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When I Lost _ PART FOUR
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When I Lost _ PART FOUR
I do not have a fertile imagination. I can't make stuff up. You might be able to; go on then! You decide what came next! Me, I can only describe what actually happened. I can't embellish it for effect. I can't invent it. I don't even want to. I want to remember it exactly the way it happened. I don't want to spoil it.
Nevertheless, I'm aware that my recollections are truncated: I forget the time passing between events, the empty time spent with David clinging to me, breathing quietly, or us spooning, my face to its neck, staring at its hair. And when we were separated (I had to go to work; so did David) you might wonder what we did. I have no idea.
Meeting up meant sex; everything else was a prelude. Our lives became foreplay. If we chose to catch a movie ... I only remember its hands getting Jack out; trying not to cum whilst hot fingers pulled the foreskin down and hot lips and hot tongue willed me to ejaculate into the darkness of its throat.
We might walk, bumping elbows. If I found a corner I'd push it in and put my hands inside its clothes, dishevelling it. Once it ran round the park whilst I watched (I am not a runner). Then I put my hand down its pants and felt the squish of accumulated sweat between its legs, and fed it with its own liquid on my hands. It made a face, but loved all that; it loved to rub its nose in my stinky keks; wanted to consume my sharp flavours; liked to lick the smeg and precum off my Jack's nobend.
•
David said, "Here, I'm going to do you a favour."
"What's that?"
"You'll see. Turn over, on your front."
I did so.
David sat on my buttocks and massaged my back. I could feel it's dick dangling down, tip touching me.
It slid down, face sliding across my back until it was at my arsecrack, separating the two halves, it burrowed in, tunnelling the moist smelly hair with its tongue. Pushing my legs apart it gradually worked its chin into the wide gap and fed on my hole, digging its tongue as far as it could reach. I lifted myself to give it greater access. I felt its tongue in me, pleasuring my hole, my smell and rich taste.
When I had had enough, I turned over, sat up on the side of the bed. It slid to the floor, put its head between my legs and licked my groin as well, the hair on the inside of my legs, my balls, Jack and Jack's bush; and then it licked its way up my stomach, broad tongue diligently cleaning, and it raised its head to suck and play my nipples and my tits, and I raised my arms and let it feed on my pits like a dog licking water.
It grinned. Stray curled hairs from my body clung to its cheek, streaked, red, sore from rubbing.
"How can you be so smelly," it said, laughing, "so disgusting?"
"It's not deliberate."
"That's what I mean. You smell everywhere, every part of you."
"You smell too; everybody does," I said.
"Not so. I don't smell."
That was true. David didn't smell. Wherever I licked it tasted clean, fragrant even - but cleanliness is a feminine trait.
"Do you wash?" David said.
"Of course I wash," I said, irritated.
"So how is it then, you smell and I don't?"
"I don't know. What do you want me to do?"
"Oh nothing."
"Oh nothing," I mimicked.
"I like your smell," it continued, "I like that manly musky masculine kind of invigorating pong you give off. It's strength is so powerful; first thing I'm aware of when I wake up, and the smell of your breath; it's like, wow!, and then I kiss you and I kiss it all off, like putting my face into it, I like eating it; your man's mess..."
"Have you always liked that?"
"How should I know? But it's never bothered me. Being clean bothered me, but not on other people. This guy I used to have for sex..."
"Have for sex?"
"Yeah. He was a good fuck. He had dirty feet and used to give them me to wash..."
"With your mouth..."
"Yeah. He'd like put them in my mouth and... 'Me and my big mouth'! He was so hot. He was smelly like you, really big dick, even bigger than yours. He had to use a ton of lube, before it would go in. He used to push and push; and I'd push, and he'd say, No use! but we'd keep trying til it gradually worked in. And all this time there was this gargantuan whiff, his pong that had me almost throwing up and all I could do was like suck it up. It was like poppers! He never washed. His whole flat stank of him and he brought it in with him and left it behind him. I used to lie in bed when he'd gone and just wank into this rancid body odour of his. It clung to the sheets and you could smell it everywhere. It was fantastic."
