Chapter Five Saturday morning
Suffused in a warmth that he had not experienced in a long time, Bill awoke from a deep, dreamless and restful sleep, suspended in a new environment, a new sense of well-being. The bright morning sun streamed through the lightly curtained window as he luxuriously stretched trying to push back the last curtains of sleep. Somewhat dreamily he glanced at the clock on the bed stand--nine o'clock. "God, I haven't slept this long for ages. . . . Where am I?". . . then he remembered where he was.
He threw back the rumpled bed-clothes, stretched again and rubbed his hands over his chest and down to mid-thighs. His brows knitted as his sleep-sensitive hands encountered patches of crusty material here and there over his torso. He fought through the amnesia of the recently awakened. These patches, images of the previous night kaleidoscoped through his brain. These encounters and the memory the night before quickly thrust him into full wakefulness. He sat up. Denial--halting denial--unbelievable--denial.
He was alone in the sunlit bed room. The door was closed. The wrinkled, misaligned bed clothes indicated, confirmed the previous night's sport.
"Oh, my God!" Denial?
Maybe it was all a dream. No, the dried flecks of cum on his body proved that it was no dream. There was guilt, a new kind that fought a losing battle with a neutralizing emotional warmth that asserted itself. The warmth was undeniable, unwanted, creating an incredible conundrum for Bill.
"It was the drink, . . . it must have been, . . . I took too much, too fast. . . . That's it." Yet, he knew that it was not! This was no denial. He could not deny what had happened. He could not deny how he felt, reacted. Yet, how could he accept it?
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, leaving its comforts, paused a minute, and with resolve stood up. Wrapped in a warmth that gave his whole being a glow, wrapped in confusion, wrapped in wonderment, he fixed the towel 'round his waist picked up his shaving kit and headed for the bathroom. He glanced towards the kitchen from which poured the aroma of freshly made coffee, and the sight of Tom at the sink. Thankfully, his back was towards him.
Quickly he closed the bathroom door, unaccountably locked it, dropped the towel, glanced sidelong at his mirrored reflection, averted his eyes, and stepped into the shower. The temperature adjusted, the warm water cascaded over his body bringing its baptismal ministrations--at least that was what he hoped. As he quickly lathered his bare flesh he began to sing a remembered song. He rinsed, he re-lathered, making sure that every square inch was treated to the cleansing foam, he rinsed and re-lathered a third time, almost compulsively. He tried to wash away the sensation-ghosts of hours past, the rememberings of feelings and emotions. Yet, each time his soap-laden hands past over those regions, legions of sensually triggered memories, luxurious relicts assaulted his brain.
He attempted, with the song, to exorcise the mental-sense images, but they took precedence. The song, as usual, suffered a disjointed existence. He let the warm pelting water flow in ever-widening rivulets over his body. Finally, he became aware of it, accepted the water and succumbed to its calming ministrations.
The shower finished, briskly he toweled off. The reflection in the mirror--foam covered cheeks and chin--revealed itself with every stroke of the razor. Then, the foaming mouth, lips drawn back allowed the tooth-brush to do its work. Face rinsed, mouth rinsed, the errant drops of rinse-water wiped away, and the towel tousled hair finger-brushed into a semblance of acceptability, all this was done without encountering his eyes' reflection. He forced his eyes to tunnel on all areas except the eyes.
The eyes, the mirror of the soul, was he ready to look at his soul's reflection? No. . . not quite yet. He wasn't sure that he wanted to see what was reflected there--maybe he feared what he would see there. As a child averts their lie-filled eyes from those of a parent, he could not confront his being, his ethos.
Carefully, deliberately he wrapped the towel about his waist, turned its corner in a gripping knot and returned to his room. He noted that the coffee smell still lingered, tantalizingly, but Tom was not to be seen. Quickly he closed the door and stared in puzzlement at the bed.
No longer in crumpled disarray, it stood out in his consciousness because of its pristine, wrinkle-less perfection. It had been made while he was in the shower. Tom had made it. He noted that the spread was different from the one that covered it last night. Was it an attempt to disavow last night? Maybe it was some strange erotic dream-joke?
