhaps I could have learned to love myself enough, the way Matt seemed to love me, to keep from destroying everything we shared. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
But I did not love myself. I was now a proven faggot, and being a faggot was to live in the deepest well of shame. I know it’s utterly pointless to say, but if only Matt had been capable of making love to me on that fateful Saturday morning. Then I know for sure that things would have worked out differently. I didn’t want his body or the fulfillment of his sexual desire. I wanted his complete and utter acceptance. I needed to confess, I needed to tell him the truth of what happened and the actual extent of my transgressions against him. I needed to tell him the truth about myself so that maybe I would finally be unburdened of the great weight that always pulled me down. And champion that he was, he would have been the perfect person to guide me through the terror in my soul. But to actually tell him I was gay? This I could not do.
Instead, I had to learn to live with a terrible secret. For me, growing up gay meant grappling with this shadowy beast every moment of every day. I suppose that if I had grown up in a different place, at a different time, things might have been different. But for whatever reason, it was my lot in life to be stuck where I was. No sunny California for me, and certainly no “golden state.” Despite everything Matt and I shared, homosexuality was a line in the sand, the one indelible mark that remained, no matter how strong the winds of friendship blowing over it. You see, despite his incredible virtues, Matt had accepted the teachings of the Church on the issue, which said that homosexuality was inconsistent with God’s intent for creation, and the teachings of our ultra-conservative hometown, which silently revoked a homosexual’s rights as a human being (where we lived there was no talk of “agenda,” but rather of “conspiracy”). A terrible combination of the sacred with the secular. And I didn’t blame him, for I had accepted these teachings, too, even if my gut didn’t want to concur. More accurately, I had accepted Matt’s accepting them. And why wouldn’t I? Being better, stronger, more deserving in the first place, anything Matt did had the ring of the authentic. He was my teacher and role model. Anything he did or tried to be set the standard to which I would try to conform.
Thus, harboring this secret meant that the hatred I knew others would feel for me if they knew the truth turned instantly to self-hatred, a loathing at times so abyssal that nothing you did or could ever do seemed to redeem you from utter damnation. And I’m not talking about God’s damnation. He’s plenty pissed off with a lot of people, and I doubt one more fucked up fag is going to be upgraded to first class on the train to hell. No, I’m talking about the utter contempt that so many people I know feel for homosexuals, a human damnation far worse because it’s so immediately felt, so real, so tangible to the battered heart. I’m talking about what I came to know firsthand. I’m talking about the evil eye, the feeling that one cutting look can give you to make you believe you’re no more than a loathsome thing, that you’re a contemptible malignancy, a blight on decent human society. I’m talking about the kind of hatred that’s wrapped around a black, foul, stinking parcel of death. Forget the everlasting Inferno. Hell is here on earth.
In trying to emulate Matt, I was of course a counterfeit. I was a living lie, a falsity made flesh. I was the unseen, ever-present corruption that threatened to contaminate one so beautiful and faultless in my eyes as him. In fact, I was doubly evil: intrinsically fraudulent yet passing myself off as the real thing. Perhaps if I clung to Matt tightly, the greatness of his being would dry up the pollution in my soul the way bright sunlight clears a blemish on the skin. But of course, this was not to be. His sunlight became my shadow, for no matter how hard he loved me, I could only see his hatred for the kind of person I really was lingering in the back of his mind. And, because some part of me would always be loyal to him, I directed that hatred at myself for him. Only my lies prevented his hating me, so I would bring upon myself the contempt that I thought he felt I deserved. I would hate me because Matt, though he didn’t know it, hated me.
What a terrible mirrorhouse to live in. What a brutal engine of torture for a seventeen-year-old boy to chain himself to.
Of course, this didn’t all hit me on that particular morning. I describe here what slowly developed in our relationship over the next several months as the summer ended and our final school year began. Matt continued to hold me in his embrace, but I grew more and more a ghost to him, slipping through his fingers. To Matt, I became distant, sullen, inexplicably depressed. He tried all the harder to shine down upon me, but it only pushed me further and further into darkness. Eventually, he began to grow disappointed, almost resentful, that I would no longer blossom in his presence. He retreated, sometimes grew irritable, other times became indifferent. In any case, my unhappiness started to effect a downward change in him, only to increase the sting of my guilt. Taking my cue from his disposition, I began to feign happiness again, to make a pretense of the old joy I used to take in his company. I laughed to conceal my heartache, smiled to hide my remorse. Thus I smoothed over the double lie with a third lie, and triply deceived my devoted friend. Smart though he was, Matt had neither the intuition nor the life experience to see me slowly transform into a mere faded image of the boy he grew up with. Convinced by my dumbshow that my spirits were revived, he was ever my champion, good old Matt, the one who stuck with me and lead me through what seemed to him only a passing phase of teenage angst.
