MyJockStrap
05-27-2005, 03:55 AM
Sex Story II
The door barred from the smell of tuna sandwiches being made beyond; we sat on the edge of the bed. Countless hours of moist phone chatter and secretly passed sex notes belied the intimacy between us, and the stifling silence spread until the sliding sounds of bodies reclining broke our stagnancy.
I do not remember who moved first, but whoever it was, their bravery ended there, as the silence returned and blanketed our bodies. We lay impossibly still, as if asleep. Neither of us moving, except for rapidly rising and falling chests; neither of us made a sound, except for the exhalation of breaths held too long in lungs ready to burst.
Blood coursed through my ears, making my lobes burn and causing a thumbing reverberation throughout my head, and I swallowed hard to contain what was rising within me, but there was no keeping my cock still. I looked down and nearly gasped as my unapologetic erection tented my pants before us. Words are not sufficient to capture the idiom of such a response.
I saw you looking at it. You noticed I was watching you looking, and somewhere in the acknowledgement of glances we found permission, and you reached out and touched my cock.
My head was dazed with a lack of realization for several seconds, and I was too dizzy with delight to discern the difference between the feeling of fingers and the sensation of touch.
I reached across your arm and placed my hand over your crotch. I pushed my fingers into the bulge of zippered denim. Your arm barred me from reaching you fully, and I strained to finger your cock through the zipper. My arm pressing down on yours, you struggled to keep my cock in your hand.
Uncomfortably wanting more than I knew how to pursue, I resorted to words: “Let’s just take them off.”
Quickly withdrawn hands began to unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip. The clothing slid from our bodies slowly but continually between the contrary impulses of hesitation and haste. When it came time to remove boxers, we glanced at each other, searching for the limits of nakedness. Curiously, you stuck your finger beneath your waistband but opted instead to slip off your socks with the same finger. I mimicked your motions, and within moments, we resumed our supine positions.
More desire passed between us than could be constituted by a thousand nights of marriage or any of the hundred nights of sucking and fucking I spent after losing him; having lost my way, it has become reduced to the release of that which refuses to leave me alone. The only master to this castle oversees servants too busy dusting relics to care for other concerns.
You asked me to kiss you, and I told you I did not know how, but I turned toward you anyway. You grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my lips to yours. Our lips folded together like taffy, and our tongues slid over and around each other. I will never forget the feel of your hand on my neck or the downy texture of your hair, when I ran my fingers through it. A thousand scrutinized love scenes had not prepared us for this intimacy between boys, and we pulled back from the kiss that matured more than quickly than the lips behind it.
“What do you want to do?” you asked, and gazing into your liquid blue eyes, I knew I wanted to dive into you, and I answered, “Everything.”
I licked your face, as I slid my hand under your boxers. To my surprise, you licked mine back before undulating with desire beneath the touch of my fingertips. I watched a lock of your golden-blonde hair slide off your forehead as your arched your neck and fully revealed your Adam’s apple, which I promptly licked, as I wrapped my fingers around your hardened cock. You caught up to me and threaded your fingers into my boxer’s fly.
Palming cocks, we began to tug on each other, and I was too filled with sensation to discern between touching and being touched, as we began to stroke.
That afternoon, I learned how hard it gets, and I learned how quick the body responds to the ache of pent up need, so I pulled your hand from my cock. You looked at me curiously, but instantly understood, as I slipped your boxers from your body, turned you over, and awkwardly dived into you. Burrowing, I found your asshole and lapped at it. We had never talked about this, and I merely followed my suddenly shameless desire, but your moan of surprised pleasure urged me onward, and for some reason, I stuck my fingers in your mouth, half to silence you and half to know what that felt like. You got louder when I slid my tongue inside you, and you began to lick my fingers as wantonly as I licked your insides. The tight band of your asshole on my tongue, and the slipperiness of your tongue between my fingers brought me to the point of no return, and your asshole tensed, and my leg muscles followed suit. We became frozen with a paralytic rigidity before our bodies simultaneously convulsed, but by the inevitable outcome, my mother knocked on the door: “Boys, lunch is ready.”
Sitting bolt upright, we stared at the door and wondered if she would try the doorknob. I increased our odds by yelling we would be right out. Neither of us exhaled until we heard her footsteps stepping away from the door.
As soon as the coast was clear, I pushed you down on the bed and raced toward everything. I touched and licked you everywhere. Half embarrassed by the rapidity of my actions and half lost with the rapture of desire, I twisted and turned you upside down, right side up, and sideways beneath my hands, lips, and tongue. I touched, sucked, and licked every surface of your feet, hands, underarms, ears, neck, lips, nipples, bellybutton, cock, and balls. I covered the entire surface of your skin, touching, sucking, and licking everything for a second or two and nearly nothing long enough to move past the sensation of touch for either of us. To this day, I wonder what your hairless balls smelled like and if the color of your eyes changed when I shoved your head to the back of my throat.
