It’s a cruel, desolate moment. I’m about to protest but, before I can utter a word, the Boy has sprung up onto the carpets, leaping from a standstill like a mighty ballet dancer. On his haunches, he straddles Uncle who reclines, mouth parted, to suck on the Boy’s fingers, offered like dangling grapes. The Boy cups the man’s shiny head, supporting it, and Uncle goes slack with surrender, eyes closed in bliss, as he slurps and snuffles on a sample of my snatch.
Now, I’m not averse to a spot of guy-on-guy action but I’ve only just arrived and I’m feeling a touch neglected. So I walk towards them because, dammit, I want to play too. As I near, they stop their weird feeding and, holding the pose, look down at me with benign curiosity, blinking heavily. It’s as if they’ve never seen me before. Jesus, it’s creepy. Without smiling, they continue to stare and blink for what seems like an age. A pair of green eyes and a pair of bright brown ones.
Then Uncle perks up, his expression changing to a villainous leer. He looks seriously gorgeous, like he ought to be behind bars. Sneering, he sits straight, swinging his legs over the edge of the carpet pile, and delves into the crotch of his baggy pants. His pants are slate-blue silk, and a materialistic impulse asserts itself because that’s just the shade I want in the hallway. I consider asking for a thread so I can choose a carpet with a matching weave but the moment passes. I have a different object of desire, other needs to gratify.
“Suck my dick for me,” says the man, grinning. He releases a big fat erection, wanking it gently, the muscles of his beefy arm flexing under dark skin. It’s a beautiful brute of a cock, arrogant and obscenely large.
“Dirty bitch,” adds the Boy. He still sounds like a kid trying out rude words. “Suck the man’s dick.”
I’m happy to oblige. The stack of carpets are almost shoulder height and all I need do is lower my head to engulf him. His pubes tickle my nose and, butting deep within my mouth, he’s superbly stout and powerful. My head bobs between his thighs and I’m getting weaker and wetter as I dream how it’ll be when this beast slides into me. The Boy drops to the floor and I feel him at my feet, nuzzling my ankles then crawling under my sarong. I spread my legs for him and feel him rising, the heat of him on my skin, his shorn, silky head, his tongue trailing a path up my inner thighs. He pulls down my knickers and I feel him between my legs, his hot breath on my cunt before his tongue, so delicate and perfect, dances over my clit and squirms into my folds.
Oh, my. That tongue has truly been places. Like his eyes, it could be a thousand years old, a tongue that’s pleasured Geisha girls, ladyboys and Babylonian whores. Fingers fill my cunt, a thumb rubs my arsehole and moments later I’m coming hard, gasping around Uncle’s cock, Uncle clutching my head, keeping me steady for fear I neglect his pleasure in favour of my own.
“She’s a slippery little bitch, isn’t she, huh?”
Uncle’s voice is loud enough to carry across the chamber. He’s talking to someone else; not to the Boy, and certainly not to me. I pull back and turn, wiping saliva from my mouth.
Tom, of course. Hell’s teeth, I’d forgotten him. He’s standing within the white stone archway, looking somewhat dazed. Really, I’d completely forgotten him, forgotten the man I love. Well, I guess fresh meat can do that to a girl.
Tom stares, mouth sagging dumbly. I worry for a moment, fearing my blue-eyed boy is going to be appalled, but I can see he’s interested, absorbing the scene. It’s that fascinated passivity again. “My God,” I can almost hear him say. “You’re so vulgar.”
“Come, come,” cries Uncle, jumping down from the carpets. “Welcome, my brother!” He pumps Tom’s hand and claps him on the shoulder as if they’re the best of mates. “You want her to suck your dick too, huh?” Pleased with himself, Uncle laughs over-loudly.
I think Tom’s had a hit of whatever I’ve had, the scent of dried hedgehog or something. He smiles. I know exactly what he’s going to say. He’s going to say, “ I don’t mind,” in that sing-song way he does when I say, “Shall we have coffee here or there? Rice for dinner or pasta?” It can get a bit annoying, to tell the truth. He looks at me; his smile’s ironic. “I don’t mind,” he says, and I realize he knew that I knew he was going to say that, and his tongue’s in his cheek because he knows all that knowing will amuse me. Long-term relationships can be so nice.
The Boy, on his hands and knees, peeps out from under my sarong to edge a cautious pace forward. Then he’s motionless, watching as Uncle leads Tom to a low bank of carpets, stacked at three levels like a shallow flight of steps. A hazy shaft of sunlight falls across them, revealing tiny squalls of dust as the men clamber and sprawl across this wool-woven stage. Uncle sits on the higher level, legs akimbo, and Tom lolls within his silk-clad thighs, head resting there as he yields to an off-centre shoulder massage. Uncle bows forward, murmurs in Tom’s ear, and Tom smiles gently, stretching his spine in a discreet arch, his pleasure private and contained, as the man kneads with big oafish hands.
I stand there, entranced, hardly able to believe what I’m seeing. The Boy edges closer, moving gingerly as if wary of disturbing them. Sitting back on his heels, he watches intently as Tom relaxes deeper into the massage, occasionally grunting.
When Tom and I fuck, a glazed expression sometimes settles on his face. His eyes close, his mouth drops open, and he looks completely gone, blanked out with bliss as I move on top. He’s got that slightly dead quality about him now, and when Uncle reaches forward to remove his T-shirt, Tom acquiesces, raising his arms, as docile and obliging as a sleepy child. He doesn’t even protest when the Boy pads forward to nuzzle his pale chest. All he does is smile fondly and, like a basking chimp, he stretches his arms back, exposing their white undersides, tendons taut, his dark patches of armpit hair attracting the Boy who tentatively sniffs, a hand sweeping broad caresses over Tom’s flexing body. Tom is clearly loving it.
Well, you sly old tart, I think.
I can’t take my eyes off him. I wonder if they’ve drugged him. And then I’m clearly not thinking straight myself because soon I’m wondering whether it actually is Tom. Perhaps someone – or something – has got inside his body because I’ve never seen him like this before. Tom likes to size up situations, to tread carefully, to fret unnecessarily; and he’s never shown even the slightest interest in men. And now look at him, pushing the boundaries of his experience as if it were a walk in the park. I start to fear I may never get him back.
But then I notice his smile fading and he moistens his lips, a small moment of nervous desire. It’s exquisite, so tender and Tom-like, and I feel I know who he is again. I see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat and, in his neck, a hint of tension, as he tests the air for a kiss. The Boy bends over him, their lips meet, and lust flares in my groin. I watch a knot of muscle shifting in the Boy’s jaw, movement in Tom’s neck, and I’m all eyes as, without breaking the kiss, the Boy reaches down to unzip Tom’s fly. Tom’s erection springs out, weighty and lascivious.
I don’t know what I want to do most: watch or join in.
Then Uncle grins at me, rummaging around in his silky blue crotch. He exposes his cock and moves it against Tom’s face, tipping it back and forth like a windscreen wiper. “Come here,” Uncle says to me. “Bring us titties.”
He’s dead right: I want to join in. So I cross to them, whipping off my top half as I do so. Greedy and urgent, I scramble up onto the carpets and Uncle welcomes me by holding out a brawny arm. He opens his mouth and I fill it immediately with soft, pink breast, pressing a hand to his crisp chest hair, my body pushing against the bulk of his belly. His tongue lashes my nipple and he delves under my sarong, searching eagerly for my hole. With a force that makes me gasp, he plugs my wetness with thick, crude fingers. Grinning up at me, he holds my nipple between his teeth and gently pulls on it, stretching my flesh. I hold his gaze, daring him to keep right on going.