Chapter Twenty
Giles
Marcello makes a noise that I want to commit to memory.
It’s not quite a moan, not a fully-formed groan and it couldn’t really be called a whimper.
But it’s a noise of surrender and uncertainty and pleasure.
Definitely pleasure. I feel something like triumph at the idea that my words have affected him in such a way but the sense of accomplishment doesn’t last long.
“Do it,” he challenges me, a devious little smile curling his lips. “And I am watching. I want to see just how much you can take.”
My eyes flit from his dark brown pupils that are practically glittering with mischief down to his dick in my hand.
He’s big.
I knew this when I saw him in the shower. I have possibly been thinking about it more than occasionally since that moment. But I never actually thought I’d have the chance to get this close to it. To think about the long, thick, veiny shaft in my hand, in my mouth, in my…
“Fighting talk,” I mutter and start to stroke his cock, very, very slowly, while still keeping the pressure in my grip.
“Just gentle encouragement.”
I feel my cheeks bunch up as I grin widely. “Just like in the gym. I won’t go easy on you.”
“I really hope you don’t,” he says and his hand is on the back of my head. “Now give me your mouth.”
So I do. I dive down, mouth open wide, and take him as deep as I can.
It’s not what I planned to do. I really did want to take this slow.
I wanted to tease him with my tongue. Make him lose his mind by building up desire with gentle licks and soft kisses.
I wanted to show him just how affectionate and sweet and gentle a blow job from a man could be.
I don’t know if he’s watched gay porn or what he’s heard about sex between queer men but I’m determined he finds out it’s as varied and wide-ranging as hetero sex.
I don’t want him thinking that just because we’re both gendered as men that that means it’s all alpha energy and hard edges and aggressive fucking.
It’s my goal to make sure Marcello knows how – fuck, there’s no other word for it – how loving queer sex can be.
And yet, here I am diving straight down and choking myself on his huge dick.
“Oh, fuck!” he exclaims when my lips meet the base of his length. I swallow around the full head and he makes that frustrated but happy little noise again. Yes, I’m definitely remembering that.
I do it again, greedy for more noises, and then I pull back, sliding my lips over his dick as I retreat. Using my hand to pump him slightly, I briefly look up at him, checking he’s okay, and his eyes are fixed on me. Lips parted, he’s watching me intently so I decide to give him a show.
Keeping eye contact, I swirl my tongue around the head of his penis.
Marcello’s eyelids flutter and I smile around his cock which is now fully hard.
Fully hard and very big. His girth matches that of my own, but he has at least an inch in length on me if not more.
Not that I’m a size king in any shape or form, but I am enjoying the stretch of his dick in my mouth entirely too much as I take as much of him as possible down my throat again.
He groans as I swallow and his hips thrust up, pushing more of him into my throat.
In a move that could be described as cruel to him, I lift my mouth off him and move down to his balls.
I lick them, feeling that they’re already tight and high, before I take one into my mouth and suck on it gently.
“Cazzu dialulu!”
I’ve always liked Marcello cursing in Italian but hearing him do it while I am sucking on him, swirling my tongue around the hairy, textured skin of his testicle has me closing my eyes and humming with pleasure, which only makes him moan with me.
His hand pushes on the top of my head and makes me pull back. “You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asks almost accusingly, but with a side-smile pulling his lips.
“I told you, I like giving head.”
“I love playing football, but I’m fucking terrible at it,” he tells me. “You are an expert at this. Or…”
“Or?” I ask when he doesn’t finish that sentence. Using the saliva I’ve left all over his cock, I stroke him slowly as I wait, feeling the now more pronounced veins that zig-zag up his shaft under my palm.
“Or, are all queer men this good? Is it a pre-requisite of the label? Because I’m not sure I’m going to qualify…”
“It is not a pre-requisite. Some queer men don’t even like giving head. And that’s okay.”
A little pink rises in Marcello’s cheeks. “It’s not that I don’t want to do it. I think… I think I’d like to. One day.”
“One day is fine.” I twist my hand as I approach his head and that makes him thrust up into my fist like he can’t stop himself.
“But I will be awful,” he warns me.
“You want me to be less good.” I take my hands off his dick and bare my teeth. “Use my teeth a bit?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Make it a bit dryer?”
