We were sitting down on the only couch available. Marco’s knees were bent, with his right ankle resting atop his left knee. I was further to left and facing him when I straightened my leg and that’s pretty much all it took. Searching for a place to rest my weary feet, instead, I encountered the inside of his firm jean-clad thigh. Indeed, quite by chance, I stretched my calf by pointing my heel and that drew my toes back over the delectable curve of his crotch.
It all seemed to be taking place in a dreamscape for me until I heard Marco's sharp intake of breath. The startled whites of his eyes brought me back to myself. Perhaps it was the tang of the sea salt air, the subtle nature of the Baileys or even my own shadow demons, all-working in a newly found unification to battle my better judgment.
STOPPING however was the furthermost notion from my mind. It’s odd that because it really ought to have been. Let’s peruse the facts; I’m a straight, thirty-six year old red-blooded male, very happily playing the female field, so to speak. I couldn’t honestly even classify myself as bi-curious. Sorry, Folks. I have never felt compelled to sneak a surreptitious nor even gratuitous peak at the other lads’ tackle in the locker room after our weekly touch-footy match.
Well, there was that one Friday late last year when Jordan and I got into a rather prolonged and involved drinking game that ended with a Penis Comparison competition. Basically, swaying on our feet, we whipped out our goods in an effort to measure whose was longest. There was a bone of contention between us both in that Sally, a rather lovely local barmaid, had the audacity of announcing to all and sundry that our cocks were unconditionally bloody identical! To make a long, drunken story short, in lieu of a ruler being readily produced Jordie and I decided that the only way of reasonably measuring was to stand directly in front of each other, as close as possible.
Let’s just say that what began as friendly rivalry quickly degenerated as dicks expanded and a yen to wrestle took tenacious hold of us both, in a manly, bloke-to-bloke kind of way, of course. No harm, no foul, though Jordan and I have become a tad distant since that escapade. I’ve always written it off mentally as boys just being boys. But I wonder? With Marco it has ever been different.
To Marco my thoughts now turned. What would he have been thinking as my boots grazed almost imperceptibly over his package? Only God and the man himself might be qualified to answer that one. He is a single, openly gay man, thirty-four years old full of questions and not many answers. It reads like a description that could be generically applied to us all, n’est-ce pas?
M groaned out loud with lusty fervour and then rasped hesitantly at me, “What are you…doing to me?”
His voice brought me back to the moment. I hadn’t contemplated ceasing but I was pleased by his reaction. I love pleasuring my partner. I modestly admit to possessing a well-deserved reputation as a man who goes beyond the call of duty to provide for The Perfect Orgasm. Who knew that this wasn’t a gender-specific determination? His own obvious excitement only drew me in deeper.
We had been on enough weekends away together for me to witness Marco undressed on a few occasions. Nice body. Well proportioned. Hairy. Very tasty cock, as the various and sundry Ladies in my life might have stated and at least an inch longer than my own modest 5 ½ flaccid inches.
Suddenly, quite unbidden, I had a fierce, almost undeniable, longing to view his circumcised dick hard and full, with his lust directed solely at me.
That is THE last cogent thought I recall, shocking as it is. The remainder of the evening was pure, unadulterated instinct.
M seemed to be holding his breath as he waited, frozen, for my next move. I began by exploring with my shoe back and forth across his engorged dick once more but the intensity of this gesture had dulled somewhat, at least for me. Too tame, too many layers between us.
We were situated at the end of the bar, secluded almost, though a table was full behind us. I managed to gather unto myself enough self-preservation to check that the waiter was otherwise engaged and slipped out of my shoe. Marco followed my eyes, glimpsed this gesture and gulped, audibly. I began to feel myself harden. Just the beginning mind, when it starts down in the pit of my belly. Control, and that quality others have when they find you attractive, that does to me.
Rubbing my toes high upon his leg, turning my foot in slightly, pushing it up and into his crotch and then feeling him return the pressure, all caused my mouth to become a little dry with anticipation. Added to this was the fact that we could have been caught out at any time!
“Do you like this, Marco? Do you like me doing it you?” I questioned him eagerly, though with perhaps a tad less presence than I had hoped. The words felt alien in my mouth, and yet fitting for all of that.
“Mmmm,” he breathed back at me, closing his eyes and pushing his swollen glands more urgently towards me in dual response that motivated my own heartbeat.
“Say my name,” I demanded thickly.
“Nicky.”
“Again,” I implored.
“Nicky Baby.”
We quickly settled into something of a rhythm; squeezing toes, then lifting and kneading, all the while matching the tempo with our hips.
He felt massive, which is a fact that has slowly come to my attention over the last few months. Impossible of course, but he seems to be getting larger lately. Not that I have been taking especial notice (if I was vocalizing I’d be high-pitched!) but the man does like to wave his boys in my face each and every opportunity he receives. It is rather peculiar that I’ve never been offended by this past behaviour of his, isn’t it?