Reaching the limits of forbidden time, I lay beside you, and we stroked our own cocks. We were too distracted watching each other to apply time-tested techniques, but with the coupling of tension and inexperience, our balls rapidly retracted. Our legs stiffened at the same time, but you came first. I know because watching you cum I lost my rhythm and slowed the burning crescendo in my balls. It was worthwhile to watch the whitest white I had ever seen, before or since, emerge from you and drip between your fingers like melted wax from a white taper candle.
I found myself behind closed eyes when I came but opened them when I felt the warmth of your lips and the taste of cum on mine. You always said it would be hot to kiss me with a mouth full of my cum, but it still took me by surprise.
We both hardly touched our tuna sandwiches, opting instead for a potato chip or two. You barely spoke or looked up, and when you did, it was only to respond to my mother. The only words you said to me were said without looking at me, when you told me you wanted to go home.
My brother was content to ignore us and listen to the radio as she drove us to your house. You sat in the back seat and jumped out of the car as soon as the car stopped in your driveway. I still remember the blonde-brilliance of your hair in the early autumn sun, as you walked away from the car. I told myself everything would be okay if you turned and looked back before entering your house. Reaching the door, you slipped in without looking back.
Everything was not okay, and you never spoke to me again, except to call me a faggot every time and every where you saw me in the school halls, and the last time you did that was in fifth period study hall. You riled two boys against me with a chorus of “fag boy,” and the room grew silent, including the monitor, when you trumped the other two by throwing a grammar book at me and yelling: “Fuck this, you fudge packing, faggot.” I picked up the book, and you started to throw another one but stopped when Julie, the first girl I ever had sex with, yelled at you, the first boy I ever had sex with, and said your interest in me told us exactly what you were. You never called me a faggot again.
Years later, your friend, someone I hardly knew, ran into me at the checkouts in the department store where I worked. She was buying mops and brooms for her first apartment with a boyfriend. She said they were renting a place on Center Street. I felt sorry for them, but I did not say a thing about it. I thought about you and wondered what she knew about us. She was very friendly but not knowing what she knew made it difficult not to feel uncomfortable at her seemingly random mention of you. She told me you “had tried to clean up, but it had not worked.”
I was afraid of what she knew, afraid of what she was telling me, afraid of what she was going to tell me, but she did not say another word, and the cashier called her. She nodded at the cashier and turned to face me. She grabbed my forearm and squeezed it, just like people do at funerals when the language of the body compensates for the inadequacy of language. Then, she turned to unload the contents of her cart onto the conveyor belt.
I walked away confused, and when I got home, I realized why there was nothing more for her to say. That night, I dusted off that grammar book and learned the past perfect tense and have not forgotten it since.
The door barred from the smell of tuna sandwiches being made beyond; we sat on the edge of the bed. Countless hours of moist phone chatter and secretly passed sex notes belied the intimacy between us, and the stifling silence spread until the sliding sounds of bodies reclining broke our stagnancy.
I do not remember who moved first, but whoever it was, their bravery ended there, as the silence returned and blanketed our bodies. We lay impossibly still, as if asleep. Neither of us moving, except for rapidly rising and falling chests; neither of us made a sound, except for the exhalation of breaths held too long in lungs ready to burst.
Blood coursed through my ears, making my lobes burn and causing a thumbing reverberation throughout my head, and I swallowed hard to contain what was rising within me, but there was no keeping my cock still. I looked down and nearly gasped as my unapologetic erection tented my pants before us. Words are not sufficient to capture the idiom of such a response.
I saw you looking at it. You noticed I was watching you looking, and somewhere in the acknowledgement of glances we found permission, and you reached out and touched my cock.
My head was dazed with a lack of realization for several seconds, and I was too dizzy with delight to discern the difference between the feeling of fingers and the sensation of touch.
I reached across your arm and placed my hand over your crotch. I pushed my fingers into the bulge of zippered denim. Your arm barred me from reaching you fully, and I strained to finger your cock through the zipper. My arm pressing down on yours, you struggled to keep my cock in your hand.
Uncomfortably wanting more than I knew how to pursue, I resorted to words: “Let’s just take them off.”
Quickly withdrawn hands began to unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip. The clothing slid from our bodies slowly but continually between the contrary impulses of hesitation and haste. When it came time to remove boxers, we glanced at each other, searching for the limits of nakedness. Curiously, you stuck your finger beneath your waistband but opted instead to slip off your socks with the same finger. I mimicked your motions, and within moments, we resumed our supine positions.
More desire passed between us than could be constituted by a thousand nights of marriage or any of the hundred nights of sucking and fucking I spent after losing him; having lost my way, it has become reduced to the release of that which refuses to leave me alone. The only master to this castle oversees servants too busy dusting relics to care for other concerns.
You asked me to kiss you, and I told you I did not know how, but I turned toward you anyway. You grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my lips to yours. Our lips folded together like taffy, and our tongues slid over and around each other. I will never forget the feel of your hand on my neck or the downy texture of your hair, when I ran my fingers through it. A thousand scrutinized love scenes had not prepared us for this intimacy between boys, and we pulled back from the kiss that matured more than quickly than the lips behind it.