And then there was alcohol. My champion aided me there as well. It wasn’t just a six-pack and a double shot of bourbon for my birthday. It was soon to be a steady supply. Beer, whiskey, tequila, gin, whatever. I tried it all. In his own good-natured way, Matt felt I needed a bit of enjoyment to break up the pain of whatever was troubling me. I was a good guy, he told me, life was fun, learn to live a little. Be a rebel. Matt drank, too, but managed to maintain a level of moderation. He assumed I was doing the same. As a means of cheering me up, he got us both fake IDs for the new year (by that time my facial hair had really filled in and darkened, and I started to look older, if not quite twenty-one), and I used mine regularly at a liquor store across town where I wouldn’t be recognized and where the owner was only happy to sell if you had the cash. Vodka became my preference, being the easiest to disguise in that it doesn’t leave you stinking of fumes. On weekends I could drink socially with Matt, when everything seemed aboveboard. But during the week, all I knew was that with maybe two, three, sometimes four hits a day, evenly spaced out, I wouldn’t feel the pain. I didn’t need to be sloppy drunk, and I rarely was. But I needed to be painless. And if life was painless, life had all the appearances of being normal and happy.
And as you can expect, there was the other brother, too. If Matt was the sun, masking me in an eclipse of lies, Paul was the stars on the other side. With him, there were no lies. I was a faggot, and he accepted that. He might not make an effort to improve me the way Matt did, but being average in all things save baseball, he couldn’t be expected to. In this one thing, I was exactly what he wanted. A willing servant, a sexual attendant who never made counter demands, a devoted pet always grateful for the opportunity to perform. After our first encounter, I sucked on Paul whenever and wherever I could, my addiction to him slowly growing as powerful as my dependence on alcohol. Protecting the convenience and secrecy of our arrangement was his prerogative, of course, and in that regard he was very careful. But whenever he needed me or wanted me, I was there. My house, his house, in the school bathroom, at the ball park, at the movie, in the car, during the day, in the middle of the night, or while he watched TV, while he read a book, while he talked on the phone, or just before he was ready to go to sleep. Basically anytime or anywhere the opportunity presented itself. Riding a buzz or stone sober, I was always eager to suck on Paul’s beautiful, luscious, generous dick, and he was nearly always ready to let me.
Paul had interests in things I couldn’t provide, of course, and he dated two or three different girls over the course of the school year. He was a popular guy, never lacking in the company or comfort of others, and dislike it though I may, there was nothing I could do about it. When it came to Paul and women, it always seemed that one relationship ended because another had already begun. I would have preferred that he devoted his attention only to me, but for a time I grew accustomed to this one more disappointment in my imperfect world. To his credit, though, he never stopped calling me, and he seemed comfortable with me because between us there were no misunderstandings, no awkward expectations, no fickle desires. We both had a common goal: bringing Paul to orgasm. That was what mattered and that was what was accomplished between us.
As Paul learned that I didn’t need to be coerced into serving him, he realized that he didn’t need to be a domineering prick like the way he was the first two times I blew him. I mean, I didn’t need to be convinced that sucking dick was what was good for me, and my eagerness told him I already knew that. What I needed was a dominating stud, and Paul fit the bill perfectly, always directing how, and when, and where he wanted it. And he dominated me physically, too, giving me plenty of bruised lips and sore tongues, but always a full stomach. Given his age, Paul’s sex drive was almost preternaturally high, so during certain weeks I was sucking him off as frequently as two or three times a day. To a fag like me, all this was a small piece of heaven. By working cooperatively, he was a well-tuned sexual machine, and I was a satisfied, cocksucking cum junkie.
