Dario took a step or two forward, until we were close enough to touch, but he didn’t touch me. He stood still, gazing at me without a trace of embarrassment or awkwardness, but like he was waiting for something from me. “Then I’m going to kiss you.” He moved, brought his body, his face closer to mine. Raised one hand, brushed it briefly against my arm, my shoulder, my jaw. His breath smelled of toothpaste, and a sudden flood of tenderness rushed over me at the image of him brushing his teeth because I was coming over. In case we might kiss. And his lips parted slightly and I tried to relax my mouth, my jaw for a kiss as tender as the caresses he’d given me that first night. “If you want me to.” Not a kiss. His lips had parted for those words. “Do you want me to?”
I wanted it so badly. It was why I’d come. But it was so hard to say it. “Yes.”
He leaned in a little closer, so close that I felt the heat of him up the length of my body, felt his breath warm on my lips, so close that when he shifted his weight his knee brushed against my leg, and as I felt my blood accelerate, pumping my panic from my chest into my legs and arms and hands until I was trembling, and I noticed his breathing was like mine—strange and constricted and too fast—he touched my wrist again, the way he’d touched it that first night, made me move my arm, my hand again as if it were me and not him directing that movement, and he pressed my palm over the warm, rigid bulge of his hard cock sheathed under the fabric of his jeans. “You’re sure you want me to kiss you?”
I was almost in tears because I was sure I’d already used up all the generous patience possible, but it seemed better to say it sooner than later. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”
Not the look of disappointment or irritation I was expecting. Just a hint of a grin. “Not ready for what?”
“That isn’t what I asked you. I asked if you want me to kiss you. This isn’t a bait and switch.”
“Yes. Yes, I want you to.”
It seemed strange to me, but wonderful that he was trembling too. He slid one hand against my waist until it curved against the small of my back, warm, almost hovering he touch was so light, and he leaned in so that our chests barely pressed together, and his lips brushed against mine, not even really a kiss for those first seconds, my want expanding and submerging me so that when he finally did really kiss me, soft lips pressing against mine, his tongue seeking mine, I groaned and the faint warmth of his hand on the small of my back drew me closer, pressed me more firmly to him, his other hand curving around the base of my neck, his kiss gentle but desperate, ravenous. Never in my life have I felt so possessed, so completely taken in a kiss.
When we stopped, we were both panting. He backed away to look at me—my face, the bulge sticking up under my slacks—and without realizing what I was doing I’d curved my hands behind his triceps, desperate not to let him slip away from me, not even far enough that I couldn’t feel his body’s heat against my belly and chest.
“Come upstairs with me.” More like a directive than an invitation. Fear and arousal driving a violent surge of blood through my whole body with every thumping heartbeat, I followed him to the far corner of the loft and up the steep, precarious stairs that were hardly more than a ladder, a staircase usually hidden behind a teak screen he kept locked in place to bar the hordes from entering his sanctuary during the weekend events, so that I’d never seen the stairs, much less the sleeping area they led to. It was like we’d gone to a different house. As open and spare as the rest of the loft was, the upstairs area, which was suspended above maybe a quarter of the lower loft but which was larger than my entire apartment—was warm, cozy, intimate, mostly in golds with accents of deep brownish reds, all the wood teak, nothing ornate, all in gentle slopes and curves, rounded corners, avoiding even a single hard angle.
Raising his hands to my hair and giving me a caress that felt both tender and possessive, demanding, Dario said, “I prefer to be with you up here. Downstairs, it’s for everyone. Up here, it’s just for us.”
He kissed me again. It was like drowning, that kiss the medium in which my body, my soul was suspended, that kiss touching every cell of my skin, every hair follicle on my body, filling my mouth, my throat, my lungs until I couldn’t breathe, until my consciousness started to dim and blur in dizzy euphoria.
Then his mouth was by my ear and in that intimate voice that made me feel like I was being touched, he said, “I want to undress you.”
I wanted to let him. Just the words sent a thrill surging through me. But I was afraid, too. Not afraid he’d try to make me do something if I didn’t want it, but afraid that by taking my clothes off maybe I was making some implicit promise I might not be able to keep. But he knew that already, didn’t he?
