Even the First

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Even The First - PART TWENTY

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Even The First - PART TWENTY

"Nice one," said Vince smiling. He dragged a mouthful of smoke from his cigarette and then let it pour from between his lips, up and into his nose like a reverse waterfall. Clever trick. He did it unconsciously. That's how he smoked.

I had just made him another cup of tea and brought it, without spilling, from the kitchen worktop across the narrow space to the kitchen table where he sat, legs spread, feet spread, invitingly relaxed, watching me, his hand and cigarette balancing over a cheap glass ashtray that claimed to be a souvenir from Barcelona. He flicked the filter tip with his thumb dropping a tiny ash into the ashtray and then stretched his arms into the air, extending his legs as he did so and arching his back and his neck, always watching me; the only part of his body that didn't move was his crotch. Everything else moved round it. His dick pointed down like, at long last, my cup of tea had distracted him from it. But when he noticed my glance he shook his head, like I was incorrigible.

"Two sugars," he said, grinning, almost as I was spooning them in. I gave it a quick stir. "I could get used to this," he said balancing down his cigarette and taking up his tea. "You're forcing me to like you." I smiled as I sat down on my chair, next to him. "What's that?" He said, pointing at my face. "C'm'ere." I leant in and he touched my mouth with his fingertips and then, lifting himself from his seat just enough, kissed my lips with the edges of his lips in the smallest most gentle kiss I've ever had. "Why'r'y'smiling?" "No one's ever said I forced them to do anything before," I said. "Y'got more power than y'think, honey. Y'got more going for y'than y'think." "I'm not forcing you into anything," I said. "Aren't you? Do I have any choice in the matter?" "I don't have to stay," I said. "You can refuse. It's your place." "Thanks for the info, but then what?" "I'll ... go. I'll have to go, won't I?" "Go where?" "Back." "You'll have some explaining to do, and in any case, that's no kinda life, and in any case from what y've told me y're getting to the end of y'sell-by date with that fella." "Maybe. Maybe not. Or I could live ... with Nigel ..."

I felt a sudden lunge of despair in my heart.

"Maybe," said Vince. "And maybe not. Myself, I don't see it. You're putting me in an impossible position." "No I'm not." "Oh yes you are. You're making me ... " "What?" He sat forward to lean on the table, blocking my view of his crotch and dipping his finger into the sugar bowl again, drawing a large heart shape in it. Then he pointed his finger at me and said, "Lick." I did so. It tasted of nothing. "That's it." He dipped the finger, now wet with my spittle, into the sugar and re-drew the great big heart multiple times. He gave the fingertip back to me, sugar coated, and I sucked it.

"You're making me feel very sorry for you," he continued, "and worse than that ..." Vince closed his mouth firmly and pressed his lips together in a thin dark red line, removing his finger from my mouth, dipping it back in the sugar and giving it back to me for a third time. He smiled when he saw that I waited, mouth ready, for him to feed me, like a good baby waiting for its mother's nipple but not wailing for it. Eye contact. Always eye contact.

Then he said, "You're making me fall in love with you, aren't you?" Then he laughed, like that was a silly joke.

He dipped his finger yet again back in the sugar, scribbling over the big heart like it was embarrassing. "Am I?" I said. "I'm sorry." "No you're not," said Vince, with a smirk. "Do you want me to go away?" I said. "No," he said.

This time, he licked his own finger.

He beckoned me to sit on his lap again, which I did, putting my arms round his neck, breathing his smoker's mouth tasting of sugar when he kissed me.

"I think," he said, "that what you want, is someone to love you ... and ... lots of sugar!"

• • • • It was a long day. We spent it fucking. Vince couldn't get enough. Nor could I. I don't want to give the impression that all we did was talk and eat and drink tea. It wasn't. All we did was fuck and talk and eat and drink tea.

As the day wore on, and the sun moved, the kitchen got darker. We had fucked there, and in the main room, in the bathroom, and even in the bedroom! Vince was standing in the doorway smoking yet another cigarette, watching me prepare yet another tea. "So?" he said. "What'v'you decided?" "Decided what?" I asked. "Decided what to do. Are you going or are you staying? You're welcome to stay," he said. "Are you sure about that?" "Why not? You're a good fuck. I like fucking you. S'easier than going down the park." He watched my face. I was stirring the tea and didn't look up. "And I like giving you sugar. And I think you need your sugar." "I thought you hadn't decided yet," I said. "I haven't," said Vince. "But what I think is you c'n stay here, til y'get y'self sorted." "I'd like that," I said, lifting his tea and walking it over to him. "I know you would," he grinned. "Two sugars. Ta." He took a drag, and a sip, then he exhaled and took another sip.

--- All men are romantics. I firmly believe that. Because, in the end, all men are lonely. So when Vince said I could stay, like that, I knew he was lonely too and wanted somebody who would keep him company, especially at night; someone he could go down the shops with and buy beers with and find at home when he'd finished work. So when he said yes, I could stay, I knew why he said that.

He was lonely.