As a cum junkie, eating my own wouldn’t do. It simply had no potency. It’s like giving yourself a massage: possible, but not really fulfilling. I was a cum addict, tried and true, and only Paul could produce the magic elixir I so desperately desired. Only Paul’s testicles and prostate could mix it for me. Only Paul’s penis could pour it into my waiting mouth. He was my bartender, I his most frequent customer. It would not be overstating it to say that, over the course of my entire senior year, I drank Paul’s cum by the gallon. In my fantasies, of course, he shot it out like water from a garden hose, enough not just to drink but to bathe in. In real life, he produced a copious load, easily enough for a good tablespoonful, somewhat less on the second or third rounds if we got that far. His balls were large and active, and since he never needed to jack off, I figured there wasn’t a load he spilled, except when he was with one of his girlfriends, that didn’t go down my throat.
My own orgasm was never really an issue because, for one, it was of secondary importance to Paul’s, and, for another, it often occurred simultaneously with his. So I could avoid the mess I’d run into the first few times, Paul initially let me take my clothes off while I sucked on him, though he never moved beyond the casual disinterest he showed the first time he saw me naked. But the only problem was that I am a shooter, so after I got my own cum on him one too many times, he gave me an old sock to wear. The elastic was tight enough that with the end of it rolled up to the ankle, I could slip it over my cock and balls without it falling off. Eventually an understanding grew between us that whenever I was with Paul, I’d be wearing his sock. If I forgot, I couldn’t be naked and the stain on my clothes was my own problem.
As you can imagine, I came a lot in that sock. Though I produced much less cum per climax than Paul, the sock quickly became yellow, crusty, and foul with layers of my own semen. Nevertheless, I loved wearing it. It’s not that I had a big foot fetish, though Paul had beautiful feet and I loved to rub them and lick them very much, but since it was Paul’s own sock, wearing it made me feel close to him. Often, I’d wear it all day long, relishing the feel of the tight ring around my balls and the coarse embrace surrounding my dick. I quickly learned how to jack off after our first few weeks together, and frequently, especially on those days when Paul for whatever reason was too busy to make me suck him, I’d jack myself into it three or four times, almost crazy with desire for Paul. In fact, jacking off into that sock was the only way I masturbated, and, as I still have it, sometimes I use it even now.
Paul’s favorite position was one he’d first assumed with me. I’d lay on my back, with my head tilted backward to make my throat straighten out. Then he’d mount me, leaning forward over my chest and stomach, planting his knees on either side of my head. It was a difficult position to assume on his bed, but sometimes he’d stand at the edge and take me that way, or else we’d do it on the floor. I enjoyed deepthroating him in this position. Generally he’d shoot his load directly into my esophagus, pulling out in time for me to taste the last few spurts. He knew I enjoyed tasting his semen, so I always took that as a sign of his consideration. But my favorite position by far was anything that had me kneeling in front of him. I wanted to look up into his eyes while I sucked on him, look at the ecstasy on his face while he came, and feel his power.
Because Matt took frequent, though friendly and casual, interest in my activities and whereabouts, hiding our activities from him sometimes proved difficult, and I had to become adept at lying. Given that I was living several lies, telling them soon proved easy. Eventually, though, Paul and I developed a typical routine in our schedules. Paul’s only sport was baseball, which was not a high school sport and was played only in the summer season, so after school he worked out for an hour or so and then came home. Matt played fall football and spring basketball in addition to baseball, and after school practice for both was generally two or three hours. I didn’t play any sport, but frequently spent an hour or so after school at my Latin tutorial. This meant that Paul and I arrived home about the same time. He would take a shower, call me up, and I’d go over to his room. When Matt arrived home, we were generally long finished.
The added benefit of our arrangement was that Paul and I started spending time together nearly every day. We grew more and more comfortable with each other, and, aside from my cocksucking, eventually we were just two guys hanging out, talking about everything under the sun. We weren’t exactly close friends, in that we made plans to do things together, and there was still only one main activity between us, which we didn’t talk about. But we did grow used to each other’s company and began to take an interest in what was going on in each other’s lives. In addition, Matt grew accustomed to seeing us together. When he got home from practice, I was usually there hanging out with Paul. We always let Matt believe that I was there waiting for him, and when he arrived, I’d hang out with Matt and generally not see Paul again until the next day. But Matt did come to see that at least we were relaxed and getting along well together.