His hands slid up under my shirt and over my belly, slowly, incredibly lightly, his hands warm, his touch amplifying my arousal more than I’d imagined could be possible given how fucking turned on I was already, even before he brushed his fingertips over my nipples. He stood still, with that complete, intense focus of his fixed on me, and then he started, the whole time mostly watching my face, but now and then looking at the skin he was exposing—my stomach, my chest—watching his fingers working the buttons of my shirt, drawing it open, then drawing it off my shoulders, down my arms. He gazed into my eyes for a moment, then his hands and eyes moved over my naked torso. He kissed me again, then, tentative, incredibly gentle at first. Then with rising hunger. Palpable want. When the kiss ended, he looked at me again, like he was trying to read my mind.
Nervous and turned on as hell, my heart hammering, I watched him sink to his knees, first gazing up at me, seeking my response, then feathering his lips over my abdomen, right along the waistline of my slacks, instantly pumping more blood and heat into my already throbbing cock. His warm, wet tongue sliding over my skin, little sucking, thrilling kisses across the tattoo that was only half visible above my belt. When he stopped, he looked at the blatant bulge of my erection jutting against my pants, then gazed up at me with a rousing, eager grin, and started working my belt open, unzipping my fly.
God, it was really happening. I don’t think I’d ever been as nervous or as fucking turned on as I was as he slid my pants down off my hips, then knelt there caressing my hard cock through my boxer briefs with his gaze. He planted a lingering kiss just next to my cock, that gesture and his hot breath driving a fresh thrill through me. Then he slid my shorts down, just an inch or two. He looked up at me, making sure, then bared my cock. He sighed. For a minute he just knelt there looking at it, his rapt gaze pumping blood straight to my erection.
When I was completely naked he stood and told me to get on the bed, and I did, heart hammering hard, erection absolutely throbbing. It embarrassed me to watch him undress, I don’t know why it was much harder than letting him undress me, being naked under that intense gaze of his. But he was so, so beautiful that even though I felt embarrassed I was absolutely devouring the sight of him, his long, perfectly proportioned torso, his broad shoulders and chest the ideal I’d worked hard to approximate by going to the gym for two hours four times a week, every week since college, but which had been given to him by genetics. I liked that he didn't look waxed bare like an underwear model. The way that sparse field of dark hair on his pecs narrowed into a line that ran down his abdomen until it was hidden beyond the waist of his pants drew my eyes down his body like a beacon.
When he unzipped his jeans I looked up at his face because I was embarrassed to be sitting there staring, waiting to see it, and to be honest, a little scared to see it. Scared it would freak me out. Turn me off. Like he was reading my mind, Dario’s aroused grin faded a little and his gaze went watchful as he slid his pants and boxer briefs down. When he stood, I couldn’t help myself; like an involuntary response my eyes locked on his dick, hard, ruddy and veined and thick. I’d always been a little proud of my cock. But his was definitely bigger. Thicker. Big, flared crown. His balls. Everything groomed. Fuck. The startling shock of really seeing it went straight to my gut.
Then to my cock. Fuck I wanted him.
When he was naked he got on the bed with me, coming close without touching, but again, so close I felt the heat of him, now and then felt a little gust of his breath as he studied my expression, as he looked over my body without a trace of shyness about submitting me, and—another lingering, greedy gaze—my cock to his scrutiny, then finally laying his hand on my waist with what I’m almost sure was restraint because I almost couldn’t feel the weight of it but his hand was trembling. And then he kissed me again, a kiss that started shallow and gentle but got more and more hungry, greedy, and that lasted and lasted, as if there was nothing else for two naked people in bed together to do but kiss.
When we finally emerged from that kiss he looked me over again, his gaze lingering now and then on some feature—my cock, the tattoo between my navel and my left hip, the scar on my shin from a cycling accident when I was in college. That caressing voice, “You’re lovely, Aidan. Unbearably lovely. I’m going to call you Rodin.”
“Was Rodin lovely?” I teased, embarrassed. It felt so strange, him gazing at me that way, after all the times I'd caught women and guys staring at him. At his beauty. His big, dark eyes made even more stunning because he had incredibly long thick eyelashes. That movie star jawline. Those soft, full lips that had kissed me.
“Not particularly. But he carved lovely figures, which is what you’ve done.”
“Trying to look like you,” I confessed.
