Back To Reality
The shoreline curved sharply around a jagged outcropping where seagulls screamed at our intrusion. Billy paused waist-deep in the surf, his back to me as he watched something in the distance. "Brian's got the patio set up," he called over his shoulder, droplets flying as he shook saltwater from his hair.
Rounding the bend, the house came into view, a cedar-and-glass structure perched atop weathered pilings. Brian stood silhouetted against the sliding doors, arms crossed, watching our approach with the unreadable stillness of a sniper. Rob's laughter carried across the beach as he arranged driftwood sculptures along the deck railing.
Billy waved with exaggerated cheer, his biceps flexing. "Hope you brought cocktails!" his voice bounced off the cliffs, loud enough that two elderly women combing for seashells further down the beach turned to stare, immediately seeing Billy and me naked, walking up the beach, safely home after some mischief.
Brian's posture didn't change as we approached, but I saw he'd registered our nakedness, the sand crusted on our thighs, Billy's still-flushed chest. His jaw tightened fractionally before he turned his head slightly and muttered something to Rob, who promptly dropped the driftwood he was arranging and leaned over the railing, squinting.
"Christ, you two look thoroughly debauched," Rob called, his photographer's gaze flicking between our bare legs and the distant beach "Please tell me you didn't traumatise those poor boys."
Billy smiled, shaking himself like a golden retriever, seawater flying in glittering arcs. "Educated," he corrected, stretching his arms overhead with a satisfied groan that made his abdominal muscles ripple. "There's a difference."
Brian's nostrils flared as Billy strolled past him toward the outdoor shower, deliberately close enough that their shoulders brushed. I caught the way Brian's gaze dropped to the bite marks on Billy's neck before flicking away.
Rob handed me a towel with raised eyebrows. "Evelyn called," he said pointedly. "Something about zoning permits for the boathouse darkroom?" The unspoken question hung between us: how exactly did you two end up naked halfway to Trial Island?
I joined Billy in the shower, and Rob and Brian sat with drinks ready and that look of, we need to have a chat, even though we were naked.
Brian pushed two glasses of chilled Sauvignon Blanc across the teak patio table, the condensation tracing wet rings that matched the droplets still sliding down Billy's chest. His gaze flicked to the pile of our abandoned clothes crusted with sand by the back door, Billy's briefs dangling precariously from Rob's driftwood sculpture like some avant-garde maritime flag.
"Rob and I talked the whole afternoon," Brian said, his military cadence cutting through the sunset serenity. He rotated his own glass precisely 45 degrees clockwise. "We decided you're right, Steve and Billy, about living together. Rob is certain it will work out and... and so am I, but we have some conditions."
Here goes, I thought as Brian went through his list, each point delivered with the crisp efficiency of a general briefing, troops. "We keep this house as a rental property, emergency fallback position," he said, tapping the real estate paperwork with one finger. The fading sunlight caught the silver at his temples as he added, "And the SUV stays with me. No arguments about fuel efficiency when we're hauling Billy's oversized canvases."
Billy snorted into his wineglass, lounging like a sun-drunk lion in the patio chair beside me. His bare foot nudged mine under the table, a silent reassurance that Brian's military precision didn't faze him. I watched Rob trace the rim of his glass, his photographer's fingers pausing at the exact moment Brian said, "East wing gets a functional kitchen. Non-negotiable."
Rob's lips twitched. "And there hasn't been enough nudity since you both moved in. We're used to spending time au natural, unless we’re planning to go out and for some reason, we’ve been rather shy about you seeing us," he murmured into his drink.
"What, you guys live a naturist's life, and you didn't say anything?" I stated. “We’ve got no issues with nudity as you can see.”
"Yes," Rob replied. I know it sounds silly, but you have to understand, we are older than you two. You both have great bodies for your ages, and we...well, let's just say, have bodies appropriate for our ages, and Brian particularly is feeling.... embarrassed."
The irony hung thicker than the salt air as Billy and I sat there naked, golden in the dying light, while Brian dissected communal living like a strategy. I watched a seagull land on the railing, cocking its head at the absurdity of the conversation.
"Brian," I interrupted, pointing my wineglass at him. "Stand up and take your clothes off."
The silence that followed could've sunk a battleship. Rob's fingers froze around his glass. "You to Rob, get those clothes off," I ordered as a seagull stopped preening.
Billy stretched lazily beside me, his erection long gone, but his confidence unwavering. "Yeah, Colonel," he purred, kicking Brian's chair lightly with his bare foot. "Show us what you're working with."
Brian's jaw worked silently for three heartbeats before he muttered, "This is ridiculous," even as his hands moved to his belt buckle. Rob exhaled sharply through his nose, but followed suit, his photographer's fingers unbuttoning his linen shirt with deliberate slowness.
Rob's shirt hit the deck first, the linen fluttering down like a surrender flag. His chest was unexpectedly defined for a man pushing mid-seventies, the silver hair catching the sunset in a way that made Billy whistle appreciatively. Brian hesitated just long enough for Rob to elbow him, then the belt buckle clattered against teak, his trousers pooling around ankles that still carried the rigid posture of a military man.
"Nice cocks, boys," I observed, as their tighty whities dropped to the floor while I swirled my wine as they stood there, two ageing men suddenly vulnerable in the golden light. Brian's cock was thick and soldier-straight, Rob's longer with a slight curve that made Billy mutter "artistic" under his breath.
"Not bad for old men," Billy declared, leaning forward to refill their glasses with exaggerated cheer. His knee bumped mine under the table, a silent signal to ease the tension. "Christ, Brian, you could still pose for tactical gear ads. And Rob..." He gestured with the bottle. "Those hips belong on a Rodin sketch."
Rob's laugh broke the remaining tension, his photographer's hands finally relaxing at his sides. "You're full of shit, Billy," he said, but his shoulders had lost their defensive hunch. Brian took a measured sip of wine, his gaze flicking to where the fading light gilded Rob's collarbones.
Billy was already sketching in the air with his free hand. "Seriously, the way your musculature drapes over bone structure? Textbook chiaroscuro."
Rob and Brian were wonderfully naked, like us, as the third bottle of Sauvignon Blanc appeared while demonstrating the exact angle a bullet had grazed his left pectoral. "See how the scar puckers when I flex? That's textbook tissue trauma," he declared while Rob traced the faint stretch marks on Billy's inner thighs with a photographer's reverence, commenting, "These are stunning, like tidal patterns in wet sand."
I laughed internally, remembering the film Jaws when Chief Brodie, Quint and Hooper shared their scars while drinking, waiting for the shark to return. Exactly as we were doing, but on dry land, as it still came down to a ‘mine's bigger than yours’ competition.
We felt so relaxed, drinking and competing for the best scar story. For the first time, I felt Brian and Rob relax, especially when Billy declared, "Foreskin inspection!" sloshing wine as he flopped onto the teak chair beside Brian.
"Steve's cock has this perfect little ridge right under the, here, look," he ordered as he made me stand up, reaching for my cock with the familiarity of someone who'd mapped every inch of it in various lighting conditions.
Brian's posture had relaxed into something resembling human as he leaned closer. "Huh," he grunted, his calloused thumb brushing the sensitive spot Billy had indicated. "That's... lovely," his observation dissolving into laughter when I jerked involuntarily, half-ticklish, half-aroused from the wine and attention.
