Chapter 6
And Clint pulled out.
And I rolled over, so that I could see his huge prick, slippery and slimy with his fresh come, still hard, moments before it would detumesce.
And he showed it to me, sitting back on his heels, not moving, as though confirming that he had in fact gotten his rocks off.
And now, I watched Larry, redoubling his efforts, trying to catch up, as though he could regain the moment, if he came quickly enough.
So that the seismic shockwaves of his desperate thrusts were jarring my father, again and again, as, ass in the air, Larry fucked him to climax.
And I looked at Dad's huge musculature, crouched there, taking everything Larry had to give.
And loving every minute of it.
I did not think that Dad was aware of the game Larry had tried to play, the number he had tried to run on Clint, on all of us.
Not that he would have cared.
And I was not sure why I did, at least to the degree of resenting it.
I guess it was because of a distaste for being manipulated.
I hated that.
Why was it necessary for one person to run a number on another in order to enjoy a relationship ?
Why did it have to be con man and mark to make it work?
This was wrong.
This was something I would have to ask Dad about when I got the chance.
And take his answer with a grain of salt.
Because it seemed to me that my father was perhaps the most outstanding talent at that sort of game that I had ever known.
I was here because of his manipulation.
Which was far more elaborate than Larry's simple imitation of another's actions. My father's manipulation of me had been like one of those arrangements of dominoes I had seen on TV.
You know, the fantastic pattern of events that took place when the designer flicked that first domino with his finger?
Because it had taken planning, and a knowledge of my thought patters, my tendencies, my innermost thoughts.
So that he would have had to know me better than I knew myself.
And the chilling probability was that he did.
And I looked at him down there, getting fucked in the ass.
And not knowing and not caring about anything other than the sensations that flooded through him with each lunging thrust.
And now, Larry was coming.
Ostentatiously, naturally.
Because that's the kind of guy he was.
"Oooh! Aaah! Ahaha!"
Hips thrusting with almost vibrator speed, head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open in an ecstatic leer.
Showing how much he was enjoying it.
And how good a job he had done.
And it was such bullshit I wanted to laugh.
As though any of us were supposed to believe that he was transported to that degree.
One of the disadvantages of manipulation is that you give up the spontaneity, the naturalness, and the purity of the pleasure that goes with it.
Because he pulled out, his last spasm throwing a small pearly jet onto one of Dad's brawny buttocks.
Clearly, he was racing to catch up.
As though suck catching up were possible.
As though it would have proved something to Clint.
Who, I was certain, could have cared less.
And now, there we were, the four of us, on our knees, on this football field of a bed.
And two of us had shiny, detumescing hard-ons.
And two of us had long, hard, thick, vibrant boners projecting stiffly up from our laps.
"Looks like you two are in bad need of some relief," Larry said.
Referring to me and Dad.
It was all happening so fast.
I had never seen Dad have sex before.
I had never seen him getting it up the ass.
I had never seen his face and body as he had it done to him, his body wracked with pleasure, murmuring and crying out in his sensual, sexual delight.
I had never seen him with a hard-on.
And the reverse was also true.
And now, here we were, the two of us, at the ready.
And with an audience.
Which did not seem to matter.
Not to Dad, anyway.
Because he looked at me, face flushed with excitement.
Sexual excitement.
The excitement which said that he did not care about anything except the throbbing monster in his lap.
And these other two were messy and recently satisfied.
As he was not.
As we were not.
And he was there and I was there.
And there was nothing, nothing, nothing in between us.
And now I understood.
This was the barrier he had set out to destroy.
And I realized, with an uneasiness overwhelmed by my desire, by the tumescent organ throbbing in my lap insisting on service, that he had succeeded.
The barrier was down.
Gone.
And he had it all.
Meaning the body.
And that was all that there was, really.
So he had always said.
And so I believed.
Or wanted to.
Because it had to be true.
Had to.
Here was the reality, the physical evidence of it, without dispute, without the possibility of misunderstanding, of misinterpretation.
Here was my body, there was his.
Here was my cock, there was his.
And there was nothing else there, only the two of us.
And our appetites.
And our desires.
And our throbbing potency.
And now, his hand was reaching for my cock.
And we were flattening out, turning onto our sides, reversing with respect to each other.
So that now we were in the sixty-nine position.
And his cock was in my face.
And mine in his.
And now, I was drooling.
I could feel the inside of my mouth, filling with fresh saliva.
I wanted him in my mouth.
So that, by sucking him, I would be sucking myself.
Except that I would be getting sucked by that which was other than myself.
By that which was my—no!
That had no meaning.
That did not count.
There was only the flesh and the flesh and the flesh.
Impassioned, throbbing, engorged, excited, aroused flesh.
And flesh wanted flesh, wanted to know it, to merge with it, to revel in that merging.
And there it was, all of it, mine for the taking, mine for the sucking.
The throbbing knob twitched, inviting me, the long, thick meat under the fishhead extending, thick and pulsing, to the eggs of the dangling balls.