Although he did not realize it, since he roused himself out of the embrace of slumber, he had not experienced even the merest thought of the past six months, neither did a hint of that oppressive fog insinuate itself into his consciousness. Whether his new mood was a result of the tearful unburdening, or the subsequent erotic coupling he did not know. Quickly he dressed, unseeingly ran the brush through his hair and went to face Tom.
He left the door open as he entered the hall and took a deep breath for what was to come. Was he prepared? Could he face Tom? He couldn't, didn't want to face himself, that much he knew.
He needed a hot cup of coffee. Anything to postpone the inevitable.
As he entered the kitchen he saw Tom through the opening into the living room. He was sitting back in a chair, sipping a steaming mug of coffee, looking out the sliding doors, lost in thought.
The sound of Bills stockinged-feet brought him out of his reverie. A, "Good morning," came in pleasant, meaningfulness.
"Morning."
"Here, let me get you a cup of coffee," he said coming into the kitchen, reaching for a hefty brown mug from then cupboard, poured a brimming mug full, and handed it to Bill.
"Thanks."
"Hungry?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Sit there," indicating two stools at a counter that faced the opening into the living room. There were two places set, side by side, and two glasses of orange juice. "Only take a second. Sausages and eggs okay?"
"Yeah, sounds good." Sitting on one of the stools Bill began to tentatively sip the hot coffee as he gazed across the living room and out the double-pane expanse of the sliding doors, not focusing on anything. After a minute or two of uncharacteristic silence and not knowing what else to say, "Looks nice outside."
"Yeah, a bright new day."
"Did that mean something?" Bill thought to himself.
Bill continued to sit, elbows resting on the counter, sipping coffee and gazing into the bright distance. Tom busied himself, scrambling eggs and frying the sausage. Again, neither spoke. Their opening, morning conversation had been merely pleasant--tentative--almost monosyllabic--lacking any content, any emotions.
The only sounds were Bill's sipping, the subdued cooking sounds and a low voice of some newscaster emanating from the seven inch, black and white TV, unwatched, unlistened to at the end of the counter. Bill was brought back to the present by, "All done, let's eat," from over his shoulder. He turned to see Tom's half-smiling face. In his hands a pan of scrambled eggs with sausage and a spatula seemed to levitate. He leaned to the side as healthy portions were heaped on his plate and then on Tom's.
Inhaling the aroma, Bill allowed that it, "Smells good."
Tom slipped on the stool beside him picked up his fork and almost prayerfully intoned, "Health."
They both ate, again without speaking. Their bodies demanded fuel. Their thoughts demanded silence. Neither was prepared to question the previous evening, neither wanted to, or was able to verbalize their thoughts, their feelings, their heretofore unencountered emotions. A flood gate had been opened and each were fighting a powerful current; trying to stay afloat, fighting to stay afloat and knowing that if any one, anything came close they would clutch at it in order to lift themselves above the tide--jeopardizing the the existence of that which they touched. It was self-preservation, and although they were not consciously aware of it, it was also for the preservation of the other one, too.
Breakfast over, Tom said, "Get your shoes on." Short staccato sentences--"I'll take care of the dishes." Matter of fact statements--"Can't stay in this apartment all day." A need to be non-confronting--" I need to do a bit more shopping."
"Me, too," he lied, needing to get away from this apartment and the recent memories and sensations it held. The memories coupled with the closeness of Tom, just now, gave him a claustrophobic feeling.
Warmly ensconced in the car they drove through the down-town area, festive, around Monument Square, out Meridian to the north, past the monumental government buildings, the stately houses decorated in holiday cheer. Both seemed to be oblivious of the joy and cheer that the holiday forced upon all. They arrived at one of the malls. They are all the same--a myriad of shops. Or was it shoppes? Maybe, boutiques?
They spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon going from one establishment to another. The rush of shoppers, the constant jostling didn't seem to affect their inner turmoil or thoughts. They moved through the mall ensconced in a strange emotional neutrality. By mid-afternoon, with only a couple of packages each, they returned to the center of the city and had a late lunch in a quiet restaurant's basement room. They drank numerous cups of coffee, silently, thankful for the other's reticence. Tom suggested that they walk around the down-town area, look at the 'Dome,' and the redevelopment. Then they returned to Tom's apartment. It was, by then, six o'clock.
The whole day together was strangely relaxing even though their conversation consisted of inanities--banal observances. It was as though they had been newly introduced. Conversation was polite, uninvolved, emotionless, skirting the issue, surface, nothing more. What had passed between them the night before was not 'out-of-sight-out-of-mind,' it smoldered, but, both were thrust into each other's company by the situation and they need time, solitude. Their private thoughts fought to sort out the happenings of the past night, not only the physical actions, but their emotional state, emotional needs. These past few hours had insinuated a conundrum of such proportion and complexity that it was impossible to comprehend.
Bill deposited the packages in his room, and listened as the shower was turned on in the bath. He sat in silence and in deep thought. "What have I done? Why did I do it?" And then, "Why did I enjoy it." His thoughts, his questions were mirrored by Tom as well.
When he heard the shower being turned off, he stood up, undressed, deciding to take a shower too. He waited until he heard Tom's door close, walked to the bath, and showered. The same shower-ritual of the morning was repeated. The results were the same, nothing had changed.
After dressing, Bill returned to the living room, sank into a chair, stretched out his legs, folded his arms and glanced out the window at the night reflections of the city.
A few minutes later, Tom entered the room, sat in the chair opposite, supported his elbows on the cushioned arms, folded his hands and rested his chin on the intertwined fingers. His eyes deliberately force-focused on that face across from him. Bill turned his head towards Tom. An action that he wished to avoid, but with all his strength, he willed it. Their eyes snap-locked on to each other's. Their gaze was non-judgmental, strangely emotionless, but intensely questioning--not necessarily questioning each other, but themselves, with equal intensity.
After minutes of gnawing silence, a deep, deep breath, and just as deep an exhalation, Tom stated the obvious. "Bill. . . . we've got to talk."
Bill's arms unfolded, his whole body seem to shrink, or sink deeper in the chair. In acquiescence, in accepting the unavoidable, he passed his hands over his face in a gesture of acknowledgement, interlocked his fingers, and vised between his knees. "Yeah. . . . I know." It was not a statement of defeat, but of profound resignation, recognizing the inevitable.
Again, minutes passed, then Tom leaned forward to give emphasis to his flooded, unsystematic, jumbled thoughts. He fought for control. It avoided him. Words fell, uncontrolled, disjointed from his lips, "Bill, about last night. . . . I don't know . . . . I'm sorry. . . . I shouldn't have let it happen. . . . I don't know . . . . You were so vulnerable. . . . it wasn't your fault. . . . I don't know. . ."
"No, Tom. . . ."
"I didn't mean for it to happen. . . . . I didn't plan it. . . . God, I don't know even why . . . it happened. I. . .I. . .I don't know. . . . I'm sorry. . . ." Breathless, his eyes dropped in total confusion.
"It wasn't your fault. . . . I could've said. . . . 'No.'"
Shaking his head, "No, the drinks, . . . your crying. . . ."
"No. Even if is was drunk. . . . I could've said, 'No.'" Then after a thoughtful second, "But, I didn't." And, again after another second, "It wasn't your fault."
Again their eyes met--searching for answers--none seemed apparent. They sat like pillars of salt for endless seconds.
Suddenly, Tom stood up--the tension, the pain, the guilt was unbearable for him--stepped to the sliding door, looked out into the winter's night, spread his hands and supported himself on the wide panes. With his back to Bill, he spoke, his voice seemed strangely calm as he recounted, disjointedly a litany, "I don't know, Bill, I've always thought of you as a brother. . . . All the times that we've spent together. You were more than a friend, at least any friend that I have ever had. You were always there when I needed you--when I broke my leg, when my grandmother died--all those hours in the lab. . . . You're family's so great. When Karen died. . . I cried for you. I held you and wanted to take some of your pain." He inhaled a deep breath, exhaled and inhaled again. Bill watched his friend and listened to all this and continued to listen. "What I did last. . . . . night was. . . " He began to lose control. "was unforgivable. You were . . . so
vulnerable. . . ." With the word 'vulnerable' Tom's voice broke, obliterating the former calm. His head dropped, his shoulders shook with quiet sobs, he was unable to continue.