Rob captured the moment with his imaginary camera, framing us with his fingers. "The way the light catches your cock is magnificent," he mused, tilting his head at Brian's erect cock. "Your cut cock, Brian, is so visually precise. Mine..." He glanced down at his own half-hard length with a wry smile. "Done by some poor overworked surgeon when a child, but I have no complaints. It does the job. Used to be larger, though, signs of old age rushing on."
Billy snorted into his wineglass. "Cut cocks have character," he declared, "I've had a few in my time," as Billy's fingers dawdled over Rob’s head, forcing him to hitch a breath, just slightly, before he swatted Billy away with a muttered "Cheeky bastard."
Before the evening ended, we had explored each other’s bodies like medical students, getting extremely intimate at times without descending to full-on sex. It was a good evening for all of us. We cleared the air, we laughed, we joked, especially when Rob demanded to watch us jerk off, with the hope of assessing how far we could shoot our load.
Alas, Billy and I were extremely drunk by that time, unable to get hard-ons, disappointing Rob as he played with our flaccid and unresponsive meat, muttering, “another time, or perhaps we can use the machine.”
“What machine?” I enquired rather drunkenly.
“Brian has a machine that will extract multiple orgasms from unsuspecting gentlemen. Tell you, it's fucking fun when you look back, but seven orgasms, seven, is my record. Brian says it’s a Far Eastern thing. I don’t really care where it's from. It’s fun.”
“Bollocks,” Billy responded. “Not possible.”
“It is possible, I should know. He got seven out of me. How many do you think you could survive?” Rob declared.
Billy sat there pondering Rob’s question as the four of us realised we had all changed that evening, and were feeling better about our sexuality, our bodies and our friendship, when we staggered off to bed, laughing until the bedroom doors closed and we descended into sleep, unable to perform even the simple task of cleaning our teeth.
The Machine
The fountain pen scratched against the final page with the anticlimactic precision of a metronome. "Congratulations, Mr Davis," Evelyn said, “on your purchase,” sliding the keys across her polished mahogany desk. I picked them up, looked at her and suggested, “Anytime you fancy relaxing in the jacuzzi, let me know. You’ll be very welcome, clothes optional but very welcome.”
Rob celebrated by reorganising Brian's sock drawer into chromatic order while humming "The Hall of the Mountain King."
Billy, ever the artist, began packing his painting supplies by arranging glass bottles into a makeshift Stonehenge on the kitchen floor. "Feng shui for alchemists," he explained to no one in particular, naked except for the necklace I'd given him as a moving-in present.
Rob and Billy had bonded while talking about art and photography, both openly enjoying the freedom of being naked in each other's company. Brian made use of his Hanes briefs, preferring to stroll around the house like that. I had adopted the same approach, or wearing my ridiculous nightshirts during the colder periods dictated by the weather.
That morning, Brian and I drove to The Point in contemplative silence, the way soldiers might approach a captured fort. His hands never strayed from ten-and-two on the steering wheel, even when I pointed out the juvenile bald eagle circling above the boathouse. "Priorities," he muttered, parking with surgical precision outside the ridiculously large double front door.
"Big, isn't it?” I commented.
"I've seen bigger," Brian responded, the innuendo quite obvious as he smiled in a wolfish manner. “Wouldn’t mind seeing if big is beautiful when we have a chance.”
“I’m sure you would,” I responded as we walked around the house, taking note of what needed fixing or sorting.
The notepad warped in my grip, damp from palm sweat as we finished in the house, listing snags as we identified them. Then we circled the boathouse for the third time. Brian's practical inspection had already catalogued seventeen points of concern, from the improperly sealed window casings to the suspicious soft spot near Rob's darkroom. His pen hovered over item eighteen when he suddenly grabbed my collar and kissed me like a man testing structural integrity.
I moaned into his kiss, feeling the desire rise inside me, sorely missed since that time on the beach.
The notepad hit the deck with a slap. Brian's tongue mapped the roof of my mouth with the same systematic precision he'd applied to checking the attic's load-bearing beams. His hands, still clutching the snagging list, pressed into the small of my back hard enough to leave graphite smudges on my shirt.
"Fuck," I gasped when he bit my bottom lip. The taste of his coffee and fancy shortbread cookies lingered between us as he stepped back, adjusting his concealed erection with a manly detachment.
"This is the first time I’ve had you alone, Steve and I remember making you an offer the last time we were together. Do you remember?”
“How could I forget the offer?” I responded. “Something about seven times I seem to recollect.”
“Precisely,” Brian responded. “Are you ready to see how far I can take you?"
"What? now?" I replied, knowing I hadn't been serviced by Billy that morning, who had got up before me.
"It's just us, in this boathouse, and it would be a shame not to use the ropes," Brian suggested.
I smiled, looking at the ropes that populated the boathouse. “I’d prefer you fucking the living daylights out of me, Brian.”
The ropes swayed slightly in the boathouse's salt-tinged draft, their coiled lengths hanging like dormant snakes from the exposed beams. Brian's gaze tracked their movement with the focus of a man calculating load capacities, which, given his military background, he probably was.
“I made a promise to Rob, not to fuck you, even though I really want to. Rob thinks fucking, changes things, and I guess he’s right, but I am allowed to play with you if I want. Rob’s words, not mine.”
I watched his throat work as he swallowed, the tendons standing out sharply when he turned to inspect the padded bench by the windows of the future darkroom, installed last week alongside a weird machine I had been wondering about.
"That’s the machine Rob ranted about the other night when we cleared the air. The one that forced from him.... seven times?"
“Yep, sure is,” Brian declared as his boot nudged the stainless-steel contraption in the corner, its articulated arms folded neatly like some industrial praying mantis. The manufacturer's sticker still clung to the baseplate: *For professional use only* in cheerful yellow lettering.
He nodded, running a hand along the nearest hemp rope. "All you have to do is lie back and relax." The words came out huskier than intended, mingling with the creak of the dock pilings beneath us.
"We haven't had any fun since the beach on your first night, and I thought, it's about time," Brian declared.
"Only if you fuck me first," I responded. "I want you to enjoy yourself too, and Rob will never know."
"Oh, I will know,” Brian replied, kissing me again as his hands explored my bottom. "Trust me, we will both enjoy this, but I’m never going to fuck you, Steve, and if you submit to this, you will never need me to fuck you either. You’ll be fucked enough…. Trust me."
Rob and I discussed my desires and told me I can do anything else I like, but fucking is just between us old men. It's the way we've always been, honest and sexually loyal, but getting a guy to cum is allowed, especially a sexy, fertile friend."
"Fair enough," I responded. "It’s all about respect and boundaries now. So, how do you want to do this?"
“Simple, Steve. Just lie down on the bench and think of England, and I’ll do the rest. Just take your t-shirt off first”
“Okay then, I shall do just that,” I responded, feeling slightly trepidatious as I lay down, throwing my t-shirt onto the wooden floor.
The smile on Brian's face said it all as he clicked the first restraint around my wrist. The second wrist was secured with the same meticulous care he'd used in inspecting the house's foundations. "Deep breath," he murmured, his warm palm pressing briefly against my ribs before the blindfold swallowed my vision.
Brian's knuckles brushed my inner thigh as he peeled my shorts and briefs down. "Left ankle first," he instructed, his voice closer now, the words vibrating through the bench beneath me. The restraint clasped with a metallic click that echoed off the boathouse walls. Cold air licked my exposed skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature.