And it was mine, mine, mine!
And nothing else mattered.
Nothing at all.
Nothing.
"Nuffick," I murmured, my voice a scant whisper, as my mouth closed over the bulging cock head.
There! I told myself. The deed is done!
There had been a barrier there once, but it was gone, evaporated.
So that perhaps it had been a mere illusion, something that had never really existed at all, a fairy tale, a lie, told long ago, preserved for some unknown reason.
But that no longer mattered, in any event.
What counted was what was.
Which, at the moment, was my cock and body, this other cock and body.
Which even now were merged into a closed circuit, as I felt gentle, moist lips close over the head of my cock.
And now, we were sucking each other off.
And it did not matter who or what we were, happened to be.
It just doesn't matter, I repeated to myself, my drooling mouth working at the luscious monster in earnest.
So that now my head was bobbing up and down, the great meat piston shafting smoothly in and out of my mouth, the head remaining inside at all times.
As I went lower and lower, wanting all of it inside me.
As I felt my own cock going deeper and deeper into the other body's head at each lunge of the sucking cycle.
And now, I opened the back of my throat.
Because I wanted this cock, all of it, inside my head.
Because only thus could I put my own all the way inside the head of the other.
And it was important to me that every inch, every centimeter of my cock experience that same exquisite sensation of wet, warm pressure.
And I realized to my great joy that it was.
It was happening!
I was doing it!
We were doing it!
My thick, throbbing monster (and I had never been so conscious, so aware of having a thick, throbbing monster) was going all the way into him, fucking his head to the hilt.
As his was into mine.
So that I could taste it, I could feel it, feel its bulk, its pressure, the life within it, its surface in intimate detail.
And we were sucking each other.
All of us.
There was no part of me, of my body, of my awareness, that was not involved, actively taking part.
And I could tell that it was the same for him.
The other.
Whoever, whatever he was.
Higher and higher we were taking each other.
Hotter and hotter our bodies were becoming.
And it was not happening rapidly or slowly.
This was taking place outside of time and space.
Such concepts were far too complex, too meaningless in the present situation.
Because there were only the two of us, and the single creature that we had become.
That, and the energy, the vibrancy, the life, the electricity, the force that was flowing through us in a continuous, closed circuit.
Nothing, nothing, nothing mattered except the feeling.
The feeling.
Which was a tingling, charged ecstasy.
Which had no precedent, no parallel, no substitute.
We were high.
We were higher than high.
We were at the zenith, the summit of the pleasure of which the human animal is capable.
And we stayed there, hovering at the peak.
As our heads bobbed smoothly, evenly, rapidly up and down on our turgid, throbbing meat poles.
We were moving like those pumps in oil fields.
And for the same reason.
We were reaching down, down, down into each others' depths.
And summoning.
Not the sperm, not the jism, the goo that would eventually come forth.
No, what we were summoning was the pleasure beyond pleasure, that miracle of sensation whereby we would attain that increment of sensation which in theory was impossible.
The pleasure beyond pleasure.
Which was in the flesh and of the flesh and of the creature, the fleshly creature, that we had become.
And now—
Here it came.
And I swallowed his load and he swallowed mine, an even, simultaneous exchanged, the huge, pulsating heads discharging onto our tongues, which could feel the spasms of the thick shafts.
And it was over.
And we did not glance at the other two who had watched the whole thing.
They had been there, and yet they had not.
They saw and yet they did not see.
They knew and did not know.
How could they?
There was no way they could have felt what we felt, thought what we thought.
There had been only the two of us.
They had played no part, had no faculties for viewing what had actually happened.
There was the doing and there was the watching and the two had no relationship.
Except that of the flesh.
So that they could know physically what had taken place.
And, knowing this, could anticipate the feelings, the wealth of sensations to which they could look forward to, if and when.
And there would be an if and when.
Because Dad and I would not always be here.
But the two of them would linger, after we had gone home.
Dad?
Home?
What had I done?
What had we done?
Stop it, I told myself, just stop it!
Those are not the thoughts you want to think, I told myself.
I was giving in to some unpleasant, and more than merely unpleasant feelings that threatened to well up within me, as I followed the broad back, the muscular buttocks to the bathroom sink.
And I did not look at him, even though both of us had our meat draped into the sink, washing ourselves off.
And I did not look at him, even though both of us were bent over, side by side, scrubbing our ass holes out with a washcloth.
But I fought the feelings back.
Except that I would not touch ... him again.
Not here, not now.
Not until I could get home, could have some time to think things out on my own.
Instead, I would take refuge behind Clint.
Behind him and with him, in his body, his cock.
I wanted both of them from him.
I would revel in his being, his physical being.
The flesh and the flesh and the flesh.
That was all there was, all there could be.
And it was enough, and more than enough.
For me.
For us.
For all of us.
And now, we were done in the bathroom.
And Larry and Clint took our place, washing off their own cocks, cleansing them of the stale come that had remained on them, cooling, as they watched (as much as they could) the action between me and ... the other.