I thought he’d laugh or come back with a clever comment, but he just gazed at me, his luminous happiness tinged with a little shadow of melancholy, I thought, then kissed me again, another kiss like a wave rising over and crashing down on me until I felt I was being swept away by the force of him. Little by little I felt that restraint he’d imposed on himself slipping away, the weight of his hand finally succumbing to gravity, daring at last to explore, then take possession of my body inch by inch, and then he lifted himself on top of me and I panicked a little. I thought I was going to tell him no, it’s too much. But his warmth and weight on me felt so good, the scent of him filling me each time I took a breath was making me even hungrier for him, and the way he was kissing me and touching me had me gasping, moaning, straining for every caress, and I was writhing under him, the way our bodies rubbed and slid against each other driving me crazy, worse than the cruelest torment of want from adolescent days when every encounter with my girlfriends stopped short of release, leaving me in agony until I could get home and jerk off.
He ended the kiss, rose up on his knees. Towering over me, his hungry gaze framed above the sight of his hard cock drove a fresh spike of want and fear into me. He reached past me, and laid a bottle of lube on the blanket by my hip.
Suddenly in a panic, my whole body tensed as if for battle I asked in a constricted voice that sounded almost angry, “What’s that for?”
“I’m going to suck your cock until you beg me for mercy,” he said, no dent in his embracing, caressing voice. “And while I suck you, I’m going to finger your ass. Has anyone done that to you before?”
“No.” Two women had tried, and I’d told them both to knock it off, but I didn’t say that.
“It’s going to feel good.” He smiled. “No, that’s a lie. It’s going to feel fucking amazing. But you have to give it a chance.”
I didn’t tell him no, even though the idea of it sounded frankly awful. Clinical, anatomical, invasive and a little sadistic. I don’t know what I thought we were going to do in bed together, except maybe stroke each other off and, eventually—I’d fantasized it and was almost sure I’d eventually want to—fuck each other, but being penetrated that way hadn’t occurred to me and suddenly my whole body was rigid, already trying to defend itself even before he’d moved a muscle.
He sank down very slowly, not to go down on me, but to say softly by my ear, “Can you trust me?”
I croaked out a weak little, “Yes,” as if a snake had wrapped itself around my throat and was constricting its coils, trying to choke the life from me.
“It’s not a question for your brain, Aidan. It’s a question for your heart. You thought about it, and you said yes. But what do you feel? Can you trust me?”
I tried to make myself forget the image of a latex-gloved hand probing my anal cavity, and return to that dim, warm room, to how I’d felt with him kissing and touching and looking at me. “Yes.”
“I’ll always be very careful not to spoil that feeling.”
“Okay,” I said.
A brief brush of his soft warm lips over mine, and then he went down, looking up for a moment, noting that I was watching what he was doing, and with the same delicious, torturous patience he began to give me head. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did: it was the best head I’d ever had. So much so, it was like a new, strange experience, as if the women I’d been with had been performing some other act when they’d bobbed up and down with my cock in their mouths.
At first he was barely moving, and apart from seeing him slip the crown of my cock between his lips, or at other moments seeing his tongue sliding over my flesh, I couldn’t even be sure exactly what he was doing. There was just the sensation of warmth, of wetness, of a muscular embrace engulfing, constricting, occasionally exerting a sucking pressure that sometimes was barely discernible, driving a fierce want into me, other times growing so intense I was almost anxious that it was about to hurt. But all through it, from the first minute, I wanted more. I wanted it so bad I was lifting my hips, seeking the depth of his mouth, begging him with a gesture, a caress, a little grunt of exquisite suffering to please, please, give me just a little more of that sensation that was a new pleasure I’d never imagined.
I was so lost in that pleasure I wasn’t even aware of him doing it, reaching for the bottle, squeezing out a measure of lube, but the first touch, just a shy little feathering caress under my balls, slid warm and slippery over my skin, teasing, maybe hinting at tickling, at that tormenting thrill, then weightening into a real, coaxing caress. The taunting pleasure of his engulfing, sucking mouth, endlessly driving me to seek its own culmination, never relented, never stopped driving me to tremble, to flex and arch for his tongue, his throat even at the moment when one finger slid slowly along my cleft and began rubbing the sensitive little aperture, suddenly magnifying the pleasure of the blowjob with that new, fretful little sensation.
With a little slurping noise he released my dick from his mouth. “Baby,” he said, and I felt my face burn at that little endearment, “are you always so silent? I’d love to hear you.”