My cock was hard and ready, leaking already as my senses adjusted to being blind.
His fingernail traced the crease where thigh met groin. "Interesting," he mused, his tone belied by the calloused thumb circling my perineum. "Billy's left-handed, isn't he? The asymmetry in your muscle tension," his observation dissolved into a hum as he secured my right ankle.
Something whirred to life near my head, that stainless steel contraption purring like a contented predator. Brian's exhale warmed my navel as he crouched between my spread legs. "Rob programmed six variations based on Kinsey's data," he explained, his breath hitching slightly when the machine's articulated arm extended toward my groin. "The third setting seems excessive for most people, but men with high sex drives often get a higher level."
"Kinsey's data. What the fuck is that? I've never heard of it."
Brian explained. "Kinsey's data, published in 1953, revolutionised the understanding of human sexuality by revealing high, unexpected frequencies of diverse sexual behaviours, in premarital sex, homosexuality and masturbation that contradicted social norms. Based on thousands of face-to-face interviews, his key finding became the Kinsey Scale, proposing a continuum from 0 being exclusively heterosexual to 6 being exclusively homosexual, challenging binary views of sexual orientation."
"Oh," I responded. “What scale am I?"
"Six, of course, and I’ll keep it at level six for the whole session," Brian declared. “Should drive you fucking mad by the end, but if it goes as planned, you will feel your whole body climax.”
The first touch wasn't metal at all, Brian's tongue, broad and demanding, licking up the underside of my cock with the same efficiency he'd shown inspecting window seals. The machine's padded grip encircled me seconds later, its warmth startlingly human as it began massaging up and down in counterpoint to Brian's mouth.
Brian lifted his mouth off me, running his fingers all over my body as the machine increased the level of massaging. A human massages a cock differently, less precise, more organic, but this was something else. The silicone sheath pulsed with calibrated pressure, alternating between tight squeezes and feather-light strokes that mapped every vein and contour with clinical perfection. It felt like being worshipped by a mathematician.
"Kinsey's team recorded response thresholds," Brian murmured against my inner thigh, his breath hitching as the machine's rhythm shifted. His fingertips traced involuntary twitches in my abdomen like he was taking field notes. "You're reacting exactly as predicted for a six," the words dissolving into a hum when the machine's secondary arm deployed, a heated nub circling my perineum with terrifying accuracy.
My hips jerked against the restraints as the bench creaked, but I couldn't escape.
Brian chuckled darkly, his palm flattening against my sternum to pin me down. "Ah-ah. Let it work," as his thumb brushed my left nipple just as the machine's primary arm twisted in a way no human wrist could replicate. The dual stimulation short-circuited my nervous system. I arched off the bench with a strangled noise, sweat-slicked skin sticking to the leather padding.
"Fascinating," Brian breathed. His ring clicked against the machine's adjustment dial. "Your refractory period is shorter than Rob's by... twelve point three seconds."
The precision would've been infuriating if not for the way his calloused thumb kept circling that spot behind my balls. "Billy's influence, perhaps?"
The machine chose that moment to deploy its secret weapon, a vibration setting that mimicked the body's ability to hum when aroused as my climax edged closer. My orgasm hit like a rogue wave, vision whiting out as ropes of cum striped my heaving chest, but the machine didn't stop, and neither did Brian's fingers.
"Christ, you're beautiful like this," Brian growled, his cadence fracturing as I suspected he was watching the machine milk me through the aftershocks of my orgasm towards the moment of oversensitivity when most men have to stop.
The machine's relentless rhythm pushed me past pleasure into something raw and involuntary. My oversensitive cock twitched violently in its grasp, each stroke now bordering on pain yet sparking fresh waves of desperate arousal. A strangled noise tore from my throat, half-sob, half-laugh, as my hips bucked uselessly against the restraints.
The residue of cum on my shaft had become creamy as Brian applied more lubricant. My senses were overwhelmed as Brian declared, "Second orgasm in three... two...one"
His countdown dissolved into a sharp inhale as my back arched clear off the bench, my second climax ripped from me with brutal efficiency. White-hot electricity crackled down my spine, the sensation so intense my vision pixelated at the edges.
"Fascinating," Brian murmured, his thumb catching a stray droplet rolling down my inner thigh.
By my third orgasm, my screams had dissolved into ragged whimpers, my throat raw from begging for mercy between gasps. The machine's silicone grip never faltered, its calibrated strokes milking wave after wave from my spent body with terrifying efficiency. Brian's clinical detachment fractured when I sobbed, requiring him to adjust the dial.
"Look at you," Brian breathed, his voice rough as he traced the sweat-slick divot between my ribs. His touch burned against my oversensitive skin, every nerve ending screaming from relentless stimulation. The machine's secondary arm retracted with a pneumatic hiss, leaving the primary attachment working at a slower, almost teasing rhythm.
The blindfold slipped when I thrashed my head sideways. Through blurred vision, I saw Brian's erection straining against his trousers, the fabric dark with precum. His fingers trembled slightly as they hovered over the release mechanism, his doubt the only crack in his composure.
"Please," I gasped, my voice shattered.
“You almost had me there, Steve,” as the machine's pace remained the same, its movements now mimicking the lazy, post-coital strokes Billy used when we were half-asleep and sated. The shift from brutal efficiency to something resembling tenderness was somehow more devastating as I approached yet another orgasm.
Brian's palm settled hot against my sternum, pinning me as the machine's rhythm stuttered into an erratic pattern that skirted the edge of pain and pleasure. "One more," he murmured, more to himself than me, his gaze fixed on where my cock twitched violently in the machine's grasp as I approached number seven.
My body senses were completely overwhelmed as a little more lubricant was applied on my journey to a seventh orgasm. "I can't continue," I begged.
"Oh, you can, Steve, you can," Brian declared. "Few men experience what you are going through. Men experiencing multiple orgasms often need to separate orgasms from ejaculation to experience increased pleasure, enhanced intimacy, and longer-lasting sexual arousal. These sensations you are experiencing, along with your reduced refractory periods, are heightening your whole arousal, leading to a deeper emotional connection with your body."
The seventh orgasm hit like a lightning strike, but it was very different. No ejaculation, just pure white noise scrambling my nervous system as my spine arched clear off the bench. Brian's fingers dug into my hips as he declared, "Cardiovascular benefits all round," his voice raw as he watched my pulse flutter wildly at my throat. "Your heart rate's adapting beautifully, and your stress levels must be collapsing by now. One more that's all, one more than Rob."
The machine's rhythm shifted to something slower, deeper, its silicone grip massaging in concentric circles that made my toes curl. Brian traced the tremors in my abdomen with clinical fascination. "Oxytocin release," he murmured, pressing two fingers to the frantic pulse at my wrist. "Notice the vasodilation? That's your blood pressure normalising despite....," his words dissolving into a groan when my hips jerked involuntarily, the machine adjusting its angle to prolong the aftershocks.
My final orgasm was totally overwhelming. My body hummed as salt air rushed into my lungs, and I felt sensations I had never felt before. Calming but elevated. Sensitive but relaxing at the same time. I felt...almost detached from my body, sensing every part of it at the same time as the machine was turned off.