Rising from the chair, Bill walked over to Tom, grasped his shoulder, turned him around so that he could see his face and simply said, "Tom, please, stop it." All that had gone before, all those months, all the pain were mute memories. His concern was for Tom's pain, even his own unrest was secondary.
Suddenly, he realized the obvious in a blazing flash--suddenly--that seemed to rearrange events and feelings--suddenly--in a more logical order. Answers to unanswered questions, accepting the heretofore unacceptable, he said, with real calm, "Tom. . . . what happened last night was no one's fault. It happened, that's all. I don't know about you. . .but. . . ." He faltered, not knowing whether he should continue, but deciding that he must, "but, I'm not sorry. Not now. Some how, I don't even feel guilty. God knows, I did this morning. . . . all afternoon," He was calm.
Tom's expression telegraphed disbelief. Reading the expression, Bill continued, "Sorry, but part of my guilt was because of what I did to you last night. Yeah, I looked on you as a brother, too. . ." He paused again, and with a smile that calmly infused his face--his whole being--he stated simply, ". . . but. . . I guess that I can't any more. . . . I'm sorry Tom, but. . . I think," shaking his head, not knowing whether he should go on, "Oh Christ! . . . I think , . . . I guess I love you." The eyes, the face, the expression of Tom communicated utter and paralyzing disbelief.
Not knowing how to read the expression--a little sad, Bill released his grasp on Tom's shoulders and repeated once more, a sincere, "Sorry." He thought that he had found something, but his confession had caused it to be lost. Again he whispered, sadly, "Sorry." He turned, leaving Tom standing in place, and started down the hall to his room.
"Where are you going?" he heard as he reached bedroom door. Turning, he saw Tom nonchalantly leaning against the hall's opening-arch.
"I thought that it'd be better if I left."
"Why, and spoil a perfectly good holiday?" came flying back over that eight feet.
This time his eyes indicated disbelief. Feeling that what had transpired the night before would inevitably destroy or eventually nullify their friendship. "Well, . . . not many guys I know could . . . dispassionately accept a friend's confession . . . . of love."
"Oh?" he questioned sharply, and with a shrug continued, "Well, I accept it. . . and. . . . . . it so happens that . . . that I'm not dispassionate about it." A smile crept across his face, an eyebrow arched and he quickly broke into a soft chuckle of relief. He had accepted the seemingly unacceptable.
"Your kidding?" A meaningful question.
"No." A simple answer.
The barriers were suddenly all but swept aside. Nothing barred their way. They came together, tentatively, slightly nervous on this unfamiliar ground, wrapped their arms around each other, dropped their faces on to each other's shoulders and laughed. Theirs was a laugh of relief, of acceptance, deep felt, child-like and cleansing. They could go no further--their natural reserve, their training needed time to become adjusted to this new reality. Arms still around the other, they drew back and looked into each glowing face.
Suddenly, Bill's brows knitted together, sending a small shock through Tom."I really gotta take a piss," Bill blurted out, with a laugh.
"Shit," uncharacteristically and uncontrollably exploded from Tom's mouth in relief, "just when I was going to whisper some sweet nothing in your ear."
Throwing his hands up in resignation, "Well, when nature calls, and it's really calling," he added as he disappeared into the bathroom. The joy that Bill felt at these recent revelations could only be expressed by the shaking of his head in disbelief and the unconscious expostulation of, "Jesus!"
"Yes?" came Tom's answer from the hallway--the litany.
Bill, remembering the sequence, stated, "I didn't know you were black."
Tom, completed their formula, "There's a lot you don't know. . ." and then added a new phrase,". . . but, there's something you know now!"
Smiling, Bill, nodded his head. Seeing Tom in the kitchen, he walked back down the hall, stood at the opening and stated, "I'm hungry."