I realized my jaw was clenched tight, so tight that when I willed myself to relax it, it ached. I’d been holding my breath, too, taking a quick gulp of air only when I’d half suffocated myself. I made myself breathe, in and out, my lips parted, and little by little those breaths swelled up to soft moans as he started giving me head again, as he started wiggling that finger between my cheeks again, and then, as I felt his finger push past the tight little aperture and slide slowly up inside me I heard a warbly little whimper composed half of fear and half of pleasure. Then I was whining my want, my need, my bitter frustration because his mouth had all but stilled, my cock buried deep, so deep I wondered if he’d slowed because he was choking himself in an effort to impress me, and the sensation of what he was doing with that finger plunged into me to the hilt demanded all my attention as he moved it inside of me, little fluid movements, and I was grunting faintly, the sensation driving these little noises out of me without me knowing whether I’d name the feeling pleasure, but then he started working over my absolutely aching cock with his tongue and lips and driving me to the point of madness with that incredible sucking pressure while he kept fingering my ass, and suddenly I was whimpering, “Please, please,” and raking my fingers into his hair, probably clawing his scalp more than once, pushing myself between his lips in a way that was way more aggressive than I’d ever let myself be with a woman giving me head, and I swear, he never resisted, never once pulled away or pushed me back, he just kept going, maybe coming up to nurse the crown when I relented, then sinking down on me again, and then the finger he had up my ass slipped from inside of me, and I thought, “Thank God,” but even though he was sucking me with as much enthusiasm and skill as ever—if anything pulling me even closer to the edge but always backing off the second I teetered and almost fell—I realized I wanted it again, that penetration, that unfamiliar, fretful torment of those delicate nerves.
And then he gave it to me, again the pressure of his finger, a teasing rubbing at first, then that honing in, that slow push and forced dilation of that tightly closed aperture, the gradual penetration, but this time the strain was much more, as if he were putting something much larger inside of me.
“Wait,” I gasped, my voice strained with panic. Immediately (though slowly and gently) he withdrew whatever he’d been trying to push up my ass, and then took his mouth from my cock. He looked up at me with a calm patience which struck me almost like mockery of my panic, but just for a second. I knew he was being kind. Sweet. “I’m sorry,” I said, “whatever it is, it’s too much.”
“Did I hurt you?”
Honestly, it had been uncomfortable. And suddenly I’d gotten scared of what I was about to feel. “No. But it’s too much.”
He grinned, and lifted his hand, his index and middle finger extended. I felt my face go hot again, and had a flash of terror that his fingers would be dirty from being up there, but they were just pink and shiny with lube. “Trust me, this isn’t too much.” God, he sounded aroused. To prove his point, still grinning, he put those two extended fingers next to his stiff, swollen cock, which in circumference was at least twice that of the two fingers. Twice the length, too. At least. I was suddenly a hundred percent sure I would never, never let him fuck me. There was no way. No way on earth.
“I know you’re nervous. I know it’s new for you. But you were enjoying it, weren’t you?”
“Before, with one finger, yes.”
“Well, we can stick with that if you want. But if you’ll try to relax, and really trust me, I promise it won’t hurt. I promise,” he said, “that you won’t believe how hard you’re going to come. There’s nothing like it.”
It wasn’t the promise of the mega orgasm. Mostly, it was how turned on he sounded and looked as he said it, how aroused he seemed to be by the idea of doing that to me, making me come with his lips gripping my cock and his fingers up inside of me that made me willing to try again, even though I was frankly skeptical that I’d be able to handle it. But I knew he’d stop again if I told him to, so I gave him a not very eager, “Alright. I’ll try.”
This time he didn’t suck me while he did it. He knelt there, gazing down at me, his expression all gentle empathy, his face almost beatific as he put a fat blob of lube on his fingertips, then he bent over me, kissed me deeply, slowly, but only briefly, then he lifted his head a little and watched me as he started teasing my hole again, rubbing, then just pushing one fingertip in a little way, then rubbing again until the sensation started to make me squirm with a feeling that was somewhere between a thrilling irritation and pleasure. But then the pressure intensified and I felt my hole being stretched to the limit again, and I heard myself let out a startled, frightened little cry.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.
“I just, I don’t think I like it.”
“We haven’t gotten to the part that feels best. Would you try something for me? Bear down a little. So you’re pushing against my fingers.”
When I tried it, he smiled, and I felt his fingers sliding up inside of me. “Better, baby?” he purred.
He kissed me, tasting of my cock, while he pulled out a little, then pushed his fingers deeper into me, his tongue playing with mine, his fingers slowly sliding in and out, and then he rose up again to look at me, and however I was looking at that moment made him smile.
“That’s so good,” he sighed, then sank down on my cock again, sucking me to the brink of orgasm in a matter of seconds while he started doing something with those fingers up inside of me, so that when he flexed them a violent jolt of incredible pleasure hit my whole pelvis like a mallet on a timpani.