"So, what happened to him?"
"He went off. He didn't care about me."
David was kneeling by my chair. I put my fingers in its mouth. Caught like that on the end of my arm it stared at me, doglike again; its empty eyes seeming to tunnel down like throats drilled into its head, into its infinite emptiness.
"You know you're very beautiful," I said. I took my fingers out of its mouth and wiped them on its golden hair.
"You deserve to be fucked and abused by someone who cares about you," I said. "You know that I care about you don't you?"
"Yes."
"Come here."
I pushed it into my hairy balls and let it suck the salt and sweat off them. I held it by its golden hair. Then I fucked its head. I squirted my cum onto its face and tongue.
"Now clean it up," I said. "Eat up."
It wiped my cum into its mouth.
"That's good. Like that?"
David nodded
"Say thankyou."
"Thankyou, Les."
But I had a strangely insecure feeling of potential inadequacy, compared to this other bloke whose total absence of personal hygiene came naturally and effortlessly, who satisfied David completely, whose massive dick was so huge and demanding that all David could do was want it. I imagined it stretching David's rosebud apart like a surgical instrument, like an enormous burrowing worm. I imagined David suffocating on it, fed on it, and taking it up its arse, wanting to be split in two.
I wished I hadn't heard that story.
Now David seemed like damaged goods, pucker over-ripe with wear and tear, having seen better days (better men?), and in its slut-cynical uninteresting mind the attributes of imperfection.
David's face approached mine for a kiss. I looked away.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
I fucked it on its bed, under that great big poster of Yoko Ono, bashing its head hard against the wall; I had to quickly grab a pillow to place behind it, but I didn't want to lose my stride and it excited me to hear it complain, though I didn't want to hurt it. But I did.
Afterwards, we lay on the sheets and it suddenly said, as if nothing had happened, "Les, Who is your favourite artist?"
I wasn't ready for the question. I thought for some time, trying not to say Yoko Ono. I don't have a favourite artist as such, so I said, "Who's yours?"
"Oh, that's easy: Baltazar Miguel Rodriguez del Pais de Santiago."
"Oh! That's quite a mouthful!"
"Yeh. But they called him Del Pais. He died unrecognised. He was a Spanish artist during the civil war. He did all this stuff, like combining surrealism and cubism and sculpture and bits of rubbish."
(No wonder he died unrecognised, I thought.)
"Like it sounds not very interesting, but when you see his stuff it's incredible and ... It's really good."
"How do you know about him?"
"I was in Barcelona. Here," David rolled away from me to look for something beneath the bed. I stared at its long, white body, the line of its back, its perfect white bottom, it's graceful legs spread apart for balance, displaying its deep red fuck crack, the pale pink patches on the soles of its feet, it's delicately male toes. When it rolled back towards me, it's head fell naturally onto my outstretched arm, it's hair brushed my face, propped its ankle up on mine, its long still swollen dick flopped back independently. I noted the offset grid layout of its abs and the little flap of skin pulled tight across its bellybutton keyhole. David was holding a postcard for me to look at, a picture that looked like a pile of crockery in a desert landscape.
"Is that a photo or a painting?" I asked.
"I think it's both. A photo of a painting... Or a painting of a photograph... Actually I'm not sure."
"So that's not a real pile of plates?"
"No, I don't think so."
"And this is your favourite artist?"
"I just think he's really original."
(Was this what it meant by "experimental art"? Was this vapidity the limit of its interest?)
"When were you in Barcelona?"
"Last year."
"Is that when you found this Pais chap?"
"Yeah. I bought a book. I can show you."
It jumped up, walking on the bed, towering above me, hopped to the floor, genitals swinging; I still could not stop staring at it. It found its book and brought it back to me. It sat cross legged on the sheets, stomach folded neatly flat. Its strong knees jutted out at right angles to each other, sculptured, giant, and abstract. It was looking down at the book, a large format volume that lay uncomfortably between us, turning the pages and pointing, trying to find that elusive perfect example of Del Pais' oeuvre. I couldn't have cared less. I was watching its penis and its rouge ballsack hanging down, covering the tiny triangular tunnel formed between his arse cheeks and the bed. The warmth of it.
