“Stroke me, please,” I say and there’s no denying just how desperate that sounded.
But Marcello doesn’t move his hand. It twitches slightly, but doesn’t move.
“How do you like to be touched?” he asks eventually.
I can’t think. I can’t put words together in a logical order. I can’t answer his question despite thirty-odd years of successfully touching myself to orgasm nearly every damn day.
“Don’t be gentle,” I finally say. It’s not because I don’t like that – I do, a lot, a worrying amount – but because I don’t want Marcello to be afraid. I don’t want him to be half as self-conscious as I’m feeling right now. I want him to be confident without worrying about hurting me or being too rough. I also don’t think I could survive him being gentle or tender with me right now.
As if to test what I just said, he squeezes a little harder and then moves his grip up my dick.
“Oh,” I say. It’s all I can say. It feels good. It feelssofucking good. I close my eyes as his hand reaches the head of cock and then slowly descends again. Thankfully, mercifully, I can practically feel the flood of my niggling negative thoughts start to recede.
“Do you have some lube or something handy?” Marcello’s question comes out of nowhere, interrupting the progress I feel I was making in surrendering to this moment.
“Err.” I sit up a little straighter. “I don’t think so. Not in here.”
“Okay, I just don’t want to hurt you. I usually masturbate with a lot of lube.”
I don’t know why but his confession has my balls tightening. The thought, theimageof Marcello stroking himself off with that long veiny thick dick glistening with lube. I swallow.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It feels good as it is.”
“You’re sure?” He resumes his strokes.
“Yeah,” I say and I close my eyes again because looking at his fist wrapped around my dick is a little too much.
It’s probably because it’s been months since another human has touched my penis, I tell myself. It’s because I was already so turned on when I was on my knees in front of him, his dick filling my mouth and my throat. But then I have a thought that is louder than both of these: it’s because it’s Marcello. It’s because it’s Marcello. It doesn’t matter that his strokes, which are consistent at best, perfunctory at worst, feel a little haphazard, a little awkward. It’s because it’s Marcello that’s getting me closer and closer. And I don’t want to come. Not yet. I don’t want this to end.
“Stop.” I wrap my fingers around his wrist and he stills.
“Is it… Does it not feel good?”
I laugh. A great ugly scoff of a laugh. Because the very opposite is true. It feels too good. Not expert. Not smooth. Not even exactly how I like to be touched or the pace I liked to be stroked. But it’s enough. Whatever he’s doing, it’s working.
“It’s… fine,” I say. “I’m just… Not very comfortable.”
I fidget as if to prove my point and I feel Marcello’s body shift backwards to give me more space, but that is not what I want. If anything I want to be closer to him.
“Could you…” I suck in a harsh breath. “Could you touch my body?”
“While you touch your dick?” he asks.
“I mean, yeah, I could do that.” That’s not what I had in mind. Not at all. I wanted his hand off my cock so I don’t come to soon, but now I’m too self-conscious to tell him that I just needed a break because of how good it felt. I open my mouth to say anything, anything but that but Marcello is quicker.
“Because you’ll know how to do it better than me. And then I can watch.” Marcello thinks he’s explaining for me. He thinks that’s what I want. “This way I can watch and learn how to make you come.”
Fuck.Despite myself, despite what I really want – his hand on me, making me come – I can’t deny how hot it is hearing him say that.
His hand leaves my dick and both of his warm palms slide up my abs and to my pecs. His skin feels both smooth and coarse, a couple of calluses bringing friction to the glide of his skin on mine. One of his hands grips my pectoral muscle with open fingers, and squeezes, like he’s weighing it. With his other hand he pinches my nipple, rolling it around between his thumb and forefinger and a firework of tingles erupt, spreading all over my body.
A short huff of a laugh moves his chest which I’ve come to lay back against once more.
“What?” I ask. Is he laughing at me? At my body?
“I’m playing with your pecs like they’re a pair of tits.” He chuckles again. “I really am so clueless.”
“You’re really not,” I say with firmness. “I like having my nipples played with.”
