Old Hands: A Poem

I have an elderly friend
Alive with the spark of mischief 
And desire.

After lunch one day,
Sitting around
Chatting,
He stood behind my chair and allowed
His hands to slide down
Into my shirt,
Fingers travelling
Through my chest hair to my
Nipples,
Which he gently squeezed
(And being a gentleman, commented on how nice they felt).

I laughed
And carried on while he continued his gentle rubbing,
Keeping secret the erection in my shorts,
Willing him to continue,
Which he did,
Happily.

Mine was not the only hardness though,
As he leant against me,
Rubbing the back of my neck
With his concealed 
Tumescence,
Which I felt.
All too
Clearly.

I liked it,
The feel of his
Solid flesh,
His predicament
Matching my own.
Secret business
Just between
Us.

His massage turned to
Pinching,
Harder still.
I groaned,
Or was it a 
Gasp?

Legs stretched out 
In front of me,
The bulge in my shorts
Gives the game away,
As does his movement
Against my neck,
Insistent, 
No turning back.

Not that we want to,
In silent agreement.
And all the while
He works my nipples,
Almost painful between his fingers,
Delightfully so.
They’ll be sore tomorrow.
Who cares?

Made bold by his 
Cock 
Massaging my neck, 
I release my own from my
Shorts,
Stiff and wet;
Another pair of undies
For the wash.
Strange the banalities that
Come to mind.

I feel him fumble
Behind me,
The siren sound of
A zip descending.
More fumbling.
Wetness and flesh on my neck now,
I turn slightly,
His slippery cock
Grazes my cheek,
Leaving a trail,
And the smell of
Loam.

Just as well we’re
Alone,
To consummate our
Friendship.
Which we do.