"Look. This one. That's what I mean!"
We were looking at another pile of objects in a landscape.
•
David sat naked next to me, looking at a copy of Marie Claire. Leafing through the pages, David pointed out the fashion, the cuts, the fabrics, like all of it was genuinely new and revolutionary - everything that to me fashion is not. I watched the flickering stretched boney faces of the poor young women - skinny horses bearing skimpy indulgent clothes - amazed at David's excitement. I patted its knee and tried to watch and listen. All the time I was fascinated by its shimmering nudity. It stopped and pecked my lips; then it returned to its pages.
Jack was bored.
"Enough of that," I said, grabbing the magazine. David grabbed it too and didn't let go. I pulled until I had it and threw it away.
"I was reading!"
"You were looking at pictures... Anyway, I've got better things to do than just sit here all day."
"I was fucking reading that. How dare you!"
"C'mon." I tried to stroke its cheek with the back of my finger and tried to kiss it.
"I was reading that. All you ever want to do is fucking... fuck."
I put my hand on its shoulder.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't. That's all."
"Don't? What if I want to?"
My hand slid down its shiny back and cupped its buttock, pressed against the seat. My finger found the gap and probed in. I wriggled it.
It groaned, "Look I..."
"Look what?"
"Look stop Les, please stop."
It lifted itself slightly to give my probing finger access, but also to avoid it.
"I'm sore," it said. "Don't. It hurts."
"Let me stroke it then, it just needs some care. I'll rub a little moisturiser into it." I just wanted to touch it. "Get on all fours. Let me take a look." I just wanted to see it.
Reluctantly, David assumed the position, arching its back and spreading. I took a look.
It looked fine.
"Stay there. Stay like that."
I got up and went to the tiny shower room where there was a cabinet filled with all sorts of stuff. I brought back some baby lotion and squirted a load on. David winced.
"Hurt?"
"Cold."
I smoothed it in gently with my fingertip, just pressing the tip of my finger inside the ring, in and out, working the lotion up it. David was all tense as I massaged his sphincter increasing the depth little by little. It was like finger fucking a virgin.
"Is that alright?"
"Mmmn..."
"Great. Just relax."
Two fingers went in.
David tensed but allowed me to continue.
I squirted more lotion in and tried a third digit. As I pressed it home David moaned, "Les, I don't think can take it. It's really really hurting."
Jack was rock hard. I stroked it with some of the lotion on my other hand. I really wanted to put it in. I cupped my balls and stroked myself.
"C'mon baby, you're doing just fine. Just relax some more. You'll feel better."
"I don't think I'm ... look I think you ought to stop."
I could see its dick was a flop.
"I think you ough to stop now."
I popped a fourth finger up its cunt, just the end, at first.
"Please stop... ngh... p. Please. ... Ahhhhh."
It arched its back and spread its legs wider. It wasn't stopping me though, which would have been easy enough. I eased my four fingers in as far as the joints, tucking my thumb in.
Man! I was fisting the little whore-cunt!
David was breathing fast.
"Just relax, don't pant. Breaths, deep and slow. Just let it happen."
David was concentrating on one thing, completely and utterly, focusing on the one sensation. I could feel it from within. It was expanding.
This was it: Having another man under your perfect control. This is what it's all about, gay sex.
"Are you ok?"
"Ye," it answered, carefully.
I slid my hand out and, without instruction, it rolled over, raised its legs, massaging its penis which was at half-mast, coddling its scrotum. Its ruby bright sphincter was exposed, available and raw. It closed its eyes as I dipped my hand back in. As I fed in more it tensed and relaxed in stages, each advancing another fraction of an inch.
"Tell me if you can't," I said, amazed at the sight and feel of myself pushing it.
"Ye.."
It opened its eyes and stared at mine.
I looked down at my hand gently knuckling it open, and slid past the final most painful stretch, til I was... in and... formed a punch-hand... its hole closed around my wrist. "That's it," I whispered.
"I know."
"I'm inside you now."
It closed its eyes.
"I know."
Then it opened them again.