"For what?" Tom quipped, arching an eyebrow.
"Jeeze, now I gotta choice?"
"Ahh! But, you always did!"
"Now you tell me."
Changing the mood, "Bill, let's call in some food, I don't wanna cook."
"Okay, sounds good to me."
They sat in the living room, two young, scientific-trained men trying to logically, verbally express and analyze their new felt emotions--"I couldn't believe how your hand felt on my face--I couldn't believe it when I reached for your cock, I knew I shouldn't, but somehow I had to--The feeling when your finger touched my nipple. . . did you know what it would do to me?--When your hand touched my cock, I couldn't believe it. . . Why did you do it?" Questioning their actions, their reactions--"What made you kiss me?--Do you think that we had always, subconsciously wanted this to happen?--When I felt your tongue with mine, it tasted so sweet--When your hand slipped under my robe, I thought that this wasn't happening, I almost jumped out of bed--What made you touch my ass that way?" It was not strange. It was necessary, and besides with their analytic training and nature, it was a virtual mandate.
The day, the ranging emotions left them, for a while, in a renewing silence. Sitting, facing each other across the space between the chairs, they contemplated all that had happened, all that had been revealed in the past twenty-four hours, and in each other.
"Let's go to bed," Tom finally said.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Bill followed Tom into his bedroom. A new need short circuited their usual nightly routines. They slowly undressed, each intently watching the other. This was not an erotic strip-tease, but a need to know each other's most personal habits.
Nude, they stood facing each other. Then slowly they came together, arms around each other, lips on lips in unhindered, unhurried exploration. They separated, Bill turned back the covers, they slipped in between the crisp sheet and Tom turned to switch of the bed-side lamp. Bill reached over, clasping Tom's arm in mid-movement, "No, leave it on. Do you mind?"
"No, but you've seen me nude many times before."
"I know, but never under these conditions, and besides, I don't want to miss anything!"
"Don't worry, I won't let you," Tom replied, smiling.
Facing each other a foot or so apart, they began again that marvelously choreographed dance, except this time, their minds were clear, unfettered, unencumbered. The delicious newness, the quiet contemplation of each movement, each reaction, each sensation increased their emotional-physical responses. Their analytical approach did nothing to mask their feelings or their reactions, rather this cerebral intervention exponentially heightened each individual, sensual response. For long minutes they traced each other's facial features with the soft sensitive pads of their fingertips. Even the visual caresses spurred their desire. They purposefully willed this dance to become a magnum opus.
Their kisses were not tentative, but tender, communicating their new found feelings. Bill pushed the covering down to their waists and gently turned Tom on to his back taking the lead. Both kept theirs eyes open, expanding the sensual feast with the sense of sight. He had always marveled at Tom's dark velvety smooth skin. He traced his fingers over the muscle-capped shoulders, wanting to know, to experience every surface feature. He gently lifted Tom's arm up, over his head, exposing the mat of ebony black hair. His hand traced from elbow to the soft moist armpit causing an involuntary movement of Tom's arm.
"I'm so sensitive there."
"I know," smiled Bill.
He replaced electrically charged finger-tips with his broad palms and brailled the sensitive under-arm. Tom watched the hand move over his body, the sight of it adding to the touch of it. Again tips explored the broad chest plain. Centering upon the blue-black, half-dollar-sized areola and the nipple which quickly grew to erect prominence. He recalled now how Tom's chest and man-tits had created in him interest, no, fascination when he first saw them. He concentrated all physical, mental and emotional energies on these centers of wonder. Half encircling this center with the arch of his thumb and index finger, palm pressing flat, he reached over and planted a light but moist kiss on the miniature erection. His action brought a shallow sigh from Tom.
Bill glanced into Tom's eyes, smiled and then back to his exploring hand. He traced the arch of the rib-cage, again marveling at the smoothness of the skin. As his fingertips moved onto the stomach, the underlying muscles involuntarily reacted with a twitch. Again, Bill remembered how he had marveled at Tom's defined stomach muscles when he had first watched him remove his shirt. Now he traced every every ridge, every depression committing them to both visual and tactile memory. His forefinger traced the inside edge of the shallow navel, bring a little laugh from Tom. He glanced into those expressive eyes, and flashed another warm, love-smile.
