Used

Used-4

by Charles Bryant

Where to go from here? was the question uppermost in my mind after my trip with Stan to Brighton. I am not talking about physical location, like one might be planning a yet further trip. The where? referred to my relationship with my man Stan. Always I was playing with that rhyme, Stan the man. By which I meant of course to imply a question more than a statement. Was Stan the man he pretended to be? Or was there an active and potent female element at work here. Of course active and potent are words more commonly applied to the male situation. But I had aroused the other side of Stan the man. I was intrigued both by his reponses and my own.

The more the female stirred in him, the more male he seemed to be. Or do I merely mean that he was now doubly attractive to me?

He was doubly attractive. He seemed like a wonder.

I awoke before him on the following morning. He lay face down on the bed next to me, the clothes half off him. His broad shoulders, the bulge of his biceps, the small neat muscular waist, the curve of his buns, the thick thighs just showing above the bedcover - all this was male, potently male, smelling of man and manflesh. And yet I had entered him, as a man enters (I suppose, for I have never done it) a woman.

I realised that I had entered a curiously asexual world, one in which the male and female labels became mixed. Here was I, who loved only men and who was presumably therefore of a female inclination, acting as the rampant male towards my male partner who himself had seemed to prefer women. And the more male, the more butch, he was, the stronger my desire.

He lay with his face away from me. I half raised myself so that I could see his sleeping face and bending over him my breath stirred his short black hair. His profile was a wonder and I followed the line of it with my eyes and when I reached the pouting lips and the small chin my cock was hard, upright, throbbing. My Stan. My man. I leaned across him and kissed his sleeping face and the touch of my face and body against his, and the warm sweet smell of him, was almost too much.

My movement woke him and he turned. His eyes flickered open, sleepy brown eyes. He looked at me and smiled. We slipped into each others warm embrace and there was no resistance at all as my lips opened against his.

"My arse is sore," was the first thing he said. Then, "It feels as if your cock is still inside me."

"Is it a nice feeling?"

"It's different. I never done that before."

"Will you ever do it again?"

"With you perhaps, Milesey. No one else. I ain't no tart."

"I know. I wouldn't fancy you if you were a tart."

"So you fancy me now?"

Our kisses and embraces answered his question. It was so intense and I felt so peculiar, as if I were a Martian and were looking at all this from a distant, Martian perspective. As if I was outside myself, watching.

During our embraces my palms were continually stroking against Stan's lovely soft buns and could sense him clenching himself there as if holding something precious inside him. He had melted so far as no longer to resist when my kisses grew longer and more passionate and our embraces hotter and harder. We squirmed together like two mating snakes. Eventually our coilings found me pressed against Stan's back. He resisted the pressure of my cock and tried to push me away, but I persisted, wanting so much to sink myself inside him, to possess him, to melt with him. My hands gently stroked his tits and he pushed out his chest the better to enjoy my fingering and fondling. And in doing this he backed his silky buns against my thighs and cock.

I whispered in his ear what I had never said before. "I'm mad about you Stan. I'm crazy about your gorgeous body and your beautiful face. I want you Stan. I want you so much darling."

"But I'm not queer Milesey, you know that."

"I know it. And you know it. But what if it's OK for guys to love each other?"

My hands were stroking his tits harder and I had lubed up my cock with my own spit and was pushing against Stan's delicious floret.

"It's not love Milesey darling. It can't be"

"You called me 'darling' Stan," I warned him urgently. "I think you do love me as I love you."

He groaned, as if giving way, letting it all go. "But I love women Miles. I do love women."

My cock was entering him again and he was shuddering with pleasure. My hand softly shuttled his cock, not too hard, because already he was near to orgasm.

"Well of course you love women and you are a beautiful masculine man, and that's why I adore you so much. But it don't mean everything else is taboo. Imagine fucking a woman's fanny while I fuck you."

"Oh yes, yes," he said breathlessly.

"But if it upsets you too much..." I began to withdraw my cock.

"No, no, it's all right," he said in panic and pushed his arse against me again.

I was feeling perverse and now withdrew completely and lay back against the pillows. "No Stan, you are right. This has got too queer for our own good. We have to stop now."

He turned and looked at me, astonishment written all over his face. "But Milesey..."

"Look Stan, this has to stop. It has to stop because I am falling in love with you, and that is queer, as you so rightly said. If it goes on much longer I will be unable to control myself any more."

I turned from him, turned my back on him.

There was a long pause and I could feel his breath against my back. His hand rested limply against my shoulder. His cock, not quite so limp, was vibrating slowly against my thigh.

The silence seemed electric, as if something was about to burst - thunder, lightning, hail and rain, a brooding tornado ready to sweep the world away. That was how I felt. But still detached in that former curious Martian manner.