One particular day stands out as a milestone in the relationship between Paul and me. About three quarters into the school year, in late March, I think, Paul called me on the telephone after a particularly hard workout at the gym and told me to come up to his room. Both Matt and his parents were gone, and he wanted me to come over and suck him off. Sure. No problem. I crossed the street, went up to his room, and found him just out of the shower, completely nude and lying face up on his bed. His head was pressed back into his pillow, thighs spread apart, eyes closed, and he was slowly jacking himself off.
“Hi. I kind of started without you,” he said when I walked in. “Now that you’re here, you can take over.” He made no movement, so I figured that he wanted me to blow him just as he was. I got up on the bed, knelt between his legs, and went to work. It was something I had done hundreds of times by now, so I didn’t expect anything beyond the usual routine. However, Paul, who had learned to be very quiet, even to make no noise at all while I blew him, started moaning loudly. I was doing a particularly good job, and this was going to be a particularly abundant release for him. Wanting him to last as long as possible, I took a break from his cock and started licking his balls, another activity I had become particularly fond of.
“No, please,” he whimpered. “Don’t stop. Finish me off. Please finish me off.” The sexual rush was almost too much for him, but I continued on my merry way, at my own pace. His pleading became almost unrelenting, and I was afraid he’d sit up and force my head down onto him any second. But he was just too worn out from the workout to exert his authority like he normally did. Instead, he continued to spread his thighs and keep his knees pointed up, giving me clear access. I played tenderly with each testicle, licking, sucking, caressing each one. Paul had hair on his scrotum, of course, but not so much that loose strands always ended up in my mouth, so I loved to twirl the hairs around with my tongue. I also teased him with several long, slow licks, from the bottom of his ball sack to the tip of his raging penis, where I was always rewarded with a few drops of slippery precum. Paul’s whole body quivered in anticipation, and he begged me to finish him off, but I had no desire to hurry him along. Torturing him this way was new to me, and I was enjoying it.
Then I discovered something I’d never noticed before. While licking Paul’s testicles, my tongue found its way down to the soft, downy plain between his legs. And I didn’t just use the tip of my tongue. Rather, I stuck it all the way out and pressed it flat against his skin, with my nose pressed hard into his nuts. I slowly rubbed back and forth, lathering the whole area with my saliva. Licking him there was incredibly erotic, and Paul started to go wild, pounding his fists into the bed, jerking his head from side to side. He became an animal, no longer the master, no longer the one in total control. Here was a something new in my whole approach to cocksucking. Before, I had always been the subservient one, bowing to Paul in animal-like submission. But now I had the power. He was under my control, and there was nothing he could do about it. If I stopped, he would be the one to suffer (though he’d be mighty pissed later on). And if I continued, it seemed like my reward to him, not his to me. The implications of it all hit me square in the face. Why hadn’t I realized this before?
I stopped licking. Paul sat up almost instantly. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “Don’t stop! Please, don’t stop! You’ve got to keep going. Please! I’ll do anything you want, just keep going!” To my utter surprise, he was begging me, pleading with me. As though his very fate were in my hands.
“You’ll do anything I want?” I asked. He responded immediately.
“Yes! Anything! Just don’t stop!”
I don’t think Paul really understood in that moment what he’d done. If he were in a normal state of mind, there’s no way he’d agree to do anything I asked. Maybe some things, small things, but not anything. His lust had finally betrayed him, betrayed his lack of control and, so it seemed to me, his momentary dependence.
I asked him again, and he renewed his promise, so I continued to lick. Paul continued to go wild. Eventually, he lifted his legs up higher so I could have better access to the tender spot behind his testicles. Then, he simply pulled his thighs to his chest and held them there with his arms. I was shocked. He’d completely exposed his most private area to me, something he’d never done before. It’s like the thing a wolf will do in exposing its belly to a superior member of the pack, something I had seen in films in science class. An unmistakable act of complete deference and total capitulation. Yes, I thought, he will do anything I ask.