Brian finally released the restraints, his palms skating up my shuddering thighs. "Eight," he breathed against my knee, the number vibrating through bone. The blindfold slipped away to reveal his flushed face, hairline damp with sweat despite his untouched clothes. The machine whirred to a stop, its arms retracting with a satisfied sigh.
Brian's thumb brushed the hypersensitive head of my cock, his touch feather-light compared to the machine's precision. "Sensitivity thresholds elevate when post-orgasm," he said hoarsely, as his other hand splayed over my racing heart. "How do you feel?"
I lay there, initially unable to respond or move. Then slowly, I felt a change come over my body. "I'm feeling a layered physical detachment, like floating or... in a meditative space, I guess, with, wow, intense feelings of closeness or... perhaps a brain fog. Drained? Yes. Good? Yes, and... at one with myself and my body.”
"Fucking brilliant." Brian declared. "That’s what I hoped. Learned that stuff in the far east among people who are more in touch with their bodies than we westerners. They know what an orgasm is supposed to be."
I swung my legs to sit on the edge of the bench, giggling at the sensations I was feeling. "You're not fucking joking. Never had an orgasm like it before."
Brian's damp trousers clung obscenely, hiding his erection as he stood between my trembling thighs, the fabric darkened in a perfect arrow pointing downward. His fingers twitched when I brushed them, just a glancing touch, but it was enough to make his knees buckle slightly. "Christ," he hissed through clenched teeth, his other hand gripping the bench's edge so hard the tendons stood out like rigging lines. "Your skin's still conducting and emitting aftershocks when I touch you. In the far east, they call it sensory transference."
“Interesting to know,” I responded as I watched, fascinated, as a fresh shudder ran through him when our fingertips met again. Once, twice, before his entire body jerked with suppressed pleasure as he climaxed from just my touch.
I could only imagine his cum soaking through his briefs in a spreading patch of dampness, which had become very evident as dampness started to appear in his trousers. His admission, though, was remarkable, as he admitted hoarsely, "Three from just watching and touching your body. Sensory transference, that's all it requires."
His throat worked as he swallowed hard. "Rob's going to be insufferable knowing you did eight."
“He’s going to be insufferable when he does the laundry,” I responded, to which Brian and I just laughed, thinking about the evidence in Brian’s briefs.
The late afternoon light slanted through the boathouse windows, catching the sweat sheening Brian's throat as he fought for composure. His erection strained against the wet fabric with each ragged breath, the outline unmistakable. I reached out, curious, and traced the swollen head through the damp cotton, earning a punched-out groan as Brian's hips stuttered forward involuntarily.
"Don't," he gritted out, though his hands didn't stop me when I opened his trousers, letting them drop to his ankles. I then peeled the soaked briefs down his thighs, allowing his cock to spring free, flushed, dark and leaking steadily. "Fuck, Steve...," his protest dissolving into a gasp when I swiped my thumb through the mess in his pubic hair, the contact making his abs jump.
His orgasms had clearly been intense, thick streaks of cum painted his cock and pubic hair, some already drying in pearlescent trails. I smeared a finger through it, marvelling at the warmth still clinging to his skin. Brian made a wounded noise when I brought my fingers to my mouth, tasting salt and something uniquely him, a faint metallic tang beneath the musk.
Brian had slipped his trousers and briefs off and now stood gloriously naked as his shirt dropped onto the wooden floorboards.
"Never tasted you before, and I'm not disappointed," as I lay back down, pulling Brian to straddle my hips as I played with his cum, taking more of it into my mouth as he played with my nipples. We stayed like that for ages, silent, calm, and enjoying our time together as I cleaned him up as best I could, enjoying the closeness and intimacy of the naked moment.
"Maybe we can do this again?" I asked.
"I was hoping you would say that because I have other far eastern tricks to share with you that might change your whole perspective on sex, love and our bodies. Did you know there are pressure points that, when touched, cause orgasms? I can show you those another time, but it just gives you an idea of the fun we can have without fucking."
The tide hissed over our bare feet as we waded into the shallows, two grown men streaked with the evidence of our afternoon, moving with the careful steps of astronauts on an alien shore. Brian's cum had dried in streaks across his groin like war paint, while mine clung to my chest in sticky constellations. The cold Pacific water hit first as a shock, then a relief, swirling away the afternoon's intensity in lazy spirals between our legs.
Brian crouched abruptly, seawater sluicing through his silvering chest hair as he scrubbed at a stubborn patch below his navel. When he caught me staring, he merely raised an eyebrow and flicked water at me with the same deadpan expression he'd used during our many Skype calls.
I dove under, letting the salt sting my eyes clean. When I surfaced, Brian was floating on his back, his body a pale blur beneath the surface, arms outstretched like he was trying to imprint the shape of himself onto the ocean. The late sun gilded the droplets caught in his pubic hair as he drifted, utterly unconcerned with modesty now.
Something about the way the light caught the scar on his hip, that old bullet graze he'd shown us during our wine-drunk scar comparisons, made my throat tighten unexpectedly as I recognised our relationship had changed. We were relaxed to share our bodies, knowing that friendships can be erotic and sensual without having to have sex.
The New Home
The first time Billy fucked me against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Sooke Bay, a juvenile grey whale breached in the distance, its barnacled back arcing through golden hour light precisely as Billy's teeth sank into my shoulder. Later, when we lay tangled in the afterglow watching the tide recede across volcanic rock formations, I realised Billy had orchestrated the entire encounter down to the whale's appearance. "Timed it with the tide charts," he admitted with a smug grin, fingers tracing the fresh bite marks on my hips. "Wanted our first marine biology field observation to be memorable."
Our new home perched on the edge of the Pacific like a ship's prow, all weathered cedar and cantilevered glass. The Point's architecture ensured we were constantly exposed to the elements, to each other, to the occasional horrified kayaker paddling too close to shore if they happened to have binoculars. Brian had installed retractable privacy screens within forty-eight hours of moving in, muttering about "common decency" even as he left the bedroom windows uncovered.
The Bamfield Marine Sciences Centre welcomed me with open arms and a well-stocked wet lab, called, much to my amusement, the Pacific. My colleagues, a motley crew of cetacean researchers and deep-sea ecologists, quickly learned to knock before entering my office after catching Billy demonstrating "intertidal zone sampling techniques" across my desk. Their bemused tolerance likely stemmed from the fact I'd arrived with a reputation: the eccentric millionaire who'd discovered gold in the Atlantic while documenting rare copepods.
Brian and Rob's relocation from Victoria happened with military precision. I returned from collecting plankton samples one evening to find our shared kitchen organised by a system involving colour-coded magnets and what appeared to be a NATO-approved spice rack. Rob had already converted the boathouse guestroom into a darkroom, its chemical smells blending oddly with the salt air. Their bedroom door remained conspicuously closed those first nights, though faint laughter and the occasional moan slipped beneath the threshold.
Billy took to our new domestic arrangement with predatory grace. I'd catch him leaning against the granite countertops, wearing nothing but Rob's new nightshirt. Yes, Rob had gone out and bought nightshirts for him and Brian, similar to mine but silk. I liked Billy's look; it suited him, as he casually ate mango slices while Brian briefed us on garbage rotation schedules.
The relationship between us had shifted for the better since the boathouse incident, less like a standoff, more like chess masters recognising each other's skill. When Billy pressed a sticky mango slice to Brian's lips during one such briefing, Brian's sharp inhale was the only betrayal of his composure before he accepted the offering with a curt nod followed by a thank you.
