Clive was a melancholy artist, whose life was spent discovering himself and others. I never truly understood his art, though we discussed it at length during the many conversations that lasted into the candle-lit early hours. We always discussed the forbidden, the interesting; never dull things. This situation had come about from an earlier conversation about sexual liberty - which of us was the most free and wild. It had led to a charged discussion about our friendship and sex, one in which we had joked about our pleasing each other. I don't think either of us had thought the conversation was entirely a joke, though I'm equally sure that neither of us thought it would progress any further.
We had been in a late-night café before, talking, smoking and drinking coffee. When we returned, the conversation had become more daring, each of us pushing it a little further, not expecting the other to continue the theme. But each of us had, and finally, we both knew it was inevitable.
It was about ten-thirty. I went to the bathroom, thought about it, then took my clothes off. I looked round the door nervously, though the anticipation of what was to come was considerable.
And that's how it happened - there I was, in just a shirt, looking out into the apartment nervously.
"Come here", he said. He motioned at the sofa. He was smoking, though he moved to put out the cigarette as he spoke. He was wearing jeans and a shirt, looking soft & comfortable, leaning against the sofa. I walked out of the bathroom, and stopped, unsure. He motioned again and sat up. I went to the sofa and sat down. I couldn't have been more full of anticipation. He crawled across and sat down alongside me.
He reached out, lifted my shirt and touched me. The feeling was immense; it shot through me, focusing my attention entirely. He took my soft penis between finger and thumb, and rubbed the end of it gently. Each stroke took my breath away. Within a few strokes, I felt it stiffen, my earlier anxieties disappearing without trace. I shifted a little, and opened my legs for him.
He wrapped his finger and thumb round me, and rubbed a little harder, and I could feel it stiffening quickly. I leant back into the sofa, relishing the sensation, as his movements became more firm. It felt so good - so natural - but I was very aware and excited that this was my friend sat here, rubbing me like that.
As his strokes became more vigorous I could feel myself unconsciously leaning back further, relaxing more, offering my penis to him. He shifted his grip a little, and his motion became quicker. It felt fantastic. I could feel myself getting carried away, the feeling removing all my inhibitions.
"Stand up," I said, "just here."
He moved, though he leant forward to keep wanking me as he stood up. I sat up, reached for his jeans, and unbuttoned them. I could see the bulge of his cock inside, and I longed to feel it. I fumbled with the buttons, not able to concentrate through the immense feeling of his attention. I got them undone, and tugged the jeans over his hips, past his knees. He stepped out of them, trying not to lose his grip on me.
His cock was there, just in front of me, only his boxer shorts keeping me from it. It was quite a bump, pushing tightly against the cotton. I undid the button, they slid down, and his cock sprang out, half stiff.