As you would expect, my tongue eventually found its way into the crack between Paul’s buttocks, and to the quivering rosebud ringed in light blond hairs nestling between them. What I was about to do seemed perfectly natural to me, and I pursued my goal without a moment’s hesitation. First, I teased it playfully, poking it with my tongue and kissing it with my lips. It had a sweet, soapy taste and a scent, like the entirety of Paul’s genitalia, of tangy musk. I dragged my tongue flat against it, and made several long slow licks up his crack and over the back of his balls. Then I made a kind of game of pasting down the curly hairs surrounding this fleshy blossom with my spit, eventually getting them all lined up in a counterclockwise swirl. Finally, I pressed my own lips in a tight seal around these lips, forcefully sucking them and then frenching them with my tongue. With each contraction, Paul kissed me back, inviting me in a way his other mouth could never do. As Paul relaxed, I entered him with ease, pushing myself in as deeply as possible, tonguing the warm, wet recesses of his cherry. He was whimpering and moaning now, squeezing my tongue with each successive gasp, steady tears of overwhelming pleasure rolling from the corners of his eyes into the pillow. Weak with a combination of physical fatigue and desire, Paul was mine, body and mind.
I now realize that had I wanted to, I could have fucked him, and part of me wishes that I had. I guess I should have, for that’s certainly one more thing, if done differently, that would have changed the outcome of our relationship together. But that would be to exert a kind of dominance I’d never be capable of, certainly not with Paul anyway. And strangely, while Paul was quaking there in the throes of sexual desire, I felt almost none whatsoever. That sounds bizarre to me even now, but at the time I didn’t even have a hard-on. Instead, I was enraptured by a newfound psychological power, one I was more interested in exploring. I was, of course, still motivated by my desire to pleasure Paul and bring him to orgasm, but for the first time, I was the active, rather than the passive, partner in the endeavor. Yes, Paul was going to get off that day, but I was going to see it done my way. His semen would find its way out when I wanted it to, not when Paul did. I was in control, and he was at my mercy.
So I slobbered up the first two fingers of my left hand and penetrated him as deeply as I could. I gave him no warning, no time to prepare. Just slipped in up to my knuckles.
“Oh, fuck!” Paul shouted, trying to lift his head so he could see what was going on. “What are you doing? What are you doing?” There was a great deal of fear in his voice, and he pushed hard in an attempt to force me out. But we’d crossed a frontier, one he never thought possible before, and finding himself on the other side, Paul realized there was no chance of turning back.
The pain he felt was evident on his face, and now the tears really began to flow. His dick quickly went soft, and he broke out in a shaky voice, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit...” I reassured him in a calm, comforting voice: “Shhh... you’re going to be okay. Just hold still and relax. This will feel great.” I parted my fingers and twisted my wrist a little to make him feel the depth of my invasion, to make him realize the extent of his powerlessness. Paul was a trooper. He stayed on his back and kept his thighs pressed into his chest, tightly hugging his knees for the difficult ride ahead.
I did everything by instinct, having no prior familiarity with this myself, but I was able to make Paul’s first experience of penetration a pleasant one. I started slowly at first. Paul, having never been so violated, was naturally tight, and he continued to instinctively clench his muscles together to try to repel my intrusion. In an effort to calm him down, I used my right hand to stroke his folded legs, rub his sides, and caress his cock and balls. I continued to reassure him in a soothing voice that everything was going to be all right. I told him what a stud I thought he was, how beautiful his body was to me, how much I enjoyed pleasuring him. Never once did I pull my fingers all the way out, though I know Paul desperately wanted me to at first.
But eventually, he began to relax as the pain melted into pleasure once again, and his body began to lubricate its unexpected invader. I loosened him up, found the firmness of his prostate, and slowly stroked his returning erection. When he was fully hard, Paul began to rock himself back and forth, pushing my fingers further in and gently slipping his cock through the loosely clenched fist of my right hand. His moans of ecstasy returned, and soon he simply grunted like an animal in heat, a creature responding only to the imperative of his lust. Eventually, I figured out how to grab on to the base of Paul’s pelvis, my first two fingers inside of him and wedged against his prostate, and my thumb pressed up into the base of his cock and balls on the outside. In this way, I finger-fucked him with unrelenting vigor, jabbing my thumb into his ball sack and bringing him to the point of painful exhaustion. His anal lips were blood red and beginning to chafe, and the head and shaft of his cock, which except for his precum I’d been jacking dry, nearly the same. I was ready for Paul to shoot his load.
