“My wife says great things about you,” he tells me. I’m unsnapping his buttons. One by one they pop through the crisp pressed cotton of his shirt. As they release, I see more and more of his skin. “She says you’re great to work with.”
My glance flicks up to meet his, from the thatch of thick white hair that covers his chest. The man’s eyes are a gentle blue. Still staring at him, my hand reaches in to hold his ribs, caught between warm flesh and the second, button-down skin I’ve never before seen him shuck. He gasps; my fingers might be a little cool. His lips part. At no point do his eyes break the stare. I can see an emotion stirring behind his quiet. Anticipation, perhaps. Uncertainty.
I withdraw my hand so I can pull the last two buttons through their holes. His shirt drapes back against the multiple throw pillows of the guest bed. He is, in a word, breathtaking. Though over the years his skin and fur have coarsened, the muscles grown a little less taut, the man still carries the physique of an athlete. He lies there, half-disrobed, and watches me as I look at him.
“You should have seen me in my prime,” he says.
There it is, that emotion I couldn’t quite pin down. His tone is half-joking, but the other half is worry. He’s afraid he won’t measure up—that the difference between our age will be too insurmountable. I fix him with another stare. “I’m pretty sure I’m seeing that right now,” I tell him.
The words sound slick, but my sincerity comes through. He reddens, looks down, abashed, and then permits himself to grin. “You don’t have to say that.”
“Oh, I know I don’t.” My knees are digging into the mattress as I reach down to unbuckle his belt, then tug at the metal fastener of his khakis. “Doesn’t mean I can’t.”
He’s blushing furiously now. He can barely bring himself to look at me. He definitely can’t bring himself to look as I pull apart the opening of his pants and expose the hardness that lies beneath his Hanes. “I’m an old man,” he protests.
I’m curious. “How old are you?”
Fuck. I hope I’m half that foxy at his age. The man has movie-star looks—a thatch of fine, silver hair that falls over his forehead in a swoop. Eyes as blue as a pool of unspoiled water. A dimple in the center of his strong chin. His features are all uniform perfection until one’s eyes reach the tip of his nose, where it swells into a small, comical bulb that tilts slightly to one side. It’s an adorable quirk that brings the symmetry of the rest of him into absolute focus. “I know it’s probably too old for you—“
I blink slowly, trying to conceal the fact I’m rolling my eyes. When I open them again, I say to him, “We’re alone in your home. We’re in one of your bedrooms. You’re fucking around on your wife. I’ve got you half-undressed. I intend to get all of your clothes off. If you haven’t figured out by now that I find you very, very attractive. . . .”
He lets out the tiniest breath of a laugh. The heel of my hand rubs at the dick that strains at the fabric of his shorts. I watch as, for a moment, the last of his fear evaporates, leaving behind only hard desire. “I hope this won’t make things awkward for you around my wife. . . .”
I cut him off with a shake of my head. I get him to lift his rump, and I pull his pants down, leaving behind only his underwear and black socks.
“I didn’t think we’d ever do this,” he says, watching me fold his slacks. “I mean, I fantasized . . . I just didn’t think you. . . .”
“I knew there was something between us the first time we met,” I say. “Didn’t you?”
“As far back as that?” he asks, genuinely astonished. He doesn’t even seem to notice I’m easing off his shirt, laying him back in the nest of pillows.
I nod. I remembered that evening well. We both had sported the proper red, white, and blue of a well-to-do suburban cocktail party—red wine, white shirts, blue blazers. Upon our introduction, he’d squeezed my hand a little too hard. He’d stared a little too long. He’d spoken a little too close to my ear, a little too intimately. Was I supposed to miss his lingering stares, over the last couple of years? The conspiratorial winks, when he’d pass by? Was I supposed to ignore those intimacies, and pretend not to know what he was really thinking? Then he didn’t know me very well.
His breath catches as I hook my fingers into the elastic of his waistband. He seems astonished to find himself nearly naked. As if he’s inhaled what evaporated earlier, the fear returns to his eyes. “How long has it been?” I ask, softly. “With a man?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. It’s difficult to tell what emotion is closer to the surface—anxiety or need. “Years. Years and years. With my wife—“ I shake my head once more. I don’t need to know about his wife. I don’t want her specter in the bedroom with us. His voice trails off. “Even longer.”
The thought that this handsome man has been doing without saddens me. “Let me take care of you,” I tell him.
Once again his mouth parts. He nods slightly, his eyes shifting focus to various areas of my face, as if struck for the first time by our close proximity. He lifts his hand to touch my forehead, to brush the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. He puts the ball of his thumb to my mouth, and drags down my lower lip. It snaps back, upon release.
