It was like an itch that needed to be scratched. I hadn't gotten any in some time, and I felt tense, on alert. It seemed the simplest of things would arouse me. I was on edge all the time. But respite was avoiding me.
There was a simpler time. Back in High School, my hostel warden introduced me to love. He, being older, passed on the torch and taught me the ways. He was almost 50, and I was 19. We were similar, him and I. He called me one day to his house, and asked me whether I pleasured myself, whether I had a girl or boyfriend, and whether I was acquainted with the world of love. I replied yes, no and no, and he, sensing my arousal, put his hand on my thigh and gently slid it across my crotch. Only a few gentle rubs made me ejaculate in my pants. He smiled, took my pants off, and helped me clean up. He showed me how to pleasure him with my mouth, and ejaculated in my mouth. I loved how his seed tasted and felt, and it developed my taste for cum, as over the next two years he would feed me his seed regularly.
In the days that followed he showed me how to wax my entire body smooth for him. He understood the libido of young men, and made me ejaculate using his hand frequently during showers, before bed, and whenever we were alone. I eagerly looked forward to seeing him, and loved the feeling of his hand stroking my cock. At first he just used spit, but when we began having sex, he would lube my cock before making me cum multiple times. The memories of him stroking my cock to ejaculation are perhaps the most erotic experiences of my life, and I still get hard whenever I think about it.
We first made love about a week after that first encounter. It was erotic, romantic and exhilarating for me all at the same time. I was lying on my back, and ejaculated the instant he entered me. He was very experienced, and used plenty of lube, so that I didn't feel even a little bit uncomfortable. I have heard from many bottoms that they lose interest in sex after they cum, and don't like to continue afterwards. I've never felt this way. Maybe it's just me, or maybe it's the way that I've been groomed. Sex with him continued after I had ejaculated, and he would make me cum multiple times before he ejaculated in or on me, or in my mouth. Many times, we would have sex for hours many times a day. He would make me cum multiple times, but not cum himself. When he did cum, he would cum two or three times in a row, and then take a hiatus for a week or so. Then the cycle would repeat again.
In the beginning of our relationship we started with plain vanilla sex in the missionary position, but gradually we moved from me lying on my back under him to me in front of him on my hands and knees, and from plain vanilla to chocolate. Once, after I had cum on my belly, he scooped up my juices and made me lick his fingers. We both liked it, and it became a regular thing among us. He would collect my cum in his palm and I would lick it clean.
We explored other things. He loved it when I wore nothing but a waist chain and anklets during sex. He explored my submissive side. He stopped making me cum during sex, and after a month or so, I came when my cock rubbed between our bodies when he was on top of me. Eventually hands free orgasms became my only way of release.
For the next two years, I had sex regularly. We practically lived together. At that age, I was horny, but also sated, so I could also concentrate on studies and other things, and was very confident and happy.
I became deeply attached to him. Maybe I was falling in love with him, or had already fallen in love with him. I used to visit him after I left school, and still do from time to time.
It had been more than an year since I last had sex. I needed to cum, and I needed cum in me.
I was 21, and I was horny.
This was the background, in which I was told to visit Uncle Mohit for a few months.
Uncle Mohit was in his fifties, and lived alone. He never visited us, and I had maybe seen him once or twice. I didn't even remember what he looked like. He was, however, the only living relative we had. So it became that I had to live with him for a while.
Delhi was far away, so I took a train. It was a rainy day. Uncle came to pick me up at the railway station. I had seen him rarely, but he had sent a picture so I could recognize him. He was in his fifties, but fit and well built. He had a stubble, a face with sharp features and deep set eyes. His expression was intense and mysterious.
Water flowed through Delhi streets like a river wandering through uncharted terrains. People seeked cover from the downpour under anything they could find. Hawkers sold everything from cheap imitation sunglasses to pakodas and chai. We struggled along in the thick traffic in his small hatchback. Hoards of cars and people swayed under the Metro bridge. Some things change, some stay the same.
It took us around an hour to get to his apartment. His abode was a modest one bedroom studio on the fifth floor of a run down building. Still a good crib inthe heart of Delhi, I thought.
He was an avid smoker. This was apparent from the moment I entered his car. His place bore the signs of the same affliction. The bathroom was small - four by four feet, old, faded fittings, discoloured tiles from years of use. The shower - rusted - worked. There was a water heater too - great success.
The bedroom was small, and nearly completely occupied by a double bed. There was a television, and ash tray on the side table. A slightly bigger hall with a kitchen as an appendage completed the home tour. I was thankful for any accommodation, and this was as good as any.
A couch in the common hall would be my bed, said Uncle. I looked at it, and though a bit small, seemed adequate for the purpose.
I went for a bath in the shower before anything else, to get that travel dirt off of me. The water was heated well enough by the ageing heater, and I felt good under the hot shower. As i stepped out of the bath, I saw a young man sitting on the couch. He was around my age, probably a bit younger, maybe 19 or 20 years old. Uncle introduced him as his friend, though why he had a friend less than half his age I couldn't fathom. I was tired, and after a light dinner, I retired to my couch, and Uncle and his friend watched TV in his room. I was snoring as soon as my head hit the old pillow.
I dreamt I was sailing in a ship, going down a river. My eyes opened with a strong urge to mark Uncle's couch as my own. I wandered sleepily down the hall into the toilet, and as I was relieving myself, I heard a muffled groan coming from Uncle's room. It was as if someone was trying to stop themselves from making a noise, although unsuccessfully. Someone might be ill or in pain, I thought, so I wandered down to Uncle's room to see if maybe I could be of any help.
