Justine Elyot has pointed out that it is the five-year anniversary of Sexy Little Numbers, the very last of the Black Lace anthologies. AARGH!! Where does the time go?!
So naturally today's excerpt is from Michaelangelo's Men, my contribution to that very fine collection:
You see, I always knew I liked watching men. I didn’t know I liked watching them together until a few years back when I went to a friend’s wedding. It took place in a northern castle, which sounds flash and bits of it are, but it’s been converted into a university college so actually there’s a lot of pokey little corridors and student rooms hiding away behind the banqueting hall and the medieval galleries. I ended up late at night climbing a turret staircase and switching on lights as I went, like someone in a fairy story exploring the forbidden wing of their palace. What I found up the tower wasn’t a wicked fairy with a spinning wheel but a unisex toilet, which suited me fine. I was in a state that night, having just quarrelled with my boyfriend of the time – I can’t even remember what had set it off now, just that he’d said something and then I said something and then he said something else and I’d walked off in tears. So I was pleased to have a room miles from the party, all to myself. The room was L-shaped with five cubicles and I sat down behind the row of sinks, next to the hot water pipes, and had a good weep and felt self-righteously tragic like you do when you’re young. After a while the room light, which was on a timer, went off and I sat in the dark and sniffled.
Then I heard feet coming up the stairs. I thought it might be someone looking for me so I just scrunched down into my space and said nothing when the door opened. It was two men; I saw that as the fluorescent tube flickered on. They weren’t looking for me or anyone else; they had eyes only for each other. One of them I sort of recognised - he was the groom’s uncle, I think: middle-aged and blond going silvery at the temples, but fit looking, in a raw-boned Scandinavian sort of way. He was wearing a tux, I remember, and a blue cummerbund. I recalled even at the time that he’d sat at the high table with his wife. He set his back to the door as it closed and pulled the other bloke to him, firmly. That guy was younger and darker and it was obvious he wasn’t quite keen on kissing, but that’s what the older man did; gripped the back of his head and pulled his mouth to his own.
Two guys kissing. I froze, hoping I was invisible behind the sinks, hoping that the blood that’d rushed to my face wasn’t lighting me up like a neon beacon. Then as the tongue-wrestling went on I gradually let myself focus on the action. Those men kissed like they were starving to death and fighting over the last scrap of food. Stubble scraped stubble. Teeth flashed. Little gasps broke free of their lips. And their hands – they were all over each other, pulling at shirts and grabbing for crotches. Flies were yanked down releasing twin erections that butted up together aggressively, hot sticky lengths rubbing one on the other. The younger guy groaned and babbled a string of swearwords. The older one caught him by the short hair at the back of his scalp and pushed him to his knees, while his other hand mastered his own erection. It was a big, gnarly, tough looking cock, I thought. The guy on his knees stared at it with an expression of awe and stretched to lick it. No way was that allowed; fingers tightened on his scalp and his head was jerked back.
‛Ask nicely, bonny boy.’ The heavy cock-head bobbed.
‛Please!’ His eyes were bright with need. His lower lip trembled. The standing man grinned.
‛OK then.’
That’s when I saw for the first time one man take another’s cock in his mouth. It changed me forever. I watched a cute, dishevelled looking guy - who I wouldn’t have minded chatting up myself - eagerly swallow the rigid length of a man twice his age, and I heard them both make noises of gratitude in their throats, the giver with a whimper, the receiver with a huffed ‛Um.’ I saw blue cheeks stretch to take the girth and then skin shining with spittle withdrawing momentarily, only to plunge in again. And I thought I was going to dissolve into a puddle of my own juices, so wet and hot and weak was I, my whole body pulsing to the beat in my sex. All my old self-pity was blown away, like I’d been struck by lightning.
You’ve got to realise this was in the years B.H.B: Before Home Broadband. I’d not really seen that many erect cocks either in the flesh or in photographs, never mind two blokes at it together.
The blow job was quick and efficient. The groom’s uncle lurched and grabbed the other guy’s head in both hands and pumped into his mouth and ejaculated down his throat. For a moment they separated and the guy on the floor knelt back, breathing hard and licking his lips, his own hard-on standing ruddy and stiff despite comparative neglect. He took it in his sweaty hand and began to jack it.
‛Hey.’ With a monosyllable the older man brought a stop to the masturbation. Kneeling himself, he faced his fellator and took his frustration in hand and the younger man leaned back, visibly surrendering control. Up and down slid that big, masterful hand on that stiff cock. Firm and then fast – faster than I’d ever managed giving a hand job – until strands of pale spunk were squirting between his fingers. He captured most of the sticky mess in his hand, anointing the guy’s purplish cock with his own ooze. The younger man gasped and gasped and shut his eyes, seeming to sink into a trance.
Then the groom’s uncle stood, quite matter of factly, to tuck his own cock away. It was when he turned toward the sinks to wash his hands that he saw me. He stopped.
‛Oh shit,’ said the younger guy, his eyes open now, fixed in my direction.
‛Why ... I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.’ The older man had a much better view of my flushed face, and could read my expression rather more clearly. He stepped toward me and I just stared. I couldn’t even blink. ‛You’re not going to tell anyone, are you hinny?’
He held his hand out. His sticky fingers. He touched my parted lips and I opened them and let him slip his spunky fingers into my mouth. Believe me, my whole body was so fucking wet and yielding then that if he’d put a loaded gun to my mouth I would have wrapped my lips around it and sucked.
‛Canny lass,’ he said. He left me with the grassy, salty taste of his lover on my tongue.
That was it: my first time seeing two blokes together. I knew right then that this was it: this was my Thing, capital T.
Sexy Little Numbers is available as a paperback or in Kindle format: Amazon US : Amazon UK
