Chapter 7 #2
Isard brought his hands up to Alex’s head, running his fingers through his thick spiky hair, luxuriating at the texture, and gently tracing the tactile profile of his scalp with his fingertips.
Alex’s hands were on Isard’s hips as he moved to the other nipple with his tongue.
Aware of the prominent bulge in Isard’s tracksuit bottoms, one hand strayed down there and his hand lightly touched Isard through the nylon fabric.
Isard sighed and pushed his groin forward onto Alex’s hand, wanting more.
But Alex kept his touch light, just his lips, tongue and the delicate touch of the fingertips of one hand stimulating his nipples, while the other hand just brushed Isard’s crotch and explored his slim flat stomach.
Isard’s torso, as pale as Alex’s was dark, was bereft of almost any hair except a few dark curls beneath his pecs and a scant delicious trail running down his stomach to disappear into his tracksuit bottoms.
From Alex’s head, Isard ran his hands over Alex’s broad brown back, muscular and smooth. He brought his hands around to the front, finding and tweaking Alex’s nipples, and being rewarded with a groan, as Alex attacked his own nipples harder using teeth and fingertips.
They straightened and came together, kissing some more.
Their cocks, both hard and straining through their tracksuit bottoms, ground together mercilessly.
Alex held Isard by the hips again, pulling the slimmer guy into him and rubbing their cocks together sexily, while Isard’s hands rested on Alex’s shoulders and biceps, marveling at his strength, feeling his muscles clench every time Alex ground his hips into him.
Finally, they couldn’t resist anymore, and as if by mutual accord, together they were hauling each other’s tracksuit pants down over their hard cocks onto their thighs.
Alex’s cock, fatter and broader than Isard’s strained upward, delineated through a pair of sheer shiny black boxer briefs, while Isard’s longer, slimmer cock stuck out between them, tenting his white cotton stretch boxers.
Running his hands from Alex’s muscular shoulders down his body, over his firm pecs and firm flat stomach, Isard dropped to his knees.
He leaned in, breathing in the exciting musk of Alex’s groin, before hooking his hands under the waistline of his boxers and dragging them down over his thighs.
Alex’s cock sprang free, hard and erect above a fat pair of balls, all framed by a thatch of wiry pubic hair within a lighter bikini tan line, starkly contrasting with his darker stomach and thighs.
Opening his mouth, Isard licked the wide round head before taking it into his mouth.
Alex sighed and, placing his hands on top of Isard’s scalp, guided him deeper onto his cock.
Isard took Alex in, as slowly and sensually as he could, wanting to make the experience as hot as possible for Alex, suctioning his lips around Alex’s meat, while tickling the glans with the tip of his tongue.
“Oh God, Isard!” Alex moaned, his eyes closed in bliss. “Where did you… That feels amazing!”
He opened his eyes to look down on… but there was a man standing on the stairs.
“Merda! What the…!”
He stumbled back in shock, pulling his dick from Isard’s mouth, even as he was hauling up his track pants to hide his straining erection. Isard, still on his knees, swiveled to look up toward the stairs. Then his whole body congealed in shock.
“Papa! What are you…?”
“Sorry, Isard, I didn’t mean to interrupt…”
The sixty-year-old man with silver hair, standing on the stair landing wrapped in a dressing gown looked as shocked as the both of them.
“You’re supposed to be asleep!” Isard spluttered.”
“Sorry, lad, I heard you come in. Believe me, I wasn’t spying, I just wanted to know how the filming went, and if you wanted a cup of tea before bed!”
Was he apologizing for having come in and interrupting his son performing fellatio on a stranger in his own home?
Alex stood there mortified, not a clue as to what to do or how to act.
He had pulled up his sweatpants but felt naked standing there shirtless, aware that his fading erection was still clearly visible through his track pants.
Grabbing his shirt off the floor, he asked:
“Ah, Isard, do you have a bathroom?”
Isard wordlessly pointed to a passage beyond the kitchen.
Alex grabbed his small pack and fled in the direction he’d indicated.
Through the door were three others: bedroom, office, and on the third try he found the bathroom.
He entered and locked the door. It was suddenly pitch dark, but with the light from his phone, he found the light switch.
First he put on his top, smoothing his clothes and trying to make himself presentable, as well as ensuring his erection had gone down.
Though he had a damp patch on the front of his sweatpants where precum had soaked through the material, it was barely visible because of the dark color.
Then he splashed water on his face, dried himself off, and stared into the mirror at himself.
His eyes looked huge, his dark brown irises almost swallowed by the size of his pupils, which looked like saucers, like a cat that had been caught in the headlights.
What in heck had just happened? What sort of weird family setup did they have?
What was he doing here? He’d been hired to teach some young actor martial arts.
A scandal like this could wreck his career before it had even begun.
And now what was he supposed to do? Make his way home to Sagrada Família, and somehow find a way to get to the film shoot tomorrow under his own steam?
Or turn up outside the gates here at seven a.m. and just try to play it cool?
Both options would mean he’d get less than four hours’ sleep and be a total wreck tomorrow.
He had totally forgotten where he was and what his job was, what he was here to do.
Instead he’d been carried along by the force of his dick, crossing every professional boundary he’d set himself.
He had no idea who Isard’s dad was in the wider world, but presumably someone with a certain amount of clout.
Otherwise he wouldn’t be living in a house like this.
It would be virtually impossible to teach Isard anything now.
How had he mucked all of this up so royally in a space of barely eighteen hours?