“Even if I don’t really know what to do with it.” I squeeze him and his breath hitches. “Or maybe I do.”
“You know enough,” he gives me and he’s on my mouth again, while thrusting up into the palm of my hand.
I love this too. The banter. The teasing. The camaraderie.
Was it ever like this with women? With Kris? Sex with Kris was never lacking, but on reflection maybe that had more to do with my expectations than anything else. In that, I didn’t really have any. I was happy with what we had, what we did. I didn’t expect a lot – quickies every few weeks were fine for me – and I thought the fact that we enjoyed doing other things together more – video games, watching films, cooking together – was a sign that we were in a real relationship. The only times I didn’t enjoy sex with Kris was towards the end when I felt her pull away, when I could tell that something didn’t feel good to her.
Passionate, occasionally rough, sometimes a bit kinky, sex after Kris was what I did on one-night stands or during situationships that lasted a little longer. But with those women, I didn’t have the other side of the equation. I didn’t find myself wanting to spend time with them after we’d both come. I didn’t always ask them out for dinner or drinks, and if I did, it didn’t shatter my heart when they said no, or if, like that date with Daisy, that only resulted in me realising how little we had in common.
But this feels different. Yes, it feels different because Giles is approximately twice the body weight of anyone who has ever laid on top of me, and his is the first erection I’ve had thrust up against me, but there’s so much more to it.
I feel like we have both: the sexual connection and the friendship. We get on together. We enjoy each other’s company and then there’s this… this passion between us. Maybe this is what it’s always like for Giles. Maybe this is what it’s like between all men everywhere, although I seriously doubt it. And I don’t want to think about that. I want to fool myself that it’s only like this between us. That Giles doesn’t have this kind of connection with just any guy.
“Can I fuck you, Giles?” I ask him, because suddenly I’m desperate for him. I have to know that he wants this as much as I do. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yeah,” he says so breathlessly it sounds like a song. “I want you, Marcello.”
I know he’s talking about sex. About fucking. About penetration. About my dick going up his arse. But I’m going to fool myself a little more that he means something else. That he wants me in the same way I want him, like he can’t get enough of me, like this is so much more than him showing me what sex is like with another man.
I move my hand to undo his trousers, but I fumble, repeatedly, so he rolls to his side so he can help. We both look down as he undoes them and pushes them down his hips. He comes up on a side plank – because of course he does – to slide them down his legs and I take a moment to admire the bulge in his tight white boxers.
As tempting as it is to play with his hard length to see if I can illicit more little gasps from him, my mind, and my hand, wander around his hips and grab hold of one of his butt cheeks. Yet again its firmness and roundness and fullness all take me by surprise.
With his trousers discarded, Giles brings a hand to the back of my head and pulls my mouth back onto his. I take full advantage of this closeness to let my hand roll over his backside and find the crease in the middle. I run a finger up and down the tight valley there, pushing down until I find what I’m looking for.
And if I wasn’t certain from what I can feel, I’m very assured by his reaction. A long moan rumbles through him and he freezes, his tongue lost in my mouth.
I pull back so I can watch his face. “Does it feel good if I touch you here, Giles?”
His eyelids flutter. Actually flutter. I am hand-on-heart confident I have never made a woman’s eyelids flutter before, and I like it. I like it too damn much.
He nods.
“Words, Giles, I need your words,” I tell him, my voice gruff and bossy, but I’m starting to realise just how much Giles likes that.
“Fuck, Marcello, yes, it feels good,” he says in little more than a whisper. “Please touch me more.”
It’s good enough, and it’s definitely consent, so I lift my hand up and slide it inside his underwear and resume my journey down his crease, this time from the top down. When I find that tight knot of his, he shudders again and I press down on him.
“I bet you’re tight and strong, even here,” I tell him. Yes, I want a reaction from him – more shudders, more gasps, more of his pretty eyelids fluttering – but it’s also the truth. I haven’t found a part of his body that is soft or giving or less than fucking perfect.
He thrusts up into the pad of my finger that is covering his hole. “More,” he grits out. “Please, more.”
I kiss him with a hunger that feels angry, rageful as I pull down his boxers. At least I try but they get stuck on something and I break our kissand look down to investigate. His dick. They’ve got caught up on his hard cock that is pointing at the ceiling.
“Well, I’m definitely not used to that,” I say partly to myself, but it makes him look down too.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he mumbles.
I grip his penis, hard, but keep my eyes on his. “Why are you fucking sorry? Look at you. Never apologise for this beautiful dick.”
He blinks at me. “You think it’s beautiful?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Maybe you don’t need any more lessons from me, then. You seem pretty queer to me,” he says and when he smiles up at me it looks somewhat forced.
“I still don’t know what I’m doing with it,” I say and I start to stroke, half-hoping that I am clumsy in doing so, just to prove my point.
