A Queer Utopia, Continued: Topsy Turvy, Chapter Five

...in which our heroes conclude their first evening together.

His rhythm solidified. As he stroked himself, his dick was about a foot away from my face. I took in the undulation of his abs at close range, then the skinniness of his thighs offsetting the heft of his pole.

His rhythm slowed, and he came up off of me. “Freaks you out a little, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Actually, it’s really hot.”

“Trust me, it’s not,” he said. “It’s just the way it is. Some guys just don’t call me back, or else they think it’s exotic.”

“Can’t it just be different and sexy without being exotic?”

“You tell me.”

“Yeah, it’s sexy without being exotic,” I said.

“Good answer,” he grinned, pinching my cheek, then settling the palm of his hand onto my belly. “So why’s a hot man’s lover out prowling the snowbound streets when he could be home with you?”

“Special needs,” I said and then immediately winced. “Sorry.”

“No offense taken. I gather that doesn’t mean he’s tooling around in his own wheelchair.”

“Hardly. More like he’s been tied up a lot tighter than you’ve roped me, with something about the size of that club of yours up his rear door.”

“Ooo. Not something you’ll do for him?”

“No way. My sex life stops just south of my nuts.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Yeah, I do,” I fired back, tensing up. He immediately got it.

“Sorry.”

I just shrugged. Then my own curiosity kicked in. “I guess you’re something of a top on that score too,” I said tentatively.

“Top maybe isn’t quite the way to put it. There’s only so much you can do with no thighs to match your stomach muscles. But it’s fun when somebody’s willing to sit down on me and do most of the work. As they say, I’m versatile. Which is the butch cliché for I love getting plugged, too. Like I said before, when I’m horny for too long, I get really inventive. I’ll pretty much put it anywhere it fits. This one, for instance,” he went on, turning the palm of his hand over to cradle my cock, his fingers forking to either side of my ballsac, then drooling onto the underside and laying his other hand palm down in a long, slow stroke, “fits just fine right here.”

I’d never felt a touch quite like his. Jim knows my trigger points almost perfectly, but I’m always aware he’s focusing on them because he knows it’s the right thing for me. This was different, driven by the abandoned gratification the contact obviously brought him as much as by a desire to please me. As I began writhing with the pleasure of it, a rope went taught to remind me I was half tied up.

He shifted to sit up, a wicked crook to the corner of his mouth, and his eyes lit up with god knows what as he withdrew his hands to stroke himself. “Don’t get your hopes up too high just yet,” he said. “We’ve got miles to go before we sleep.”

“And you’re the one hung like a little horse, you queer.” I parried.

“Thanks for inviting me to stop by your snow on a woody evening,” he quipped. “So shake my harness bells, already.”

We went on like that for several hours, exchanges of hot touch almost up to the point of no return alternating with goofy banter.

Around three in the morning, I lay pinned beneath his weight as he straddled my stomach, his hard-on waving again in my face. He gently laid his hand over my hand, removing it from his shaft as I tried to pump him. “Let me do that,” he rasped. “I pretty much have to be in the driver’s seat for this.” He took me by both wrists, laying my palms down on the tops of his thighs. “Hang onto me here,” he said, “and dig your thumbs in hard right under my nuts.”

He got lost in it. Looking up into his face, I watched his arousal mount into disbelieving, almost alarmed amazement. His balls swung past my fingers with the force of his rhythm. He’d all but forgotten me, except for the pressure as I dug into his pelvic floor with all the strength I had. I didn’t want anything from him but his pleasure. Watching him, all I could think of was what a fucking miracle it is that we get to do this, that we get to see each other do this, get to deliver one another’s bodies into such joy. All that mattered to him at that moment was that he was going to cum; and all I wanted was to cheer him on, as blinded to everything else as he was.

As his last jets trailed into the hair on my chest, he collapsed forward onto me, nuzzling his forehead into the nape of my neck, his hand still clenched around his softening shaft, still kneading it intermittently against my belly. I reached up to run the fingers of one hand through the hair that rioted over his forehead.

We basked in his afterglow for a while, and in the deep, sufficient contentment I’d felt as I watched over his climax and cradled him through the aftershocks.

I must have dozed off till his voice woke me, and the brush of his lips against my ear as he spoke. “What do you want now?”

I wanted my own release, but couldn’t bear the thought of breaking the perfect tranquility in which we floated.

“I want to just lie here while you kiss me on the lips and stroke me over the edge,” I said.

Sliding down to press his torso along the length of my right flank, he laid his left forearm over my belly and chest, his elbow pressing into my nipple as his fingertips began feathering my cockhead. His big hand gently turned my face towards him, and our mouths opened for each other, our tongues firm and sure in their dance. I was so focused on the pleasure of his lips gliding unpredictably over mine that I felt the warmth of my semen gushing onto my belly before I fully registered the orgasm, now pulsing through my loins, that somehow had begun in my mouth.

It took all the focus I had left to ride the wave of it all the way in. I was fast asleep before I could reach for the T-shirt thrown next to the bed to wipe up some of the flood I’d stored up through three hours of unrelenting play.