Rob's black-and-white obsession started with a single fallen cedar in Cathedral Grove, its roots upturned like a petrified explosion, the hollow core filled with rainwater that reflected the canopy in perfect, rippling monochrome. "It's fucking poetic," he'd muttered that first afternoon, already unpacking his Hasselblad before Brian could park properly. The resulting shot, gnarled bark textures bleeding into liquid sky, became the centrepiece of our dining room wall within forty-eight hours, hung beside Billy's lurid oil painting of that time we'd gotten stranded nude on Meares Island.
Brian developed an elaborate tracking system for Rob's Grove expeditions, colour-coded maps dotted with pins marking optimal lighting conditions. "He's chasing the damn shadows," Brian grumbled one morning, adjusting the tracking software that calculated sun angles against tide tables, a little put off by Billy, draped over the couch, wearing nothing but the gold chain I had given him, snorting into his coffee. "Artist's light, Brian. You wouldn't understand."
The project took over Rob completely. He'd return at twilight smelling of damp moss and fixer fluid, fingers stained from hours in the darkroom developing what he called "tree portraits," his frustration obvious. Brian saved the day by introducing his partner to Photoshop and a class A colour laser printer... thank God.
Billy had set up his studio in my study, opting to share science and art as one vocation. I enjoyed the idea we would share the space. My desk, books and computers by the fireplace and his easel by the large window providing the light he needed, the room separated by the most ornate Persian rug that I christened by making love with him shortly after it was rolled out, post delivery.
Most days, Billy would be naked to paint or would spend hours looking out of the window, deep in thought in one of those adopted nightshirts, the silk slipping off one shoulder as he chewed on the end of his paintbrush, leaving smudges of cadmium red along his collarbone. The nightshirts had become his uniform, though he wore them like a dishevelled emperor, often leaving the garment covered in a mix of colours, matching the palette with fingers that were permanently stained with pigment and paint.
Nudity had become a thing in the new home, but Brian and Rob, being more conservative, dressed to go out regardless of their destination. Rob in his tailored linen shirts with the sleeves rolled just so, Brian in his crisp oxfords and trousers that still carried the ghost of military starch. Rob once caught me staring at the precise way Brian knotted his tie and smirked. "He irons his underwear, too," he murmured, just loud enough for Brian to scowl and adjust his cufflinks with unnecessary force as he stalked off, muttering, "The boy has no standards."
The scholarship applications piled up like driftwood after a storm, each folder containing dreams penned in shaky handwriting, transcripts with water stains, and recommendation letters smelling faintly of thrift store mothballs. Brian's military precision dissolved by day three, his colour-coded spreadsheets abandoned in favour of spreading files across my desk like a tactical map. "This one," he muttered, stabbing a finger at a photo of a girl crouched beside tide pools, her jeans rolled to the knee and eyes bright with the exact hunger I'd once seen in Billy mid-painting frenzy. "Her essay's rough, but she's got the spark."
Meanwhile, Billy's modelling ads yielded exactly two responses. An octogenarian fisherman who misunderstood the assignment, "Aye, I'll model me boat!" he declared, and a blushing university student who fled when Billy demonstrated the preferred pose by dropping his robe in the marina parking lot. "Prudes," Billy sighed, sketching spirals in the condensation on his beer bottle while watching shirtless surfers paddle out at Chesterman Beach.
The doorbell's chime cut through our lazy Saturday afternoon on the patio, like a gunshot. Rob startled so badly his martini sloshed over the rim, vodka bleeding across the teak table where Brian had just finished demonstrating his cocktail napkin folding techniques. Billy, sprawled across my lap wearing nothing but a silk nightshirt, now permanently stained with terracotta pigment, didn't even lift his head from sketching the seagull perched on our railing. "Check the CCTV," he murmured, his pencil capturing the exact angle of the bird's suspicious head tilt.
Brian reached for the tablet with the long-suffering air of a man who'd installed the damn system specifically to avoid these interruptions. His straight posture collapsed into something resembling human shock when the screen illuminated. "Jesus Christ. Two lads are standing at the door.”
Brian pressed the intercom button. "Hello, how can I help?"
Jesse and Eli
The intercom crackled with familiar nervous laughter, that particular teenage blend of bravado cracking around the edges. "Um.. oh, hi. We saw Mr...um, Billy's modelling ad?" the lad’s voice pitched up at the end like a question, while the other’s quieter mumble added, "The one at the marina bulletin board."
Billy sat bolt upright, silk sliding dangerously high. "Christ, it's our star pupils from the beach," as his bare feet hit the patio before the intercom clicked off.
“What are you talking about?” Brian demanded. “You know these lads?”
"Honestly, we just happened upon them mid-masturbation in a tidal pool," I said, gesturing vaguely toward the shoreline as Rob choked on his olive. Brian's eyebrow twitched, the only outward sign of his internal crisis, while methodically blotting vodka droplets from his folded napkin with his normal precision.
Billy ushered the boys through the French doors open with theatrical flair. The teenagers froze on the threshold, their sneakers squeaking against the polished limestone. Jesse's Adam's apple bobbed violently as he took in Billy's dishevelled state, while Eli's gaze darted to the half-empty martini glasses and the unmistakable smear of terracotta pigment across Billy's inner thigh.
"Hi, boys,” I said. “Nice to see you again, although I didn’t think we would meet again. This is Brian and Rob, who share the house with us. Been jerking off recently?"
It was cruel, I know, asking them that, but it sort of broke the ice, watching both of them turning beetroot in colour.
Jesse's sneakers squeaked against the polished concrete as he spun slowly, neck craned to take in the vaulted cedar ceilings. "This isn't a house, it's a fucking mansion," he breathed, fingers twitching toward the floor-to-ceiling windows framing Sooke Bay as we called it. The afternoon light caught the dust motes swirling around him like he'd been startled into existence.
Billy's silk nightshirt fluttered as he leaned forward, revealing the faded bite marks from yesterday's shoreline escapade. "You want to model for me, is that it?"
The question hung between them like a dare, underscored by the rhythmic tap of his paint-stained fingernail against his martini glass. Jesse swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between Billy's exposed collarbone and the abstract oil painting drying on the easel, a swirl of blues and golds that looked suspiciously like my naked back arched against our bedpost.
"Well, yes," Eli answered first, his voice steadier than expected despite the flush creeping up his neck. "The money would be handy as well," Eli suggested as Jesse's fingers twitched toward the spiral-bound sketchbook peeking from his backpack by his feet, dog-eared pages filled with, what appeared to be drawings.
"Have you been sketching things?" Billy asked, his fingers still tracing the rim of his martini glass, leaving smudges in its wake.
Jesse's fingers twitched over the sketchbook's spiral binding. "They're not that good," he muttered, knuckles whitening around the cover. "I decided to sketch Eli and..."
“Can I have a look?” Billy asked. “As you know, I’m an artist, and Rob here is into photography, so perhaps we can provide some feedback.”
“They’re not any good,” Jesse responded, but… if you want to look, I wouldn’t mind some opinions.”
