Chapter Twenty-Two
Giles
I lower my head and lean my body back, creating enough space between us so I can watch Marcello’s fingers. If this is going to happen, I don’t want to miss a thing.
“Yes, you can touch me.”
A ragged exhale leaves Marcello’s voice and I can almost feel his relief in the air. He slides his hand lower and grabs my dick as firmly as he can through the cotton blend of my trousers. Immediate warmth and desire surges inside me, and in my cock.
“Fuck,” I grit out and my head falls forward as I continue to watch his hand grab, stroke and rub. My forehead meets Marcello’s mouth and I am surprised when I feel a quick kiss there.
But there’s no time to dwell on it because Marcello is making quick work of undoing my fly and each little move dances pressure on and around my dick.
It’s like I’m being touched by someone for the first time.
It’s like I’m sharing in his lack of experience.
It feels surprising, electrifying, intoxicating. And he hasn’t even got me naked yet.
When my fly is open, he slides his hand into my boxers and finds my erection. Covering it with his palm, I feel his body move with a light chuckle, which is not the reaction I would like considering it’s very possible mine is the first dick he’s touched other than his own.
“What?” I pull back so I can look at him.
He’s smiling at me. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course you’re completely hairless here too.” His fingers move to grip my dick at the base. “And rock solid as well, of course.”
I can’t reply immediately. The sensation of him holding me in his hand is a little too much.
As is thinking about telling him the real reason I’m hairless on my body.
Because it’s the only way I learned to control my compulsions to pull it out over and over and over again.
But that's not a conversation for now. Or ever.
“Shall we go back to my bedroom?” I ask eventually.
“Wherever you want,” he says and his hand starts to slide. It’s not a smooth motion, restricted as he is by my boxers still being on, but it’s enough to have my toes curling and my eyes wanting to close so I can focus solely on his touch.
“Sofa,” I grunt out and I push him off me so we can get there quicker. If my forceful action surprises him, he doesn’t show it and he makes quick work of crossing the room and plonking himself down at one end of the sofa.
I pause just before I sit down myself. “Where do you want me?”
Marcello’s eyes roll up and down me, and I can almost feel heat on each part of my body his gaze touches.
“Fuck, Giles, look at you,” he says. And although there’s a hint of reverence in his voice, I don’t know exactly what he means.
Do I look a mess? Is my moustache wonky?
Is my hair out of place? I bring a hand up to my head.
“You look good. That’s what I mean to say.” Marcello holds out a hand. “Come sit in front of me.”
“In front of you?” I frown.
“Yeah, between my legs.” He opens up his thighs. “Your back to my front. I was thinking that could help get my grip right. It’s like I’m doing it to myself… kind of.”
My neck elongates and I resist the urge to clench my fists.
Logically, I know why he’s saying that and why he wants us in that position.
Of course it will make it easier for him if he’s sitting at the same angle as he would touch himself.
It won’t feel so foreign, so difficult, perhaps.
But there’s something about hearing him suggest that he’ll pretend to touch himself, not me, that stings.
Pushing that stab of discomfort to the side, I position myself between his legs and I almost forget about it completely when I lean back and feel his heat on my back.
It’s a cooler day outside – a hint that autumn is just around the corner – so I’m very aware of how much warmth I am feeling from Marcello.
Warmth, and comfort. His body is sturdy, strong, but it’s also soft.
It has some give to it and I close my eyes briefly as I sink back into him.
“Can you take your trousers and boxers off?” he asks and I hear what he’s really asking.
For my consent. To check I’m happy to be naked with him and there’s something so sweet and precious in that, because so often people assume all I want to be is naked, with a body like mine, and yet Marcello is not doing so.
I answer him by pulling my shirt over my head. Then I lift my backside off the couch and slide my clothes down my thighs. My cock springs free once the waistband of my boxers has cleared it and I hear a sharp intake of breath just behind my ear.
Looking down at my dick, my trousers and boxers discarded on the floor somewhere, I wonder what Marcello is thinking.
Is he remarking on how I’m a little shorter than he is but just as wide?
Does that even mean anything to him? Is he horrified at the idea of seeing another man’s dick, at touching it?