“Hell, no.” His hand wraps around the back of my neck.
“Or I could… just stop completely?”
I feel exactly what I was hoping for; a bit of force in his grip at the back of my head.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Tell me what you want.” I look up at him, but use my hand to quickly move my own dick which is achingly hard and pushing up against my trousers’ zip uncomfortably.
“I want…” He stalls but I wait. “I want to fuck your mouth.”
I hum my approval of this request and feel my body melt like hot, hot candle wax.
“I want that too,” I tell him, my voice all raspy.
“Can I… Can I be rough?” he asks with a lot more hesitation than I want to hear, and yet I find it so fucking endearing.
“Yes, please,” I say.
His fingertips dig into the skin at the back of my neck. “Then open up.”
I hold onto our eye contact as I open my mouth and stick out my tongue.
“Fuck, you look so good like that,” he says, his golden-flecked dark brown eyes shining with warmth.
I blink and search for a response. His words and the depth of his authenticity surprise me. As it happens he gives me no further time to formulate an appropriate reply when, keeping his hand on me, he stands up and pushes his long dick into my mouth.
He groans. Loud and long. It’s like he’s finally given himself permission to express what he feels, to do what he really wants to do, which is use my mouth for his pleasure.
And I fucking love it. I close my eyes, open my jaw as wide as it will go and feel his hardness slide in and out of my mouth, his skin hot, slick and smooth.
I catch his scent again, the one I inhaled earlier when I buried my nose in his crotch.
A floral clothes detergent, clean soap and yet still that creamy, sweet smell of butter pastry.
A few tears squeeze their way past my lashes as he hits the back of my throat and I bring my hands up to grip Marcello’s thighs, steadying myself as his strokes start to pick up pace.
“Fuck, Giles, your mouth…” He grunts.
I hum in response. It’s the only noise I can physically make as he plunders my mouth. But I feel compelled to make a noise because hearing my name on his lips, with desire clearly shaping the word, I have to try and communicate how it affects me.
Because it does affect me. I bring one hand down to my dick and rub the heel of my palm along its hard edge. I keep doing so as Marcello’s hands grip each side of my head and hold me in place. A thin dribble of spit leaves my mouth, slides down my chin and ends up God-knows-where. And I love it.
Maybe it’s because it’s been months since I’ve been intimate with someone else or maybe it’s because it’s Marcello, Marcello, but I feel a new lightness fill my body.
All the tension that I’ve become so used to harbouring inside me is melting away, disappearing as I surrender to this moment, to being used, to Marcello as he grunts and groans and curses in Italian above me.
It’s not always like this in sex. Too often men pick me because of the way I look and they assume that means I’m the top – and I’m not averse to topping, sometimes – but nothing feels as good as this.
As being wanted. As being free of the obligation I feel to count.
Being free of thoughts and questions and self-doubts.
Being free of everything but what’s happening to my body and to my partner’s body.
And there’s a lot happening to Marcello’s body.
He’s grunting with every single thrust which are both long and deep and yet delivered with a steady pace that is so close to being too much and yet is just enough, so deliciously enough for me to be ready and waiting for each stroke.
The muscles in his thighs clench, his hands stay firm on either side of my cheeks, holding me in place.
When his thumbs brush back and forward against my skin, wiping away my tears, there's a tenderness that doesn’t match his hard thrusts.
“Fuck, Giles, I’m going to—” He inhales sharply and pulls back ever so slightly, making his strokes more shallow inside my mouth. “You need to move if you don’t want my cum.”
“I want it,” I mumble instantly around his dick and it’s barely audible so I bring both hands to his butt cheeks and dig my fingertips into the flesh there that is dusted with hair, the cheeks both soft and firm as they tense and release again and again and again.
“Dio mio,” he says on a rough exhale. “So fucking good.”
He swells inside my mouth, getting wider, harder, hotter.
I push forward until my lips are pressed up against the dark hair at his base, another indication to him that I want everything he has to give me.
I want to feel his dick pulse. I want his cum down my throat.
I want to hear what noises he makes when he climaxes.
I want it all, and I get it all. I get his dick twitching on my tongue. I get every last drop of him. And I get… I get…
“Giles, fuck, Giles.” He moans, his hands now buried in my hair. “Giles, Giles, Giles.”