Billy took the sketchbook, his fingers flipping pages with surprising gentleness. The drawings unfolded in a cascade of graphite. Eli sprawled across tidal rocks, Eli mid-laugh with sunlight catching his eyelashes, Eli's bare back arched in a pose that looked suspiciously like Billy's own trademark stretch. "Christ," Billy breathed, pausing at a particularly detailed study of Eli's hands, the tendons rendered with anatomical precision. "These are fucking brilliant."
Brian and Rob stared at the boys over the rims of their martini glasses. Rob's cocktail napkin slipped from his fingers as he leaned forward, his photographer's eye catching what Billy had missed to comment on. "You drew these?" Rob asked slowly.
"I did," Jesse responded, almost defensive in his tone.
"Eli, forgive me, but what the hell are you wearing?" Rob blurted, his voice cracking halfway through as he gestured at the sketch. “It looks like…” his voice petering out in perhaps shock.
Eli stood frozen, blushing profusely with embarrassment as Jesse came to his defence.
Jesse shifted his weight, sneakers squeaking against the polished limestone as he pulled his phone from his back pocket. "We, uh... after you guys... you know..." his thumb swiped across the screen while he attempted to explain. “Eli’s desires changed a bit when he saw a website that interested him.”
Eli was too quiet as his friend continued, revealing a browser history filled with boutique lingerie sites, images of men wearing erotic items specifically for men.
"Eli found this place in Gastown that does men's stuff. Real subtle, like," as the image loaded to reveal, a garter stretched taut over a muscular waist, with thin straps around the thighs and metal rings, intersecting with the clean lines of white briefs in a way that made Rob's martini pause halfway to his lips.
“Wow,” Rob declared, looking at the images and then looking at Billy.
Eli's blush deepened to a violent crimson as Billy plucked the phone from Jesse's trembling fingers. "Christ," Billy murmured, zooming in on the metal rings where the straps met the garter. His artist's fingers traced the screen like he was already sketching the play of light against the microfiber. "You wore this for Jesse to sketch?"
Eli nodded, jaw tight. "Yes. Jesse liked the contrast with my Hanes briefs," his voice dropping to a whisper. "Jesse said it looked... balanced, cute like that."
"More than cute. You look fucking amazing," Billy declared. "I love it, and I think Rob likes it as well."
“Too dammed right I like it,” Rob agreed.
Brian and I looked at the images, and then at each other, not quite sure if we were missing something.
Eli and Jesse both smiled, the tension bleeding from their shoulders as Billy's approval washed over them like warm surf. Jesse scratched at his temple, charcoal dust smearing into his hairline.
"Yeah, the contrast worked better than I thought," Jesse admitted, nodding toward the sketchbook. "The graphite picks up the textures, like how the microfiber catches light differently than cotton," as his fingers hovered over the page where he'd rendered Eli's straining erection with startling accuracy, the fabric tenting just enough to suggest shape without crude detail.
Billy looked at the sketch again, "I noticed. You captured Eli's stonking hard-on very well. Is this a lifestyle change, Eli, wearing such lingerie?"
Stuttering, Eli responded. "Only when I know I'm meeting Jesse. He likes me wearing it. Says, I look really sexy."
This time, Jesse blushed, turning a beetroot shade of red. "You are sexy, Eli. And...," turning to Billy, he continued. "I bought a matching chest harness for Eli to wear, matching the lingerie perfectly.”
“I get that,” Rob responded.
Jesse continued. “When I see him wearing it, he becomes a walking fantasy, a sculpted masterpiece that I can’t ignore, knowing he’s wearing the harness gripping his torso, the garter around his waist, just above his Hanes briefs, with the straps around his thighs, providing a perfect balance of submission and attraction. It really excites me knowing what he’ll be like under his normal clothes."
Brian couldn’t ignore that last comment. “I can see that,” as Brian's martini glass hit the teak table with a sharp clink that made Eli jump. "So," Brian said slowly, fingers steepled in that terrifying way he'd probably learned when finding out that friends of his have fetishes that don’t quite hold with the norm.
"You two share a common interest in dominance and submission at your age... Wow," Brian declared, the last word coming out half-strangled, like he'd just watched someone solve a quantum physics problem with crayons.
"I guess so, Mr... sorry, Brian," Jesse declared. “Eli and I have grown up together, and I've always been his mate and protector when he was bullied at school. It just seems to be... right for us."
I had recovered my composure by this time, listening to what seemed to be a third degree, deciding to join in. “What do your mum and dad say about your lingerie? They must have been shocked," I asked.
"They don't know. I do my own washing. Knowing my mum, though, she probably wouldn't care."
"So," I continued. "Don't get me wrong, you look amazing, but do you wear it all the time?"
Eli nodded. "Yes. As I said, I always wear it when seeing Jesse. I like to make him happy," as his fingers plucked at the hem of his t-shirt like he was contemplating lifting it right then, revealing whatever lay beneath in front of this impromptu jury of older men.
The afternoon light caught the nervous sweat at his temples. "Even to school sometimes when I know there's no sport," he added in a rush, then bit his lip like he hadn't meant to admit that much.
I pursued my inquisition, worried that it might be just that, an inquisition. "You ever shown anyone else what you like to wear?"
Eli's fingers curled into fists at his sides. "Just Jesse," he said, voice tight. The admission hung between us like the first crack in ice, too late to take back, impossible to ignore. Jesse shifted closer, their elbows brushing in silent solidarity.
As the Grand Inquisitor, I had to continue. "Do you feel like showing us. Call it a seal of approval, and your coming out to a wider audience."
Eli's fingers hovered at his hemline, trembling slightly in the charged silence. The afternoon light caught the fine blond hairs on his forearm as he exchanged a loaded glance with Jesse, some unspoken teenage calculus passing between them, before nodding once as Jesse reached over and squeezed Eli's wrist, the gesture startlingly intimate for its simplicity.
Billy set down his martini glass with exaggerated care. "Right. Call it your audition for the position, Eli," he murmured, already pivoting toward his easel, removing the half-finished work, grabbing a plain canvas, with the predatory grace of a man sensing an artistic opportunity. "The light's perfect on the west-facing patio right now."
Rob understood this was a moment for the lad, as did Brian, his interest captivated more by the dynamic between the two of them, wondering what would have happened in his army days to someone dressed in men’s lingerie.
As Billy grabbed his charcoals, Eli peeled his t-shirt upward, revealing a toned abdomen bisected by black straps. The microfiber chest harness clung like a second skin, its geometric lines accentuating the natural taper of Eli's torso. Jesse's sketch had undersold the reality, the way the straps dug just enough to suggest restrained power, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching light differently with each breath.
Eli kicked his sneakers off with the careless abandon of youth, sending them skidding across the limestone patio. His socks followed, crumpled into damp balls that landed near Brian's immaculately paired footwear. The older man's eyebrow twitched at the violation of his sock-folding system, but his gaze snapped upward as Eli hooked thumbs into the waistband of his shorts as he pushed them down.
The revelation hit us in stages: first, the multiple stark black straps encircling each thigh, the metal rings glinting dully in the afternoon light. Then the garter itself, riding low on Eli's hips, its geometric perfection framing the swell of muscle above his briefs. Finally, the Hanes. Pristine white against his tanned skin, stretched taut over what Billy would later describe in his sketchbook as "a frankly heroic erection."
Rob's martini glass hovered halfway to his lips, forgotten. "Jesus wept," he breathed, the olive bobbing in the sudden stillness.