Now his hand disappeared beneath the covering blankets, toward that most sensitive region. He knew, by the tenting of the blanket, that his touch was awaited. When he reached that mass of silky, black, curly hair he merely lingered on the fringes. Tracing their confines from one thigh to the other. These movements brought small inhaled hisses to Tom's lips.
Bill sat up, his movement caused the unveiling of Tom's rigid cock and part of his muscular thighs. He sat crossed legged, facing that turgid member. Again he glanced at Tom's desire-bright eyes. Now he had two free hands for this sensual pas de deux. His left played in the cock hairs, while the right hefted and fingered the mobile ball-sac.
His eyes, all his attention was now riveted on the cock, his right hand moved to its base. He encircled it with his thumb and forefinger, testing at once both its circumference and its rigidity. Slowly, sensitively it moved up its dark, velvet length, each finger taking its place in synchronized repetition. His eyes took in every movement, the nerve ends of his palm and fingers confirmed and added to the sensual catalog. His sensual cataloger moved up and encased the sheathed cock-head. He felt all.
Moving back down, stopping just below the perceived flair, he drew back all but the thumb and forefinger. They exerted a slight increase of pressure and again began to move downward, exposing the shiny, purple head as the soft, elastic covering, relinquished its prize. Now up, hiding, now down, revealing. Again, Bill remembered how the sight of Tom's smoothly covered uncircumcised cock had more than just casually piqued his interest the first time he saw it. His left hand's thumb and forefinger gently clasping the shiny mushroom-cap-like cock-head and carefully his right pushed the sheath back up and watched with sensual delight as it slipped over the clasping fingers. Even his finger and thumb nail telegraphed sensations. Slowly he removed his left thumb and forefinger, watching the velvet sheath return to its former, encasing position.
Bending over, his tongue snaked out and taste-felt the ruffled tip, down the top-side of the shaft and up the underside, coming again to the opening. His eyes turned to Tom's and locked on to them as his tongue insinuated itself in between the sheath and pulsing head. His lips came into contact with the sheath, a downward movement exposed the the cock-head within the warm, moist confines of his mouth. He inhaled and moved even further down the shaft, his tongue flicking over the surface of that imprisoned delight. Tom groaned. Slowly, Bill withdrew his mouth.
Pushing the bed clothes down to the foot of the bed, he sat back and surveyed the total length of Tom's body. Tom's eyes watching his every eye-movement. He reached over and with hand pressure on the inside of the thighs, gently signaled Tom to spread them. They spread open. Bill moved in between the thighs, placing both hands on that softest of all skin areas, the inner thigh. In synchronized rhythm he moved his hands down to the knees and back up towards the hot, moist crotch. Where balls and thighs met Bill lightly drug his fingernails over the sensitive skin. The reaction, unexpected by both Bill and Tom, was a low groan and the spreading of the thighs further apart, coupled with the flexing of the knees and the drawing of the heels up, touching the buttocks. Bill gazed at the twin peaks of Tom's knees, bracketing the proud, upright cock rising from the suspended ball-sac, which in turn partially covered a deeply shadowed crevice.
Now Bill was displaced from contact with Tom by his reaction. He leaned forward, bracing his hands by Tom's feet and lowered his head between the thighs and again sucked the upturned cock into his mouth. Slowly he lowered his mouth over its half-length and withdrew, almost releasing the tip. With this pattern imprinted on his mind he began to repeat it, with variations. Doing so, he shifted his weight onto his left arm, freeing his right to play an erotic rhythm on Tom's balls. His right hand shifted to explore that area just behind the ball-sac, feeling the pulsing cock-root and the sutured-like ridge that ran down to the closed cleft. He followed the ridge-route, coming to a small puckered button.
He lightly ran his finger over this new found spot, again causing a reaction. Tom drew his knees towards his chest and grasped them with his hands. This reaction not only changed the angle of his cock, causing it to angle towards the roof of Bills mouth, but also completely expose to both touch and sight that most private spot.