He laid one of his heavy and delicious thighs over my legs and now I could feel his cock against my crack. His face was next to mine. "You said you love me..." he questioned.

I turned into his arms. "I can't help it," I moaned. "If it's queer to love you, then I am queer. After what we've done together Stan, it's inevitable. Your body is so precious to me, so sexy. Your face..."

I buried my face into his meaty shoulder, wracked by sobs that were not altogether theatrical. I was losing my cool.

Stan was still and close, hugging me to him.

"If it's so bad to be gay, Stan, why does it feel so good?"

This thought hit Stan right between the eyes and he fell back, stunned, and gazed up at the ceiling.

"It does feel good, Milesey, don't it? Fucking good." Then, laughing and recovering, "Fuckin fuckin good me ole mate!"

The dam had burst, just like that. For me too, as well as him, for I also had my doubts. But now they were behind me as the water surged and boiled over the stricken barrier.

There was no stopping Stan now. "Do what you were doing just now," he said. "It felt so good."

I moved against his back and my hand slid down to his hard cock. "I need to lube my cock," I said, fumbling.

"I'll do it for you." He turned and pushed me roughly back against the pillows and buried his beautiful face (because it was beautiful, achingly so) in my groin.

He licked and sucked and made me wet. He drew his licking mouth up across my belly and chest. He licked and tongued my tits. His wet mouth was against my own mouth for minutes. Then back down again to anoint my upright cock. Then turning and presenting his lewd arse for my entrance.

"Tell me you love me," I teased, just holding the tip of my dick in his hole.

He told me, passionately he told me how much and for how long and even beyond time, just like a dick-struck schoolgirl.

I held myself back and whispered cruelly in his ear, "Tell me how much you love this gay love. Ask me to fuck you, Stan. Beg me."

He pushed his arse right against me and my cock sunk deliciously half in his orifice. "I want it Miles, my darling, please please fuck me."

It was incredible. I could hardly believe it.

"Tell me you are my bitch, my own fuck-bitch."

He gazed over his shoulder at me with misty druggy eyes. "I am all yours Miles, my darling. Your fuck-bitch to do what you like with me."

Oh my Christ! He meant it! This was an aphodisiac beyond compare, impossible to buy. I pushed my cock right into him, making him groan. My hands brushed his tits tenderly and then one hand was around his cock, slowly wanking, then coming away and leaving his member quivering upright, in case he came. His chest was thrown out to receive the teasing love of my fingers on his lovely breasts. His arse was pushed back against me. He was an instrument of love, a singing instrument, as if I were the stroking bow to his violin, making him vibrate. How on earth had we come this far and all so suddenly?

The older I get (and I know I am not very old) the less surprised I am by what people want and do. There is no explanation for human behaviour and psychology is a joke. People just do what they do and that's that.

Now Stan was truly my man, and no less a man in my eyes than before. Truly, more, for now he had the courage to do his own thing, to throw off convention. Whereas before our trip to Brighton I had ridiculed his sense of his own manliness, now I admired - and loved. I loved him for letting me do what I did.

All this was subsumed, and given utterance, in the act of love. The words we used were coarse, but what we did, divine. Stan glowed like a god as he ran with me towards the common goal, fulfilment. I watched his every movement, every gesture, listened eagerly to every word and sigh. I was fascinated by Stan the manly and transfigured man. I began to tell him, throwing off all reserve, the extent and format of my adoration, and this turned him on the more.

I could not get close enough to him; could not get deep enough in him. He clutched at my arms which were crossed over his breast, my fingers twitching his upright nipples. I wanted to get inside his skin, to witness his whole existence and being. I bit and sucked his neck and as I felt my cummin beginning to build and envelop me, I dug my chin into his shoulder and shut my eyes, lost to sensation and nothing but sensation.

The barrier of skin against skin began to melt, we began to merge. I hugged him with all my might as my thrusts became more and more frantic and his groans and grunts the louder. His cock was rock hard and I yanked it in synchronous movements with my own deepened penetration of his rear. The blood was roaring in my ears, I felt dizzy, mad, still pushing towards release. Then in the final straight nature took me over and I became one with whatever urges us to sexual frenzy and fulfilment. "Stan! Stan!" was all I could find to say.

I felt it cummin like lightning flickering over a dark landscape, drawing nearer. This was as much a part of nature as the storm of matter. I knew that Stan too was walking that high up track through the rain and wind, and we held on to each other as the great duluge caught at our heels and overtook us - slowly, slowly, but inevitably. And then it burst upon us, both at once.

