Remembering Rick

I was lower in the bed now. It was my bare chest he was shoving his hardon into now. I worked my hands under his ass and began to squeeze. Starting at the bony crest of his right hip, I kissed and licked my way across his lower belly, just above the waist of his jeans. I brushed his belly with my hair.

I put my mouth atop the bulge in his jeans, blew out my breath and felt the material grow hot beneath my lips. From above me, a second soft hissed, "please" reached my ears.

I moved to sit beside him. My hands were shaking as I unbuttoned his jeans and slid the zipper down. He raised his butt as I slid the jeans off. His underwear started to come off as well but snagged on his erection. I wiggled the jeans off his legs and feet and dropped them to the floor.

He wore Jockey bikini briefs. They were so wet I could easily see his cock head outlined. So close, yet I paused to stroke his legs, his feet. I trailed my fingers over the dark hair that ran from the back of his big toe, over the top of the arch to disappear in the forest of dark hair that covered his legs. Little tufts of black adorned the big joint of each toe, even the little toe. I had no idea if he was ticklish and it was certainly not part of the plan that had sprung, full grown, into my mind as I stood beside him only a few minutes earlier, but I had to kiss his feet.

They didn't smell, well a little, but hardly more than his armpits. It wasn't an odor as much as a scent, a pheromone. Not knowing if he was ticklish, I kissed the top of each foot, then waited. When he bent his knee and rolled his foot to the side, I had my answer. As I kissed the top of his foot and down to his toes, my hand found his dick and his wet underwear. I did little more than rest my hand on it but his back arched and he moaned a third, "Please."

I had a reasonable guess of what he wanted. It was certainly what I wanted.

I didn't waste time kissing my way back up his legs, though I longed to do so. By that point, I was tormenting myself as much, if not more, than I was tormenting my lover.

I pressed my face into the right side of his crotch, the side where his underwear had pulled down the lowest. His cock was still hidden by the damp cotton. Running away from the cotton, arcing along the bottom of his belly, a tan line separated the brown of his belly, a soft brown, the brown of coffee with too much cream, from the pale skin that hid beneath his underwear. The hidden skin appeared all the whiter in contrast to the crisp dark curls that coalesced just above the top of his half-off briefs.

I rested my head on his thigh, my cheek and lips brushing against the damp cotton and the heat and firmness of his cock. His scent filled my nose and fanned the fire burning in my skull. I kissed his cock through the wet fabric as my fingers played in the small patch of exposed pubic hair.

I lost myself in the sound of my fingers in his hair. I could hear it in the ear that was on top and I could hear it, strangely amplified, in the ear pressed against his pelvis. The tones that reached me through the air were, sharp, crisp, metallic. The tones that echoed through his flesh were deeper, not as sharp but more resonate. Though muted, they filled my ear.

I nuzzled his cock with my nose and the sound of the cotton rubbing against his hair added its voice to the chorus. Rick was silent. He no longer moaned or groaned. I heard no hissing, just the quick shallow breaths of his excitement.

He held his breath when I lifted my cheek and hooked my fingers in the waistband of his briefs. I pulled it out, unhooking it from his cock. I stopped there, letting my anticipation grow, part of me steeling myself for disappointment, before slipping the fabric down and exposing him.

I was not disappointed. His cock was beautiful, and not, as with his nipples, just because it belonged to him. It would have been a thing of beauty in isolation. It could have been an icon for all that was exciting about being young, being male, and being lost in lust and passion. A decade has yet to pass, from that moment to this, but I find myself wondering, at only twenty-six, is that youthful exuberance of the flesh already fading? Does it take a few minutes longer before I'm hard? Does it take more than a passing thought to get me hard? Does my cock still drip with excitement as it once did? Do we really get so very few years when youth, ability, and possibility overlap?

I worried about none of that at the time. To be frank, I stared, just stared for the longest time. The head was shiny and slick. As I gazed, a clear drop of fluid welled from the slit and ran backward, clinging to the crown before stretching into an exaggerated rain-drop icicle and falling into the tangle thatch of his pubic hair. This may be one of the memories that are false, but I believe I could see my reflection in that drop of pre-cum, a tiny, upside-down face that elongated and disappeared as the drop freed itself from his cock.