And we did not get back onto the bed.
It was ridiculous, really, me standing there, fists on hips, looking at the gigantic, unframed abstract on the wall, peering at it intently, as though I could discern some deep meaning there.
And Da ... and the other sat on the edge of the bed opposite me.
I knew he was there, but I did not want to look at him, to see exactly what, if anything, he happened to be doing.
And I continued thus, until the other two came back into the room.
And Clint put his arm around my waist, sitting down on the edge of the bed with me, then swinging into the bed when I did.
As Larry did the same with ... the other.
And Clint lay on his stomach, as I had before.
And for the same reason.
So that now it was I who was insinuating myself between the fantastically muscled masses of his legs.
And it was I who was gazing at the bulging mounds of his buttocks, and the deep crack between them.
And I separated the cheeks of his ass with my hands, feeling his buttocks relax, as I exposed his large, puffy ass hole, surrounded by a ring of short, dark hairs, into plain sight.
And studied it, fascinated, for a long moment.
And now, I put my face closer and closer to it, opening my mouth as I went down.
And his ass, the cheeks still spread by my hands, rose into the air as I sealed my mouth to the ring of muscle.
And he was on knees and elbows.
And I was rimming him deeply, thoroughly.
And his anal sphincter relaxed.
And my tongue went in, in, in.
And I was fucking his ass hole with my tongue even as I chewed his anal sphincter.
And now, I kept his cheeks open with one hand as, with the other, I played with his huge, dangling balls.
And still I rimmed him, wallowing in the crack of his ass.
Until the promptings of my cock told me that my body wished to do something else, of which the rimming, delightful as it was, was the mere preliminary.
As it twitched and warmed into renewed life.
And lengthened and thickened.
Until it was huge and stiff below me as I knelt there, chewing away on Clint's ass hole.
And I pulled my face back.
And stood up on my knees.
And guided my cock toward his ass hole, buttoning the head inside it, feeling his rectum caress it eagerly.
And shafted into him, feeling the heat of his interior, feeling the parting of the tissues of the channel of his rectum yielding, warm and wet and smooth, only to close in on the head and shaft of my rampant intruder, hugging the entire length.
And I began the pumping motion of my hips, testing the wetness of his interior.
And finding it satisfactory.
So that I could speed up my engine.
So that now I was pistoning in and out of his generous, caressing, smooth, wet interior.
He was made for this!
Because he was taking it, taking everything I could throw at him, without resistance of any kind.
And now I was pounding into him, my abdominal muscles slamming into the solid twin masses of his buttocks, again and again.
And I could see the shaft of my cock as it moved in and out, long and thick and throbbing with power and life.
And I could look over and see the mirror image of myself and Clint.
Mirror image or parody.
Because it was happening over there, right next to me, a muscular stud socking it to one of greater bulk.
And going faster and faster.
So I turned away.
Go ahead, ass hole, I thought, go all out.
Run the race.
You win, okay?
Because I am going to take my time.
I am going to let my cock get to know the nuances of feeling, the peculiarities of pressure, the idiosyncrasies of reaction of this particular body, this particular ass.
I am going to explore the length, the depth, the height of action and reaction, my own and his.
I am going to hang right in there.
Until the cows come home, if that's what it takes.
Clint is going to know me.
Clint's body is going to know my body.
We are going to come to know each other as no two bodies ever have.
Because there comes a time.
There comes a time when a man has to say that he has arrived, that he need look no further, that whatever else is out there is either inferior or redundant.
How's that grab ya, Dad?
I am no longer on the market or in the market.
I am unavailable.
Clint here can do it all for me.
Call it what you like.
Call it love at first sight.
We are going to fuck and fuck and fuck.
And not need and not want anybody else.
Anybody.
Get the message, Dad?
Not that it matters, if you do or you don't.
This is not something for which I am required to give notice.
It just happens.
It's just happening.
For me and Clint.
It's—
It's bullshit.
Because, even as I came, even as my jism was exploding, hot and thin, inside Clint's deepest self, I knew that there was nothing special about my feeling for Clint.
I had thought to hide behind him, hide within him.
Clutching at straws.
Hiding from whom? From what?
But I knew the answer to that.
The question, the real question was, Did I want to hide?
And if so, why?
What was done cannot be undone.
Only a child believes otherwise.
And not a very smart child, either.
It happened.
It was written forever in the record of the world's time.
It had been a moment of heated passion against a background of lascivious sensuality unparalleled in all my experience.
It was—hold on.
Wait just uno fucking memento.
Why was I seeking excuses.
The first time, I was drunk.
Now, I was over stimulated.
Knock off the bullshit, kid.
And I sat back on my heels, cock hobbling, huge and wet, from my lap.
Looking at it, looking at the reality of it.
It was real.
As real as everything that had happened.
As real as what I had done with, uh ... Bill.
Say it, dammit!
Say it, you fucking coward!
Thus I screamed at myself in my mind, patting Clint's solid rump, letting him know it was okay to turn back over.