I can feel it. What’s happening. Almost physically. The needling thoughts burrowing deeper inside me, locking myself in my head, taking me away from my body which is where I want to be, where I need to be. Where I blissfully was when I was on my knees giving Marcello head.
“Touch me,” I grit out and it sounds more like an order than the beg it really is.
Because I need him to touch me, to pull me away from these fast-descending thoughts.
I need to be present enough that I can commit whatever happens next to memory just in case my fears are correct and this never happens again.
I need to enjoy what happens next in case Marcello has already made up his mind – that he’s not queer – that he’s simply returning the favour, to get me off, because he’s that polite.
Marcello leans forward, his arm extending over my body and he grips the base of my dick. I stop breathing as the length and head swell under his grip.
“Fuck,” he hisses and I immediately search for the negative in that breathy curse. Is there disgust? Is there discomfort? Is there disappointment?
“Stroke me, please,” I say and there’s no denying just how desperate that sounded.
But Marcello doesn’t move his hand. It twitches slightly, but doesn’t move.
“How do you like to be touched?” he asks eventually.
I can’t think. I can’t put words together in a logical order. I can’t answer his question despite thirty-odd years of successfully touching myself to orgasm nearly every damn day.
“Don’t be gentle,” I finally say. It’s not because I don’t like that – I do, a lot, a worrying amount – but because I don’t want Marcello to be afraid.
I don’t want him to be half as self-conscious as I’m feeling right now.
I want him to be confident without worrying about hurting me or being too rough.
I also don’t think I could survive him being gentle or tender with me right now.
As if to test what I just said, he squeezes a little harder and then moves his grip up my dick.
“Oh,” I say. It’s all I can say. It feels good. It feels so fucking good. I close my eyes as his hand reaches the head of cock and then slowly descends again. Thankfully, mercifully, I can practically feel the flood of my niggling negative thoughts start to recede.
“Do you have some lube or something handy?” Marcello’s question comes out of nowhere, interrupting the progress I feel I was making in surrendering to this moment.
“Err.” I sit up a little straighter. “I don’t think so. Not in here.”
“Okay, I just don’t want to hurt you. I usually masturbate with a lot of lube.”
I don’t know why but his confession has my balls tightening. The thought, the image of Marcello stroking himself off with that long veiny thick dick glistening with lube. I swallow.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It feels good as it is.”
“You’re sure?” He resumes his strokes.
“Yeah,” I say and I close my eyes again because looking at his fist wrapped around my dick is a little too much.
It’s probably because it’s been months since another human has touched my penis, I tell myself.
It’s because I was already so turned on when I was on my knees in front of him, his dick filling my mouth and my throat.
But then I have a thought that is louder than both of these: it’s because it’s Marcello.
It’s because it’s Marcello. It doesn’t matter that his strokes, which are consistent at best, perfunctory at worst, feel a little haphazard, a little awkward.
It’s because it’s Marcello that’s getting me closer and closer.
And I don’t want to come. Not yet. I don’t want this to end.
“Stop.” I wrap my fingers around his wrist and he stills.
“Is it… Does it not feel good?”
I laugh. A great ugly scoff of a laugh. Because the very opposite is true. It feels too good. Not expert. Not smooth. Not even exactly how I like to be touched or the pace I liked to be stroked. But it’s enough. Whatever he’s doing, it’s working.
“It’s… fine,” I say. “I’m just… Not very comfortable.”
I fidget as if to prove my point and I feel Marcello’s body shift backwards to give me more space, but that is not what I want. If anything I want to be closer to him.
“Could you…” I suck in a harsh breath. “Could you touch my body?”
“While you touch your dick?” he asks.
“I mean, yeah, I could do that.” That’s not what I had in mind.
Not at all. I wanted his hand off my cock so I don’t come to soon, but now I’m too self-conscious to tell him that I just needed a break because of how good it felt.
I open my mouth to say anything, anything but that but Marcello is quicker.
“Because you’ll know how to do it better than me. And then I can watch.” Marcello thinks he’s explaining for me. He thinks that’s what I want. “This way I can watch and learn how to make you come.”
Fuck. Despite myself, despite what I really want – his hand on me, making me come – I can’t deny how hot it is hearing him say that.