I wondered why. "I bet you could get anyone you wanted to get," I said, thinking I would get him to talk - "with your classic Irish good looks, your short dark red curly hair and those eyelashes." "What about them?" "The way they outline your eyes like mascara!" "I didn't know they did. What else?" "You're strong. You got muscles. You box. You can beat people up, but you don't, cs you're kind and loving." "Ach stop with it! You're making me blush," he said. "Y'got the Irish way with words alright. Quite the Irish way! I like that." "... And the way you blush. And your cock, which is perfect, by the way! And the way you walk with it with your legs apart. You sort of waddle and it swings from side to side cs it's always a bit stiff." Vince laughed. His cock was a bit stiff.

• • • • It was only just getting light when I woke up next morning. It felt strange to be wrapped up in the arms of someone who loved me. Vince woke too. Either he'd woken because I had stirred or the other way around; there was no telling which it was. What was telling was his morning hardon digging my arsecrack. I pushed back to encourage it. He reached round to hug me and pull me closer, fondling my pec, nudging the pink hard nipple and then pinching it. With his other hand he manipulated his erection until it was pressing into my anus and sliding in. Morning sex is great cs you have to get it done and there's no messing about cs you have to get up and get to work. Vince had me on my face and jumped it fast, ejaculating quickly with a row of fast satisfied grunts and then, "Oh. Sweet. Jesus!! tha'...'s g'd!"

Paul taught me never to ejaculate, so I wasn't bothered when Vince pulled out quickly, wanked the last of his juice onto the clean sheets and, after a fast kiss, ran to crap and shower - on his toes like the ground was hot.

His bedroom had dark sexy red walls with a poster of some dangerous-looking kickboxer, wearing those high-waisted silky shiny shorts they wear, with big gold writing across the crotch area; his body was rock hard like Vince's and marked in blood red where he'd taken some blows in the fight. He stared at the camera, one leg raised as if about to lash out. His face was cut and his eyes were swollen. Was this what Vince got up to? It looked really unpleasant. And dangerous. Too much like play-acting and too much like real war.

Vince returned from the shower with a milk-chocolate brown bath towel wrapped around his waist. "Feels good..." As he looked in a mirror to deal with his hair I watched his back, freckled, long like a surfboard, dimpled at the base; his straight spine tucked his buttocks in, and his narrow buttocks shaped the towel graphically. When he had done enough, the towel dropped like a parachute release, he grabbed a yellow-cream shirt out of the wardrobe and started to button it. Then he found some kecks and pulled his legs and then his prick into them, folding it up to the right, cs it wouldn't fold down. He gave it a pat, as though to make it behave itself but knowing that it wouldn't.

He selected a tie off a hook on the mirror, and started knotting it - left over right and under, right over left - into a large knot that looked good cs it was a broad tie. I stared at his strong straight legs planted firmly on the ground, his arse muscles stretching his pale coloured underpants and his shoulder blades pulling at his shirt-back. As he stood doing his tie he spotted me watching in the mirror and blew me a kiss. "You OK man?" I nodded. "I'm a bit late," he said. "You haven't had a coffee or anything." "No time. I'll grab one." "Or a fag." "Yeah. I'm gagging. I'm not used to having ..." He dived into a pair of reddish-brown suit trousers, tucking the tails of his shirt in laboriously, and then pulled on some socks, balancing on one foot stupidly (so he could look at me) instead of sitting on the bed. "I was too busy fucking ..." he said, and grunted "... you."

He sat in the bed to put on his shoes, ordinary dark office brogues, during which time I stared at his back, the bone which stuck out on the nape of his neck, his shoulder-blades, his spine, the way the waistband of his trousers curved when he bent forward to tie his laces so that his shirt almost came out all over again, the way his weight depressed the edge of the bed.

He stood, re-tucked, looked down, adjusted his cock in his trousers with a shake of his fist, grabbed his suit jacket from off a hook and slipped into it; it had wide lapels that went with the 'trendy' look. He slipped a large silver metal watch over his wrist, snapping the masculine bracelet. Then he picked up his phone and looked at it, before dropping it into his pocket.

God, I realised the cruising chav look was just one side of him ... Vince had this responsible office-y look as well. But which one was real?

He caught sight of me in the mirror looking at him. "Happy?" he said. "Yes." "I know that. And I know why: s'cs you's been well rogered!" I laughed and nodded. He was right. I felt good. I felt well rogered. "Y're a dirty fuck," he said with a grin.

Then he stood straight and inspected himself one final time in the mirror. "That'll have to do." He looked nice. "You look nice," I said from the bed, the sheets disguised my right hand which was on my cock, playing with my balls and stroking my underside where his cum was still wet and runny like the white of an egg. With my other hand I supported my head. "Agh, it'll have to do," he said. "You look nice, there with all your butter-wouldn't-melt ... " He clambered into the bed on his hands and knees to kiss me. "Good dog. Don't move; I'll be straight back in about eight hours to roger you stupid!"

He jumped up and grabbed his cock once more to adjust it again, looking at me with a dirty look. "Just stay here beautiful. I'll phone you on the landline. Don't move." He stared at me and blinked like he was taking a snapshot and then turned to go.

As he opened the front-door he shouted, "Spare keys on the table here!" and the door banged shut. I was alone once more.

I curled up on the bed, wanting him, then I jumped up to see if I could see him from the window. I was just in time to catch his shape disappear round some bushes. He was carrying a briefcase.

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END OF Even The First - PART TWENTY

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