Brian's clinical detachment shattered as Eli turned slightly, revealing how the harness pulled across his back in an intricate lattice. "Those straps intersect at precisely 45-degree angles," he murmured, more to himself than anyone, fingers twitching like he wanted to take measurements. "The tension distribution is... perfect. Eli, you look magnificent, truly."
"Eli, that coming from Brian says it all. You look amazing," I confirmed as Billy just stood, his eyes examining every part of the semi-naked lad, capturing the light as he told Billy to lean against the railing.
Jesse sat down between Brian and me, his look pleasant and....wanting, as he looked at his boyfriend with obvious desire.
Billy's charcoal moved in quick, hungry strokes across the canvas, capturing the way Eli's harness straps bit into his skin just enough to leave temporary grooves, the kind that would fade by nightfall but looked deliciously permanent under daylight. The kid had positioned himself perfectly against the railing without being told, one hip cocked at an angle that showed off both the harness's architecture and the way his briefs strained against obvious excitement.
We all decided it was time to provide Billy and Eli space as they became engrossed in posing and sketching. Brian and Rob went back into the house, and Jesse and I walked down the manicured garden toward the sea.
Jesse's sneakers crunched along the gravel path beside me, his breathing uneven like he was holding back from sprinting back to the terrace, instead absorbed by the manicured garden and its beauty. "He doesn't even realise," Jesse muttered, kicking a pebble into the salal bushes. "How fucking perfect he looks like that."
Inside, through the open French doors, Brian was rearranging the cocktail napkins into precise pyramids while Rob documented the scene with his phone camera, not out of perversion, but because the composition was undeniably striking: Eli's adolescent beauty framed by Billy's focused intensity, the ocean stretching cobalt behind them.
Jesse abruptly stopped walking and turned to face me. "Can I ask you something... personal?"
His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Does it ever freak you out? How much you want someone?"
The question hung between us, raw as the salt air. Before I could answer, he barrelled on: "Eli sent me this photo last week during class. Just his hand pulling the harness strap tight across his thigh, and I had to leave the lesson because I got so...," as he gestured vaguely at his crotch, face flushing. Like I am now. Every time I see him, I get... so fucking horny."
Jesse's confession hung between us like the first warm raindrop before a storm. The kid was vibrating with pent-up energy, sneakers scuffing restless circles in the gravel as the sea breeze ruffled his hair. Before I could answer, his phone buzzed, once, twice, and his breath hitched when he glanced at the screen with Eli's latest text.
A single photo that made Jesse's fingers tighten around the device. His pupils dilated as he took in the image: Eli had twisted mid-pose to snap a selfie where the afternoon light caught every strap and shadow across his torso, his teeth sunk into his lower lip in a way that was either unconscious or brilliantly calculated. The accompanying text read "Billy says he’s going to try oil paints next. I might be a while yet, and I think I got the job, and I also asked about you as well. He mentioned the two of us would work fine."
The gravel crunched under Jesse's sneakers as he pivoted toward the house, phone clutched like a lifeline. "Fuck," he breathed, as I recognised that particular brand of teenage desperation, the kind that makes time elastic and classrooms unbearable.
"When you sketch him, do you always have an erection?" I asked.
"All the time, like he does," Jesse responded.
"You should sketch him while naked. That's what Billy does. He's always naked when he paints me, hard as anything, and it just helps him... strangely, to concentrate."
Jesse's fingers twitched, the charcoal dust under his nails suddenly fascinating. "I haven't. The most… daring I get is standing in my briefs."
I smiled at Jesse’s response as the crunch of gravel ceased abruptly, as Jesse froze mid-step. "You think...?" The question dissolved into the salt-heavy air between us, unfinished but painfully clear.
"Do you think....what?" I asked Jesse.
Jesse's sneakers scuffed against the gravel path as he shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I know I can talk to you. You're so understanding."
"And?" I enquired, my patience challenged by the lad’s hesitation.
"Is it normal for my balls to ache so much, so quickly?" he muttered, more to himself than to me, his fingers flexing around his sketchbook like he wanted to press it against his groin for relief.
I was surprised by his question, his confession coming out rough-edged and embarrassed, but beneath that, there was a raw honesty that made it impossible to laugh. The lad had someone to talk to, that was obvious.
"I didn't expect this kind of... attention today," Jesse admitted, glancing back toward the terrace where Eli stood haloed in afternoon light, Billy's charcoal moving in furious strokes. "Eli usually, uh... likes to relieve me in the afternoons, thanks to you guys teaching us how it's done," as his throat worked around the words, cheeks flushing darker. "He's gotten brilliant at sucking me off."
All I could say in response to that revelation was, "I'm pleased."
Not in some paternalistic way, though. Jesse's raw honesty did something warm to my chest, but in the way you feel when a sapling you'd staked years ago finally stands straight without support. The kid was practically vibrating with need, his sketchbook pressed against his thighs like a shield, yet he'd chosen this moment to ask instead of bolt. That took guts.
We reached the folly that stood sentinel at the cliff's edge, all weathered cedar and tempered glass, Brian's architectural love letter to discretion with a view. He had laboured for a week building it, his knowledge of wood and craftsmanship blooming with each timber support he erected.
The sea breeze ruffled Jesse's hair as he perched on the sun-warmed cushions, knees drawn up like he wasn't sure whether to bolt or melt into the upholstery. The afternoon light caught the sweat at his temples, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when I reached for his hem.
"Arms up," I murmured, and the kid obeyed with the automatic trust of someone who'd spent years telling Eli's to do the same. His t-shirt peeled away damp at the small of his back, revealing a torso transformed from boy to manhood, smooth planes interrupted by the faintest suggestion of abdominal definition.
Taking some time, I unlaced his sneakers and pulled his socks off and then placing my hand on his groin, I asked. "Shall I continue?"
He nodded in response, and I immediately unbuckled his belt, undid the button and lowered his zip, pulling his shorts along his beautiful legs until he sat before me in nothing but his white Hanes briefs, looking devastatingly embarrassed and blushing.
Jesse's breath hitched when my fingers grazed his briefs' waistband, but he didn't flinch, just watched me with the wide-eyed focus of a diver about to breach the surface. The briefs slid down lean thighs, catching momentarily on his erection before puddling at his feet. The kid was beautifully, painfully hard, his cock curving upward against his stomach in a way that made my own breath stutter.
Jesse’s fingers dug into the cushion seams as the sea breeze ghosted over his exposed skin, his whole body taut as a bowstring. The kid was a study in contrasts, tanned limbs still bearing the faint tan lines of summer, the soft dusting of freckles across his shoulders interrupted by the sharp angles of newfound muscle. And his cock, flushed and eager, bobbed slightly with each unsteady breath.
"Fuck," Jesse whispered, more to himself than to me, his thighs twitching when I traced the crease where leg met torso. His hips jerked involuntarily, chasing the contact. "Sorry, I just... Eli usually..." The confession dissolved into a groan as my thumb brushed the slick bead at his tip.
Inside the folly, the light shifted as clouds scudded overhead, painting Jesse in alternating gold and shadow. His sketchbook lay forgotten beside him, pages fluttering to reveal half-finished studies of Eli’s hands, Eli’s lips, Eli mid-laugh with sunlight caught in his eyelashes. The kid was vibrating with need, his whole body strung tight, but his gaze kept darting back toward the house, where Eli stood framed by the terrace patio railing, Billy’s charcoal capturing every strap and shadow across his harnessed torso.
