zaziel
Now. Then. Previous. Next. Random. Ernst. Fallen. Crush. Notes&Quotes. Profile. Rings.
I'tr�m breit vula�oz�o ye spalla ei�tlin nel�ffnes pieqi aummit su berwegr'ra'ao.

Jack, Part 2

Monday, May 6, 2002 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

He lets his shirt slide off his shoulders to the floor. He steps out of the puddle of clothes around his feet and kicks them away. He looks down at himself and closes his fist, lightly, around his semi.

"Come here," I say to him.

He releases himself and comes to where I'm sitting on the bed. I can't help but touch him. I slide my hand over his lower stomach. I trace a vein that surfaces just above his pubis, and another inside the crest of his pelvis, over a ridge of muscle that I remember as the lowest point of his external oblique. Didn't I once knew the names of these veins? I trace the veins to where they disappear into his pubes, and then I comb my fingers through the springy red hair. He trims his pubes, just a little, and I need to kiss him where he shaves, to feel the faint rasp of stubble against my lips.

I slide my fingers around his cock, and my other hand cradles his balls, just to re-acquaint myself with the warmth and weight of him.

"Sure you don't want to do this?" he asks, trailing his fingers thru my hair.

"No. I'm sure. I just want to watch, this time." I look up into his face. "Are you okay with that?"

He nods his affirmative. "Tell me what you want."

What I want is simple enough to tell. I want to watch him pleasure himself. Most of the time, masturbation is a solitary activity. It is true, as the Fiend said, that when we are with somebody we usually have something better to do. And tossing yourself off is a very private intimacy that we learned as children in an atmosphere of guilt, and silent, forbidden bliss. And for most men and women, it remains a secret act. Which makes it a singularly exciting thing to witness.

To begin with, the Fiend is a little nervous, a little nonplussed, asking me (with an attempt at insouciance) what kind of show do I want, what do I want to see? I tell him I don't want a show.

"Can you forget I'm here?" I ask.

"I doubt it," he sez.

The Fiend is on his knees, on the bed, near the foot, facing me; I lounge among the pillows against the headboard. I am still clothed (but barefoot) while he is naked, so I feel rather decadent. I ask him turn a bit to one side, so I can have a three-quarters view of his body, and see the lovely curve of his ass, and glimpse his triceps and latissimus dorsii. (For me, the lats are among the most beautiful muscles in the male body.)

"Try to concentrate on yourself," I tell him. "On your own body. Pretend you're alone. Do what you do to yourself when you're alone."

He takes a deep breath, in and out. He closes his eyes. His tips his head back a little. He lets go of his cock. He lays both of his hands flat against his stomach. He slides his hands downward and outward, over his hip bones, over his thighs. His fingertips trace small circles on his thighs. Then move inward, grazing his nutsac. Then upward, caressing the tender crease between thigh and abdomen. Stroking upward to swirl around the navel. And upward, following the subtle contours of his abs. And upward, following the ellipse of a pectoral muscle to circle, nudge, flick and rub a stiffened, hazel-colored nipple. Then the fingers curve, and take hold, and squeeze. He grunts, softly. His eyelids flicker. Thick white lashes flutter. His lips part, slightly. One hand stays to alternately torture and soothe a nipple, the other drops to his thick, stiff meat.

The Fiend's genitalia are darker than the pale milk of his body. When cool and unaroused, his cock and balls are a ruddy tan color; compared to the rest of his skin, they look like they've been rouged. When aroused, the colors in his cock become more sullen, more dusky.... heavy and potent with blood. The color is impressive and alarming. Makes you wonder if you can get an aneurysm in your dick.

The Fiend gives his dick a couple of strong, slow pulls. Then he holds it in his fist, just below the glans, in the vise of his fingers and palm. I watch as he deliberately increases the pressure of his grip. The beautiful shape of his cockhead* bulges over his thumb, distorted, darkening to the color of a bruise. I watch his firm gluteus muscle tense and hold tight. My own ass clenches in response. My own cock is flint hard and aching. The Fiend makes a low sound, almost unheard, something between a grunt and a whimper. He releases the stranglehold on his dick with a sudden exhalation of breath. His other hand drops from his tormented nipple to clutch his full, round balls, which he pulls away from his body. Again, he squeezes.

I glance at his face.

His eyes are open, with heavy lids. His eyes meet mine, but the look is veiled. There is a certain distance in his gaze. A hazy, dreamy distance. It makes his face slumberous. His focus is inward, detached, and it creates the illusion of disdain in his face. He seems to look at me with contempt, but it's only withdrawal. He hasn't forgotten I'm here, but he's alone.

Which makes me shiver.

~

*The head of the human penis has a shape that has been described as a bell, a mushroom, a helmet... words that can't convey the quality, the grace, of its contours. Its proper name, glans, from the Latin for "acorn", is almost an insult.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

last eleven:

Resurrection - Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Arts and Letters -
Friday, June 17, 2005
Domestic Obsessions -
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
The Kindness of Strangers -
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
Gone -
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Coming Back, Little By Little -
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Effing Around -
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Explicably Yours -
Wednesday, February 9, 2005
Things Too Innumerable To Mention -
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Mr. Armstrong -
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
The Pope in Our Kitchen -
Saturday, October 2, 2004



<- Z @ D ->

Sa r'ji�o oss�vel meninonceiv �o poshik m�'�nch uscantebatahla o�r musiu o�r muiko.
Copyright � 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 by gcs

This site is best viewed at 1024 by 768 pixels, or 1152 by 864 pixels, with fonts
Times New Roman, Verdana, Book Antiqua and QuantasBroadLight. Click HERE
to add this diary to your list of favorites.































([