I hardly dared do anything. The beautiful long white man under my complete control and trust was simply lying there motionless, groaning with peaceful helplessness.
We stayed connected like that for some time, not moving except for the stroke of my free hand which roved over his skin, gently touching him, thighs, balls, stomach, penis. I held his hand when his gave it to me.
"I like this," I said. "This feels good. There's something amazing about watching a guy when you're fisting him. Sacred. That sounds stupid, but it's so special... I can't express it. Just gentle. Jack was so amazingly turned on; it was like orgasming when it wasn't orgasming, like just the feeling of Jack being so hard was like such an incredible feeling, like I hardly dared move, cs when I did, it was like I really was orgasming, and I didn't want it to end.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"Nooo..."
I pushed it. David's head lifted and craned to see my forearm.
"Ahhhh..."
It shut its eyes and then opened them again, lips parted, tongue just visible behind its teeth. It fondled its dick and then reached down and felt my arm and the line where it disappeared into it.
"Huh... it really is!" It smiled.
I started to punch it slowly.
"Ugh... not... too much..."
It's head fell back and it held its legs. I punched gently, letting it get used to it.
"Oh christ... oh jesus... oh christ..."
"That good..."
"Oh jesus... yeh... fuck it... fuck it..."
I wondered if I could remove my hand and replace it.
"David, I'm just going to change hands."
"What? No! Don't! I can't take it!"
"You'll be alright. You'll be fine," I said, opening my grip and pulling it back. Once again I was confronting its restricted sphincter.
"David, relax. I have to take it out."
He exhaled forcefully; I felt the muscles give a tiny bit, just enough, I slipped quickly past and out, fast before it reacted and immediately fell onto him and put my shitty hand through its golden hair and held it whilst we both panted; we mashed penises together but we couldn't masturbate, feeling spent, like we had cum and cum and cum, our balls ached, our cocks were fixed like viagra and I knew that David's cunt was all the David could feel.
"How does it feel?" I said.
"Incred ..." David touched my face and stared at me. "Amaz ..."
"It was," I said. "You were, you are amazing. Have you ever done that before?"
"No," it lied. "Never."
I didn't take it any further. I didn't want to ruin it for myself. Ruin its hole I mean. I still needed to use it. Jack still needed it.
"Are you ok now?"
Now that I owned it I wanted to care for it. I hugged it and kissed it and thanked it and, after a while, Jack fucked it, though it was as loose as a carrier bag, but I was very very gentle and made sure we came together. It was important. As it spurted out all over its chest it was crying. I could see it was really painful for it to feel it's contractions like that on Jack's thick neck. It must've felt like it was ripping apart. I mean, it looked like it was in absolute agony. But I didn't feel sad. I had a feeling of real accomplishment and pride, pride in myself and in both of us. Yes, that's how I felt: Proud, to have a boyfriend to fist that I could walk down the road and think, "That's been on my hand!" and remember what that felt like.
I followed it into the shower. "I wish you hadn't done that," said David. "I don't think we should do that again. Now it's really sore."
"That's not surprising, but don't fret. You'll be fine," I said. "Stop complaining. You're a natural. You're so natural the way you took it. It was a perfect first time!"
David stood in the shower massaging his backside with the hot water.
"It stings so much now. It's really sore. You hurt me."
Jack liked that. Jack lifted his head like he'd heard something he liked to hear.
"You'll be fine," I said again.
"I can't believe you did it."
"We did it. I didn't hurt you... well, just a bit. Stop making out like I did it without your help. Just stop. You're fine."
"I'm not fine."
"Oh please ..."
"I'm not fine. It hurts. I'm bleeding."
"You're not. Let's take a look."
David turned in the shower and lifted one leg and bent forward so that I could inspect it. It looked fine. A bit puffy. Still huge. Alright, it did look swollen.
"You're fine, David, for christsake, you're fine."
"I wish you hadn't done that."
"You let me."
"I'm not doing that again."
"You wanted it."
"Don't do that to me again."
"Ok. Ok. Suits me."
I couldn't wait.
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END OF When I Lost _ PART FOUR