My seed shot into the body of my friend, again and again, and as it did so he too began to erupt and cum in my wet hand. We were both shivering as if in a malarial attack, shivering and wildly shooting, thrashing upon the bed like demented beings in a madhouse. It went on and on, and seemed unbearably intense, like electric aftershocks from the storm, again and again, and then a little less, and then less again. Until we at last were still, cold, fulfilled, embracing, loving, twice as loving as before, entwined.

After a while he turned into my arms and we kissed passionately, endlessly.

A happy ending? There is no such thing and life is not like that. A new beginning then? It was both ending and beginning. Same as every day. The fact was, almost immediately after this new turning in our relationship, Stan found himself a girlfriend.

It was weird. Seemed like my attempt to turn him into a woman had only reinforced his masculinity. Had it made me more girly? I began to wonder.

Stan said that it changed nothing between us, that he still loved me. He would never have said such a thing a few months ago. He loved shagging her and making love to her and the whole scent of soft and accepting romance that hung between them. The feminine in her brought out the masculine in him. She was so soft, she smelled so wonderful. Well, wasn't I soft and didn't I smell nice? (The most expensive and discreet aftershave I could afford. Sometimes some of my mother's delicious perfumes.)

I was round his place one afternoon and he was mooning over a pair of lacey panties she had left behind.

"Look at this," he said. "Ain't it delicious? Been nestling against her sweet fanny." And the sick cunt-struck bastard took a sniff.

I felt the material - only so that I could feel his hands through them and stand closer to him. They were made of a wonderful cream-coloured satin and had satin lace sewn into them. I observed that they would look delicious - on him.

He playfully held them in front of his jean-clad thighs.

I asked him to take his jeans off so that I could see the effect of the girly material against his skin. He had wonderful skin, smooth and sleek, and his thighs were superb, meaty but of a wonderful shape. No woman ever had such gorgeous legs as him.

He didn't like the suggestion, sensing a blending of the two seperate worlds, and became a bit offy. He put them over the back of a low armchair and sat down. I sensed he didn't want me there, that this was their place and I had no place in it. But I was not to be brushed off so easily.

I knelt before him and looked up into his warm brown eyes. Even his sulky mood left those bright sexy eyes undiminished in their sparkling. "Sorry," I said and laid my head in his lap, breathing the slightly cheesey musk of his unwashed underwear. I had washed and conditioned my hair that morning and knew that its bleached glory would soon entice his hands to start smoothing among my tresses, as inevitably happened. (He had told me I had lovely hair, that it was this that had first made him feel attracted towards me.)

I luxuriated under his carresses, like a cat. I licked his hands and sucked one of his fingers. I leaned forward and kissed his beautiful lips. He did not resist. He had had sex twice with Madelaine last night, but that was hardly sufficient for a randy stud like him. Sex brought out the need for more sex. He was at his peak, he said.

His cock had certainly peaked and i unzipped his jeans and pulled them down, pulling his pants down too after I had chewed on the outline of his hard member and made his underwear wet with my mouth, releasing more of his delicious vapour. Lazing back in his chair, looking down at my ministrations, he was rapidly melting. His thighs, their meat pushed up by the upholstery of the armchair, the balls cradled between these two superb mounds of smooth flesh, were a unique wonder, and I couldn't stop myself slowly licking up and down them, from shapely knee to rounded belly. And then I licked the muscle of the shaft.

He had his hand in my hair and was smiling down at me.

"Does Madelaine do this for you?" I asked with my prettiest pout.

He smiled. "No Milesey, she won't have nothing to do with it, thinks it's revolting."

"Shame," I purred, thinking what a silly cow.

"She hasn't got the mouth for it, like you," he mused with no sense of disloyalty towards her. My ears pricked up and I made a mental note.

I lay my whole body against him, my thighs on either side of his closed thighs, my upright cock rubbing and nudging against his meaty packet, my lips on his mouth. His arms were clenched around my torso, his bright eyes filled with dark glints of flickering passion. We seemed to be one person, or one thoughtless entity, and Madelaine was completely forgotten even though her knickers lay across the back of his chair. But then I saw them (they were next to my face) and I remembered her, and them, and the thought of his beautiful packet enclosed in that creamy satin. And then another thought, as his cock lay between my buns - of his cock inside me. So many wonderful images! And my empty mind flooded with sexy ideas.

"We are just at the beginning," I said. "There are so many things we have yet to try. It's like there was an undiscovered continent out there."

He smiled lazily, contentedly. "It's like my whole life just took off, Milesey. First I found you, and now I have Madelaine."

Wow! he had two continents to explore, whereas I had only him. But even as I thought this, the idea of Brandon slipped into consciousness, that gorgeous black guy whose card lay in a secret place in my room. Well, if dear old Stan could have doubled pleasures and opportunities, then why not me too?

For details of other stories by me and address for comments, see end of part 3.