And then I move in. My mouth closes on his. I feel his chest heave; I can pick out the tattoo of his heart against his ribcage. His eyes close as he melts into me. He smells of aftershave . . . something old-fashioned, but expensive. The faintest antiseptic aftertaste of Listerine lingers in his mouth when my tongue breaks inside. His breath blasts through his nostrils like a steam whistle.
When I break away and plant kisses on his chest, he stares as me as I move steadily downward. He’s helpless when I pull back the band of his shorts. His cock springs out—thicker and longer than I expected. Much thicker, in fact. The guy is probably easily six and a half to seven inches around. He’s got a super-fat seven and a half incher with a classic mushroom head. My astonishment must show, because he speaks. “What?” he asks. “Is it not big enough?”
“Christ,” I say. “Are you serious?” He shakes his head, not getting it. “You’re fucking huge.”
His meat swells at the praise, but he’s not confident enough to take the appropriate pride. “Really? It’s not bigger than yours. On Manhunt—“
“It’s not as long as mine. It’s a hell of a lot thicker, though.” I wrap my fingers around the meaty handful and squeeze, making the skin on the head shiny and smooth. “Fuck, how do you pack all this in those Brooks Brothers slacks of yours?”
He’s so pleased by the praise—by any praise at all, maybe—that he looks like he wants to crow. In the softest, shyest voice possible, he whispers, “I’m glad you like it.”
He needs me to like it. So it’s time to show him how much.
I open my jaw to the maximum and allow my lips to slide down the shaft. His skin is pliable and warm; the taste of him is mildly salty, mildly soapy. He’s already making mild protests, telling me I shouldn’t, telling me I don’t have to . . . but mere seconds later he’s urging me on. I feel his hand, soft against the top of my head. He strokes me like me might a kitten.
I’m embracing his around his midsection. My arms curl around the outside of his hips; my hands rest on his torso. My chin scrapes the near-hairlessness of his nuts. My jaw’s already feeling stretched to the max. I can tell this blow job is going to test me. He’s pushing down on my head now, hoping I’ll go deeper, that I’ll take more. I don’t need the encouragement. I already want this man in every way possible, and possibly in more ways that he’s ready to try. For now, though, I want to be the best cocksucker he’s had. I want to be the cocksucker he deserves.
Because it’s obvious he hasn’t been sucked in a very, very long time. Every little thing I try elicits a response. The sensation of my breath against his spit-slick skin makes his groan. When I loosen my hand and stroke my fingers up and down his perineum, I feel gooseflesh spread down his thighs and across his chest. He shudders when I reach the base of his dick; his hips buckle and strain when I lightly tickle the sides of his nuts. He’s quite easily the most responsive man I’ve been with in a very long time.
When I encircle his cock with my thumb and forefinger and let it travel tightly up and down the shaft with my lips, he acts as if he’s never felt anything so intense and wonderful before. Maybe he hasn’t. I increase it to two fingers, three, then the whole fist as the feelings of pleasure multiply exponentially. Soon he’s trying to pull my mouth from his meat—trying not to climax too quickly. I’m determined, though. I don’t care how quickly he shoots. I don’t care about his agenda. Mine is to get his load into my stomach, ASAP.
I don’t have long to wait. When he comes it’s with an actual shout, somewhere between the pain from a long-suppressed release, and the unexpected joy of getting exactly what he wanted. It’s so loud that there’s a flash of echo from the empty rooms of the rest of the house. His sperm floods my mouth as he holds my head down. The load is bitter like coffee, and thick like pudding, but I’m grateful for it. I swallow quickly and milk the big head of its last few drops. Then I lie there still, a dog with a much-desired bone in its mouth.
It’s a few minutes before I release him. I’m still clothed; he’s naked save for the socks. He stares at me, motionless, as if I were a baby deer and he’s afraid of frightening me. “Do you have to go?”
I shake my head. “Do you want me to go?”
He laughs, but it’s only slightly. “If you suck cock like that, I don’t know why anyone would ever let you go.”
“Oh yes.” His voice is soft. He puts an arm around my shoulder. “I liked it very much.”
I allow myself to settle into the crook of his arm. He smells good, like fresh laundry and a clean medicine cabinet. For a moment I revel in the soft touch of his hand as he strokes my hair.
“Do I get to kiss you again?” he asks finally, his voice a rumble where my ear rests against his chest.
I prop myself up on an elbow. Brush the shock of silver hair from his forehead. Then very slowly, very deliberately, I show him that indeed, he gets to kiss me again, as much as he desires.