“What do you want to do?” you asked, and gazing into your liquid blue eyes, I knew I wanted to dive into you, and I answered, “Everything.”
I licked your face, as I slid my hand under your boxers. To my surprise, you licked mine back before undulating with desire beneath the touch of my fingertips. I watched a lock of your golden-blonde hair slide off your forehead as your arched your neck and fully revealed your Adam’s apple, which I promptly licked, as I wrapped my fingers around your hardened cock. You caught up to me and threaded your fingers into my boxer’s fly.
Palming cocks, we began to tug on each other, and I was too filled with sensation to discern between touching and being touched, as we began to stroke.
That afternoon, I learned how hard it gets, and I learned how quick the body responds to the ache of pent up need, so I pulled your hand from my cock. You looked at me curiously, but instantly understood, as I slipped your boxers from your body, turned you over, and awkwardly dived into you. Burrowing, I found your asshole and lapped at it. We had never talked about this, and I merely followed my suddenly shameless desire, but your moan of surprised pleasure urged me onward, and for some reason, I stuck my fingers in your mouth, half to silence you and half to know what that felt like. You got louder when I slid my tongue inside you, and you began to lick my fingers as wantonly as I licked your insides. The tight band of your asshole on my tongue, and the slipperiness of your tongue between my fingers brought me to the point of no return, and your asshole tensed, and my leg muscles followed suit. We became frozen with a paralytic rigidity before our bodies simultaneously convulsed, but by the inevitable outcome, my mother knocked on the door: “Boys, lunch is ready.”
Sitting bolt upright, we stared at the door and wondered if she would try the doorknob. I increased our odds by yelling we would be right out. Neither of us exhaled until we heard her footsteps stepping away from the door.
As soon as the coast was clear, I pushed you down on the bed and raced toward everything. I touched and licked you everywhere. Half embarrassed by the rapidity of my actions and half lost with the rapture of desire, I twisted and turned you upside down, right side up, and sideways beneath my hands, lips, and tongue. I touched, sucked, and licked every surface of your feet, hands, underarms, ears, neck, lips, nipples, bellybutton, cock, and balls. I covered the entire surface of your skin, touching, sucking, and licking everything for a second or two and nearly nothing long enough to move past the sensation of touch for either of us. To this day, I wonder what your hairless balls smelled like and if the color of your eyes changed when I shoved your head to the back of my throat.
Reaching the limits of forbidden time, I lay beside you, and we stroked our own cocks. We were too distracted watching each other to apply time-tested techniques, but with the coupling of tension and inexperience, our balls rapidly retracted. Our legs stiffened at the same time, but you came first. I know because watching you cum I lost my rhythm and slowed the burning crescendo in my balls. It was worthwhile to watch the whitest white I had ever seen, before or since, emerge from you and drip between your fingers like melted wax from a white taper candle.
I found myself behind closed eyes when I came but opened them when I felt the warmth of your lips and the taste of cum on mine. You always said it would be hot to kiss me with a mouth full of my cum, but it still took me by surprise.
We both hardly touched our tuna sandwiches, opting instead for a potato chip or two. You barely spoke or looked up, and when you did, it was only to respond to my mother. The only words you said to me were said without looking at me, when you told me you wanted to go home.
My brother was content to ignore us and listen to the radio as she drove us to your house. You sat in the back seat and jumped out of the car as soon as the car stopped in your driveway. I still remember the blonde-brilliance of your hair in the early autumn sun, as you walked away from the car. I told myself everything would be okay if you turned and looked back before entering your house. Reaching the door, you slipped in without looking back.
Everything was not okay, and you never spoke to me again, except to call me a faggot every time and every where you saw me in the school halls, and the last time you did that was in fifth period study hall. You riled two boys against me with a chorus of “fag boy,” and the room grew silent, including the monitor, when you trumped the other two by throwing a grammar book at me and yelling: “Fuck this, you fudge packing, faggot.” I picked up the book, and you started to throw another one but stopped when Julie, the first girl I ever had sex with, yelled at you, the first boy I ever had sex with, and said your interest in me told us exactly what you were. You never called me a faggot again.
Years later, your friend, someone I hardly knew, ran into me at the checkouts in the department store where I worked. She was buying mops and brooms for her first apartment with a boyfriend. She said they were renting a place on Center Street. I felt sorry for them, but I did not say a thing about it. I thought about you and wondered what she knew about us. She was very friendly but not knowing what she knew made it difficult not to feel uncomfortable at her seemingly random mention of you. She told me you “had tried to clean up, but it had not worked.”
I was afraid of what she knew, afraid of what she was telling me, afraid of what she was going to tell me, but she did not say another word, and the cashier called her. She nodded at the cashier and turned to face me. She grabbed my forearm and squeezed it, just like people do at funerals when the language of the body compensates for the inadequacy of language. Then, she turned to unload the contents of her cart onto the conveyor belt.
I walked away confused, and when I got home, I realized why there was nothing more for her to say. That night, I dusted off that grammar book and learned the past perfect tense and have not forgotten it since.