The whole time I was on my knees. Briskly, I worked Paul into an orgasm, waiting to the very last moment to lean forward to engulf his cock in the warm, wet recesses of my mouth. I enjoyed swallowing this load almost more than any other, mainly because there was so much of it. He blew instantly, his prostrate contracting against the tips of my fingers, his asshole squeezing around them as hard as it could, his piss slit gaping open against the roughness of my tongue as it vomited out an unrelenting flood of blindly determined sperm. Paul threw his feet down into the bed and lifted his hips upward, ramming his cock further into my mouth and my fingers even harder into his prostate. His eyes were as japanese as they could possibly be, his fists and toes clenched tight, his mouth wide open, and his diaphragm fighting to steal a few short, jerky inhalations. Then Paul just screamed, a great, shrieking, ear-piercing wail, louder than I expected, loud enough to be heard in the street. A passerby would have thought someone had just been murdered, and I’m sure someone out there must have taken pause. His balls were as tight up against his body as I’d ever seen, his prostate jerking itself toward collapse, the filling of each spewing out into my mouth. Paul emptied out everything he had to give, following up with half a dozen dry heaves. It was without a doubt the most explosive climax of his entire life.
What’s more, this was the first time anyone had penetrated Paul, and I did so without his permission. Given the way he responded, both of us could come to only one momentous and inescapable conclusion: Paul loved every second of it.
When his orgasm was over, Paul was completely overwhelmed. He dropped his hips to the bed, my fingers still inside him and my lips still surrounding his rock hard cock, and grabbed the pillow from beneath his head. He was gasping for breath, yet with both arms he smothered his face. And then I heard what sounded like muffled sobs. It surprised me, and at first I thought I’d injured him. But I quickly realized the reason for his reaction: he had reached, and surpassed, his physical, sexual, and emotional limits. The power, and pleasure, of his release was simply beyond expectation, and what seemed to be the entire content of his heart came flowing out. I had been a good boy, more so than ever before. He’d risen above the limits of his own physical awareness, soared blissfully among the clouds, and been annihilated by his descent into oblivion. Facilitating that process, serving him in that way, fulfilled me more than anything in life ever had. I felt vigorous and alive, as though there was cum coursing through my veins.
To me, now no barriers remained between us, for nothing could be more intimate than the knowledge of Paul I know possessed. He had no secrets greater than what I’d just seen, nothing more private than what now lay exposed. Immensely pleased with my work, I swallowed the remainder of his cum, slipped my fingers from his body, and used his bath towel, still clinging to the corner of his bed, to wipe them clean of mucous and a little blood. Then I took Paul in my arms and held him as he collected himself, cradling him into my body the way Matt had done to me. His entire body was slick with sweat, and as he cooled, he began to tremble a little. I wrapped the bed sheet around us, and he curled up into me in a fetal position. Paul seemed as weak and as vulnerable as a baby. Muscular and heavy against me, but so exposed and so beautiful in his nakedness. As I rocked him, rubbed his body, kissed his head tenderly, and stroked his hair, he wrapped his arms around me and drifted off to sleep.
In allowing himself to be so completely vulnerable, so completely free and beyond shame, Paul gave me one of the most significant experiences of my life. I had discovered a kind of personal telos in it all, a deep meaningfulness at the very core of my existence. And the paradox of it all was what emerged in my noumenal conceptualization of Paul. Whereas before he appeared godlike to me, how utterly normal he now seemed. How unreservedly human. I couldn’t help but watch him as he slept and repeat his name over and over in my mind. My beautiful Paul. My love, my love. My love, Paul.
Look for “Chapter Six. Mutually Agreeable Positions.”
Comments may be sent to paulsgoodboy@hotmail.com.
Author’s Note: This chapter takes us about midway through “A Service Out of the Ordinary, Part One.” Many thanks to those of you who have taken the time to read and respond. I write back to everyone who writes to me (except some bastard in the UK who put this email address on a solicitation list). Reaction to the story has been both encouraging and disapproving, to which, on both accounts, I can only say that the story speaks for itself. I hope you like it, but if you don’t... well, read something else. Much more is to come in the lives of these characters, both good and bad—so I guess there will be something for everyone. If you're in for the long haul, like me, I only hope you find it worth your time the way I do. Also, if you’re checking this thread frequently for new chapters, I generally post on the weekends, about every week or two. But the next chapter may be a long time in coming, as I’ve been pretty sick recently and want to focus my energy on getting better, finishing my medication, avoiding pneumonia, etc. Cheers.