Then I saw that Luke was studying my crotch as intently as I’d been studying his. I looked down. My own shorts bore the same giveaway round wet patch. Luke and I looked back up into each other’s face and, very shyly, very nervously, smiled.
I don’t know how we got there but we were suddenly in each other’s arms, pressed together tightly at the front, Luke on tiptoe, rubbing ourselves, our cocks, together as if we wanted them to kindle into fire. Within seconds we both came, in and through our shorts, into each other’s. His hot wetness merged with mine, the two indistinguishable, spread between us like an opening flower. I felt the powerful pulses of his cock pressed through fabric against mine as we spurted about a second apart, his ejaculation mirrored by the pumping throbs of my own, six or seven times before our cocks calmed down. Then we held each other for what seemed like minutes. Perhaps it was. We pulled slowly apart, surveying each other, each observing the other’s soaking shorts. “I want to see your cock,” said Luke at last, in a threadbare voice.
“In this state?” I answered, my voice, like his, husky with shock. “It’ll be all a mess down there.”
“Show me anyway.”
“I can’t,” I whispered. Then, abject with shame: “I don’t let anyone see it. It’s so small.”
“So’s mine,” said Luke, looking me earnestly in the eye. “Pull my shorts down and look at mine. Then let me see yours.”
I reached forward and unhooked the top of his shorts, unzipped them and yanked them down over his hips in something like a single movement. His cock flipped out, and slightly up—he wasn’t wearing underpants either—and he caused mine to do the same.
Our cocks were twins: Same scale. Identical quail’s egg balls. Both still half stiff, pointing toward each other, parallel to the floor. They were wet with come, and our pubes were clotted with it. As we looked, a last stray streamer, hanging from the tip of each foreskin, spooled downward and dropped into the shorts that lay encircling our feet. We looked back up at each other and exchanged half smiles.
“Mr. William Rufus indeed,” Luke said. He planted a finger in the deep wet carpet of my pubes. “Copper even here. It’s beautiful. I mean, you are.”
I’d never thought of my pubic bush as an adornment, a thing of beauty, before. But here was Luke telling me that, even strung with the white flecks and streamers of my spunk, as it was. He moved his hand and grasped my cock. Tentatively I reached out and held his. It jerked in response, swelled slightly. It was so wonderfully hot. This was the first time I’d held another boy’s; the first time a boy’d held mine. Slowly, although we’d both come just seconds before, standing naked in the middle of the floor, in the sunshine, with our shorts pooled at our feet, we each began to masturbate the other’s prick.
We didn’t make it to lunch that day. We lay naked together on Luke’s bed in the warmth of the afternoon and played together. We discovered by a happy chance the position called sixty-nine, though neither of us knew it was called that then. You don’t need big cocks for that. A small one’s just as good, and actually more comfortable. We wanked each other and watched the other’s come spurt healthily over our nipples and throats. And though we did get dressed and go out in the evening to eat and drink, we were back in bed soon afterward, experimenting with a fuck. I let Luke have first go. I was too big to lie on top of him. I lay back, pulling up my legs, and let him push his spit-moistened little penis up inside. I wouldn’t let him wank me while he plunged and came. Instead I made him sit astride me, when he was ready to go again, and lower his backside onto my standing, bursting dick. While he did the necessary legwork I teased his well-positioned penis with my hand till we both came, me inside him, he in a hot starburst over my chest. That night we slept in each other’s arms.
It was a couple of days before we began, shyly, tentatively, to talk about our previous sexual experience and habits. It was oddly reassuring to learn that Luke had had no experience with others before me, not even showing off his little soldier to his peers when a child, and he seemed relieved, almost, when I told him that my own case was the same. I was still diffident about owning up to the odd way I’d been bringing myself off, but when I eventually did so he grinned broadly and said that he had never used his hand either. Like me, he’d always rubbed himself against the sheets, or up walls, or alongside fence-posts in the countryside where he lived. We let our imaginations dwell on the possibility that at the start of term we might have been up against opposite sides of the wall that divided our two bedrooms at the same time, getting off on different sides of the same brick. Picturing that scene, sexy but absurd at the same time, we started to laugh, eventually guffawing till we could hardly stop.
But Luke had taken the frottage principle to a level beyond mine. He told me he sometimes rubbed his cock against tall handsome strangers in overcrowded buses, or in the London or the Glasgow Underground. “How the fuck did you get away with that?” I asked him.
“It has to be very crowded indeed,” he answered roguishly. “Very, very crowded. Otherwise you can’t.”
These days we had no need to take such measures. Our doors were, metaphorically, open to each other day and night. Since they were the only two doors on our particular landing, and we were on the top floor, there was no one to witness our frequent comings and goings. If the people beneath us ever heard our midnight footsteps cross the floor, or our doors open and shut, they never said so. If, for instance, I woke at three in the morning, hard and wanting to wank, I’d take myself next door, naked as I was, and climb in beside Luke. He’d wake, harden in seconds, and we’d do each other, one way or another, there and then. Just as often, I’d wake to find little Luke, shamelessly nude and eager pricked, climbing in beside me.
As the days turned to weeks, then months, we began to notice something, though for a long time didn’t dare mention it, in case we were mistaken. Not till we resumed our sexual contacts after the Christmas break (and boy, how we both used our hands on ourselves during that enforced absence from each other’s bed) did I bring the subject up. “Have you noticed,” I said, “that both our cocks have grown?”
“I didn’t want to be the first to say so,” said Luke, “but yes, I have.”
We found a ruler, even though this was the middle of the night, and confirmed what we could already see with our eyes. My cock had grown by nearly an inch, and his had done the same. I said to him, “You see, we should have been using our hands for years.”