Sitting back, finger still on that puckered opening Bill took visual note. Again he glanced with love into Tom's wide open eroticized eyes and noted that his beautiful lips were parted, involuntarily. Purposefully, he moved his sensitized finger over and around this new wonder. Tom's eye lids began to slide shut, then open again as his head began to slowly move from side to side, all the while short rapid breathing sounds escaped from his lips. He exerted pressure on that tight orifice, bringing forth a deep throated moan.
Again he leaned forward toward that rigid, sharped-angled cock, depositing an amount of saliva on the discovering finger. He joyfully reached down and restarted that sucking motion that he recently knew brought Tom so much pleasure. He was not disappointed. Simultaneously, he smeared his spit on that tight sphincter. That, too, brought a crescendo of moans. Slowly, with twisting motion, he exerted more pressure on the little mouth--it opened, or rather, released its pressure, and his finger slipped past the vestibule.
"Ohhh, God, " welled from deep inside Tom's throat.
"Want me to stop?"
"No!"
Bill continued his head/tongue/lip motion and the pressure of his finger. The next barrier was not as difficult to breach. His finger slipped past the second muscled ring and into the dark, warm, moist recesses of Tom's ass. Without conscious volition, his inserted finger assumed the same movement and rhythm as his lips.
Tom arched his back, whipped his head back and forth. Had Tom been sitting up, he would have noticed that Tom's toes curled up tightly, and his pendulous ball-sac began to shrink cock-ward. He did notice that the cock, slipping in and out of his mouth, seemed to increase in size. He became aware that Tom's muscular thighs clasped his head between them. A growing half moan, half cry registered on Bill's mind, as did the beginning spasmodic jerks of the cock in his mouth, and the rhythmically twitching muscles around his fucking finger. Then he felt a foreign fluid flooding his mouth. Quickly he withdrew and watched haphazard spurts of pearly semen ejected over Tom's abdomen and chest.
"Ohhh. God," punctuated each ejection and each contraction around his still fucking finger. Bill watched with undeniable, unrestrained wonder and delight. The cries, the spasms, the contractions subsided. Bill slowly withdrew his finger, causing a low after-moan. He placed his hands on his knees and sat back upon his heels, observing all the time.
Tom, returning from the petit mort of orgasm, began to relax. Hands released their grasp of the knees. Feet returned to the bed surface and slowly moved towards full extension on either side of Bill. Chest rose and fell in deep, relaxing movements. Bill moved his hands to the outside of Tom's bracketing thighs and began to lightly massage them. All the time watching the face of his new found love.
Tom's eyes slowly open, a smile, the likes of which Bill had never seen before covered his face. He sat up, wrapped his arms around Bill's neck, fastened his lips to his new-found lover, and laid back, pulling Bill with him. Taking Bill's face in his hands Tom disengaged, looked into those pleasure filled eyes and stated emphatically, "Bill Dweyer, I love you."
Bill gazed down into Tom's eyes and also affirmed, "Tom Wright, I love you," punctuating each word.
They rested quietly one on the other, Bills's head nestled in the hollow of Tom's shoulder. Infused with a sensation that he could hardly comprehend, Tom gently moved his hands over the body's back that covered him. In an all-embracing glow, he recounted the last twenty minutes--the feelings, the sensations that Bill's touches had elicited. After a short period, released his reverie, and a need to return these sensations, to reciprocate arose in Tom. Finally, he spoke.
"Now it's my turn," he whispered. The only reaction from Bill was a low moan and a slight readjustment of his position as he sank deeper into sleep. A smile crossed Tom's face as he thought, "That's supposed to happen to me!"
Carefully, and with some difficulty, he manipulated the blankets at the foot of the bed with his feet, not wanting to disturb Bill. Up over the knees with dexterity he didn't know he had, he had carefully worked the blanket. Finally snaring the blanket with the tips of his fingers it pulled it up over Bill's back, adjusted it, and then, he too sunk into a blissful, fulfilled sleep.