“Jesus,” I groaned. “Fuck.”
I almost came, once, twice, Dario halting, withholding each time I got close, then, when I’d calmed, his mouth working my cock again with that mysterious pressure and suction and the delicious friction of his tongue teasing the most sensitive places while he probed or stroked or rubbed that magic spot with his fingertip buried deep inside me, driving these guttural grunts out of me in a way fucking and being sucked never had, but each time I started to gasp and flex and arch and raked my fingers into his hair, trying to coax him down, trying to thrust my cock into his throat. Then that luscious sucking pressure abated, though my cock was still jammed to the hilt in his mouth, and his fingers would slip free of the grip of my asshole, or would just recede a little, abandoning the magic pressure point that was making me thrash and making my limbs spastic and useless. He took me to the edge a third time, held me dangling there, then dragged me back.
“God, please!” I begged him. I sounded like I was about to cry, and maybe I was.
He took my cock from his mouth just long enough to say, “Like this?” Then he pushed his fingers into me to the hilt, fretting that spot inside of me with the flex and press of his fingertips while he worked over my cock until I was practically convulsing under him. And then it all stopped. “Tell me, Aidan.”
“Yes, please, God. Just like that.”
A little groan escaped his throat as he grinned, then wrapped his lips around my cock, just under the crown, nursing and lapping as he started fingering my hole again, hitting that sensitive target at my depth once, twice, driving a long, whining moan from me as I arched up, clutching his hair and trying desperately to push myself all the way back into his throat, whimpering and murmuring a desperate prayer, “Please, yes, please, please!” and those two fingers straining my body flexed and flexed and flexed as he escalated that unbearable, perfect constricting pressure around my throbbing cock and I collapsed or seized in a brutal spasm of decimating pleasure. I don’t know if I moaned or exclaimed, if I let go of his hair or forced him down on me. I just felt the pleasure grab and twist me again and again, wringing me out until I was empty. Empty and limp.
I don’t remember the intervening seconds or minutes, but by the time I was halfway coherent again, we were lying next to each other and he had his arms around me. Practically cradling me, for a long time he just held me while I caught my breath and stopped trembling, his embrace close and warm and comforting. He only started kissing my hair, nuzzling into my neck, and now and then caressing my hip, tracing the tattoo there with a fingertip once I’d calmed. Every kiss, every little touch felt wonderful, made me want to be closer to him even though our bodies were all wrapped up in each other.
I said, “You’re still hard.”
That assured smile. An emphatic, playful, “Oh, yes.”
“What should we do about that?” I was trying to be playful, too, but once again the fact that I felt nervous, that I hadn’t quite made up my mind about what I was and wasn’t ready to do tainted my voice.
“We don’t need to do anything about it. It won’t break. And I’m loving this, just lying here with you, kissing and touching.”
I should have touched him, caressed him as I said it, but I was too shy, despite what we’d just done. “No,” I tried joking again, “something’s got to be done about that.”
“I’ll go take a shower.”
“What? A cold shower?” I was horrorstruck. He’d already written me off as useless.
“Something like that.” Still smiling placidly.
“So, what? You’d rather go jerk off than fool around with me? Am I that bad?” In the face of his unflappable tranquility I immediately felt like a total drama queen. Pardon the expression.
“That thought didn’t actually cross your mind, did it? I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“Why would you say that, then?”
“Because I’m trying very, very hard not to push you too far too fast, and I don’t want my hard-on to guilt you into doing anything. Whatever we do together, I want everything to be because you’re into it. Absolutely, unbearably hard for it.”
Just the way he said that had my cock perking up again.
“Don’t imagine that I don’t want to reciprocate. I absolutely do. I’m just feeling . . .”
“Not ready?” he finally asked.
“Mostly I’m feeling hopelessly outmatched.”
“I should hope so, since I’ve been assiduously mastering the art of making men come for almost ten years.” He kissed me, sweetly, almost tentatively at first, then deeply, with a swelling urgency. Then he stopped. “You talk like you’re afraid you’re a disappointment. So I want you to know, I haven’t enjoyed being with anyone so much in years.” He watched my face for a few seconds, then said, “Look at you. You don’t believe me.”
“First my cock. Now you’re stroking my ego.”
He laughed at my terrible joke. “I’m not a good liar. But I’m truly hopeless with white lies. So if your ego feels stroked, I’m telling you the truth.”