"Look at me," I murmured, and Jesse’s gaze snapped back, pupils blown wide. "I want you to walk back up to the house, like this, and make love to your boyfriend. Take this," I said, handing a tube of lube to him. "Don't hesitate, just do it. Let your cock guide you. Grab his hand and take him to the sun loungers and make love to him. You're safe here if anything goes wrong, but you can't keep blowing each other. You love him, so show him and make love to him."
Jesse's fingers closed around the lube tube with the reverence of someone handling sacred artefacts. His throat worked silently before he managed a jerky nod, his entire body thrumming with nervous energy as he rose from the folly's cushions. The sea breeze played across his bare skin as he took one step, then another, his gait uneven like a sailor finding land legs after months at sea, and his cock nearly vertical with hardness and anticipation.
I watched him go, enjoying the view and feeling like a fucking saint, but this wasn't about me. The way Jesse moved, half-stumbling on the gravel path with his bare feet and cock bouncing with each step, was equal parts comical and heartbreakingly earnest. The kid kept glancing back at me like I might revoke the permission, his sketchbook clutched to my chest like armour.
By the time Jesse reached the deck stairs, Eli had noticed. The harness straps bit deeper into his skin as he twisted toward the sound of approaching footsteps, his eyes widening comically when he registered Jesse's state. Billy's charcoal froze mid-stroke, leaving a dark smudge across the canvas that would later become the shadow under Jesse's jaw when he knelt between Eli's legs.
"Jesus Christ," Eli breathed, his fingers twitching toward his own straining briefs before catching himself. The harness straps creaked with the force of his inhale.
Jesse didn't speak. He just climbed the steps with the deliberate focus of someone walking toward a cliff edge, the lube tube glinting in his palm like a talisman. When he reached Eli, he pressed their foreheads together, a gesture so intimate it made my throat tighten, and murmured something that made Eli's knees actually buckle. Billy caught the kid's elbow before he could topple over, his artist's fingers lingering on the harness strap like he was memorising the texture as he watched Jesse peel down, Eli’s pristine white briefs.
No Longer A Virgin
Rob appeared in the French doors holding two fresh martinis, his photographer's eye immediately assessing the composition: Jesse's bare back gleaming with sweat, Eli's harness straps digging into his flushed skin, Billy's paint-stained fingers hovering near the clasp. "Well," Rob said mildly, handing me a drink as I joined him and Billy on the patio. "This is better than watching you two."
Jesse's fingers trembled against Eli's hip bones as he guided them both onto the sun lounger, the weathered teak groaning under their combined weight. The lube cap popped off with a sound like a champagne cork, too loud in the charged silence, and Eli whimpered when Jesse's slick fingers circled his entrance, their foreheads pressed together so close their eyelashes tangled.
Billy's charcoal skittered to a halt mid-stroke. "Christ," he breathed as he sat, the sketch forgotten as Eli arched with a gasp, sinking onto Jesse in one fluid motion that made both their thighs quiver. The harness straps stretched taut across Eli's back, every exhale making the leather creak in counterpoint to Jesse's punched-out groan.
Brian appeared beside me with two fresh martinis, his clinical detachment fracturing as Eli rolled his hips experimentally. "Fascinating," he murmured, adjusting his glasses like he was observing a rare species. "Notice how Jesse's hands mirror the harness straps, palms flat against Eli's scapulae, thumbs following the same 45-degree angles."
"Shut up, Brian, and enjoy the show, for fuck's sake," Rob demanded. “I want to watch this without your commentary.”
Rob's phone camera clicked discreetly, capturing the play of light through Eli's sweat-slicked harness as he moved with the cautious wonder of someone discovering their body could do this. Jesse's fingers dug into Eli's thighs where the garter straps bit into flesh, his voice breaking on Eli's name as their rhythm stuttered into something deeper, more instinctive, their initial speed slowing to the principles of making love and not just having sex.
Billy exhaled sharply through his nose, put his drink down to grab a fresh canvas, his paintbrush darting across the surface in feverish strokes. "Don't stop," he whispered, though neither boy seemed capable of hearing anything beyond their own ragged breathing. Eli's head dropped back, exposing his throat where sunlight caught the sweat pooling in his collarbones, a living chiaroscuro that made Rob abandon his martini to adjust the shot.
"He needs no tuition," Brian whispered as we were all mesmerised by watching two young men lose their virginity in the comfort and safety of our home.
Eli's hips moved with the unconscious grace of someone who'd rehearsed this moment in stolen daydreams, not the frantic piston of pornographic fantasy, but something slower, deeper, his body learning Jesse in real time. The afternoon light caught the sweat sheening their torsos where they pressed together, Eli's cock visibly pointing parallel to Jesse's torso.
From our vantage point, which was marvellously positioned, it looked like Eli was straddling a live wire, every muscle taut with the effort of restraint.
Billy's paintbrush resting on the table as Eli arched suddenly, his harness straps straining. "Fuck, Jess, I'm gonna..."
The words disintegrated into a punched-out groan as his body locked, trembling violently. Jesse's hands flew to Eli's hips, fingers overlapping the garter straps as if to anchor them both through the storm. We didn't need to see the mess to know, as Eli's face darkened visibly, his orgasm ripping through him.
Jesse made a sound like a drowning man breaking the surface, his hips stuttering upward involuntarily. Eli gasped, overstimulated but holding Jesse tighter, his thighs clamping around Jesse's hips as if to say stay with me. The sun lounger creaked alarmingly under their combined weight, teak protesting the sudden shift as Jesse came with a broken sob, his forehead pressed hard against Eli's sternum.
Silence, save for the distant crash of surf and Rob's camera shutter clicking twice more before he lowered it reverently. Eli's fingers traced the sweat-damp hair at Jesse's temples, whispering something that made Jesse laugh weakly into his harness straps.
Brian cleared his throat. "Remarkable pelvic tilt efficiency for first-time penetrative...."
"Really, Brian...?" I asked, chuckling to myself.
Eli collapsed onto Jesse like a marionette with cut strings, then kissed him with the sloppy, breathless enthusiasm of someone who'd just discovered gravity worked differently. Their foreheads knocked together awkwardly before finding the right angle, Jesse's hands coming up to cradle Eli's face with a tenderness that made my throat tighten.
I turned to Brian and Rob, both frozen in their respective states of fascination, Brian with his martini halfway to his lips, Rob with his phone camera still raised. "Well," I said, reaching for the pitcher to refill everyone's glasses. "What shall we talk about now? Local zoning laws? The migratory patterns of...."
"Fuck zoning laws," Billy muttered, standing again by his easel, his eyes darting between the boys and his work like he was trying to imprint the scene directly onto the canvas. "Rob, hand me that charcoal, no, the compressed one, before the light changes."
Rob obliged, tossing the stick with the casual accuracy of someone who'd spent years documenting fleeting moments. Billy caught it midair without looking, his other hand still sketching the curve where Eli's harness strap bit into Jesse's shoulder.
Brian finally remembered to swallow his martini. "Remarkable stamina recovery for adolescents," he observed clinically, though his fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his knee. "They'll be ready for another round within eighteen minutes or so, if Jesse maintains that grip on Eli's..."
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