“Why?” I asked.
“Thought you might like it.”
I did like it—your smooth nakedness on display, ideal for caressing with my tongue.
“Why would you think that?” I asked and noticed your hand falter. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Your eyes lit up as you stroked yourself with fervor. “I had a dream about it,” you said wistfully. Your head tilted backward, and you bared the taut tendons of your throat. You must know what that did to me, to any of our kind. How could you not?
“Tell me about it,” I said, taking another hazardous step toward you.
“I was lying in your bed, and you were shaving me with a straight razor.”
“Was I?”
You nodded. “I’d been wearing that bathing suit.”
“What bathing suit?” I asked, confused.
“Orlando’s.” Your eyes opened and locked on mine. “And then you cut me, or I cut myself, and you fed on my blood.”
That wasn’t a dream; it was a memory.
“That’s very… detailed.”
You hummed softly. “But we were in other people’s bodies. I was Orlando and you were Papa. Were they lovers too?”
I blinked and stuttered. “I don’t think… no. Not exactly.”
You shook your head, disappointed by my stumbling answer. But not angry, if the smirk on your face was any indication. “You’re hiding something, Henri,” you taunted.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from your unflinching gaze. How might I escape this conversation? Run like a coward and lock myself in the bathroom? My sins threatened to spill over, and there was no scenario I could envision where you’d understand, much less forgive me.
I dropped to my knees and stared up at you. You questioned me with a look. I needed, in this moment, to serve you.
“May I?” I asked.
You nodded, still with a look of disbelief, so I pulled you close enough to lick the savory syrup that had collected at the tip of your cockhead. Your hand halted, still gripping your shaft, and you stared down at me with a stunned expression. For all of your erotic persuasions, you were still very innocent. Slowly, I twined your slender fingers with mine, and pulled your hand away.
“Is this okay?”
You nodded again, slack-jawed and open-mouthed. I nosed your scrotum, inhaled the chlorine from the pool and your natural spiced scent. The skin was tight there, ribbed, and tender. Ultra-sensitive to the stroke of my tongue as I licked you in slow, leisurely circuits. I drew one violet-hued plum into my mouth, delicately, so as not to cut you, and then the other. Your skin was aromatic as ripened fruit, something to be savored, eternally.
“Henri,” you moaned as your fingers raked through my hair.
I pulled back. “Yes, my love?”
You scowled. “Don’t stop.”
I drew back your foreskin with my finger and thumb and teased your corona with my tongue, poking the receptive bundle of nerves of your frenulum. I peppered your smooth cockhead with shallow kisses while you thrust, aiming for my mouth and missing. When your sweet murmurings grew frustrated, I swallowed you whole, until your fleshy head kissed the back of my throat and my nose was buried in your smooth groin. I looked up to see the blacks of your pupils spilled like squid ink.
“Please,” you said, so sweetly beseeching.
I squeezed your glutes and sucked you down again. Your hips jutted forward with the gentlest pressure. I didn’t want you to be timid with me, so I pulled away and placed a chaste kiss against your silken thigh.
“Don’t hold back,” I said as encouragement. “Use my mouth, and if it pleases you, empty yourself in my throat.”
You nodded, dumb with lust, and when I swallowed you again, you weren’t so timid. The first few thrusts were experimental, but it didn’t take long for you to work yourself into a rhythm. Your exaltations were a fevered mixture of grunts and swears and plaintive cries, intermingled with my name in a note that spoke to a long-tended yearning. You were not gentle with my throat, but I hardly minded the discomfort. I lubricated my forefinger with my own slick and used it to tease your hole. I wanted to penetrate you, so that I might feel your heart beating on two fronts as it stuttered into ecstasy.