The image is vivid, even now. I think of it often and wish I were a painter, a realist like Geddes or that Russian dude that paints all those rain streaked windows. He'd be perfect. The left lower foreground would be the back of my head. Unless cropped short, my hair is a mess. It is neither fish nor fowl. It is neither straight nor curly. When it is long it is mostly wavy, but the waves are interspersed with eddies of tighter curls and cowlicks. The point being, it would not just be a blob of dark paint. A good painter would have contrasts of texture and lighting to deal with. As it happens, in real life, the window was behind us, on the far side of the room, so the light was truly behind us. If we'd been in Rick's room the shade would have been drawn, his room was on the ground floor. Mine was on the third floor, the window was uncovered and the room was full of the most gorgeous late afternoon yellows and golds.

You could do a series of paintings, the first a realist scene, the other an abstract of the color tones and textures of my hair. In the realist version, beyond my head, and the focal point of the composition, would be Rick's cock. The background would be filled with the contrasting tones of untanned abutting tanned, a second mass of hair, darker, coarser, curlier. And, oh please Jesus, include the soft butter brown skin of his belly and the copse of dark hair below his belly button.

The focal point would not actually be the head of his cock, but the dangling drop of pre-cum. The careful observer would see my face in the drop. Upside down, eyes wide in wonder, forever trapped, forever nineteen, the world always and forever ahead of me.

I thought of none of that at the time, of course. Such thoughts are for later.

I eased his underwear off, standing as I did so. He looked at me and I looked back. I held the wet front of his briefs to my nose and inhaled. He smiled. I dropped them to the floor. When my hands dropped to the top of my jeans he started to sit up. I stooped, put a hand on his chest, kissed him quickly and urged him to lay back down. I did not make a show of taking off my pants. It is quite true I had been teasing him, and myself, but a strip-tease has never been part of my style.

I thumbed open the buttons, and tugged my jeans and underwear off in one motion. I has hard, of course, and my own underwear was pretty damp. Both joined the jumble of clothes heaped on the floor beside the bed.

I knelt beside Rick. My eyes devoured his body. His short hair, lighter than mine, his hazel eyes, the double arch of his upper lip, the stubbly whiskers, darker than the hair on his head, the mass of hair, darker still, of his armpits, his chest, the silly small nipples, belly and finally, that beautiful penis towering over its nest of dark curls.

Rick's cock was not one of those monster cocks that seem to only exist in the world of porn. Guys, everyone take a breath. It's called "selection bias." Relax. Even amateur sites suffer from selection bias. How many guys with five- and six-inch dicks want to risk posting a photo? I'm versatile, tending to bottom more than I top, but I don't want some newel post of a cock shoved up my ass.

Rick's cock was probably six inches, maybe five-and-a-half. I'm not sure. We never measured it. He was circumcised. I confess that at the time that was a relief. Other than on porn sites, I had never seen an uncut cock. I don't think that it would have mattered, unless it was cheesy. Nowadays, I find uncut cock quite enticing, if it's clean. I don't mind sweat. In fact, my favorite is a guy who has just finished a run or a work out. Sweat enhances the scents of a man's body. I love it. But clean sweat please, thank you.

I think Rick and I were both sweating a little that afternoon. It wasn't terribly hot in the room, even with the sun pouring in. The drops on our brows and the trickles on our sides were the product of body heat and desire, not the temperature of the room.

As my eyes lingered on his body, I stretched out my hand. I needed to see if his cock felt as slick and smooth as the sheen on the skin suggested. I touched his cock for the first time. I moved closer. Our legs touched.

His cock throbbed in my hand. I tried to decide if it felt like my own. It wasn't as if I had never had my hand around a hardon before. I guess it felt the same. I knew it would be hard. I knew the head would be softer. I knew if I rubbed my fingers and palm over the head it would be easier to stroke his cock. So I did.

I didn't stroke him for long. I knew that if I was in his position I would be on the edge of spewing and I didn't want that yet. I used my fingers and my eyes to explore his crotch. This was new territory. This was a place on my own body that was not accessible to my eyes. I fondled his balls and watched his sack crinkle and wiggle away from my touch, only to suddenly relax and fall into my palm.

I lifted his balls up and tilted my head. I could see the ridge I was so used to feeling with my fingers. Like me, or at least as far as I could tell by feel, Rick had a line of hair that ran backward from his ball sack towards his ass. It was not as curly as pubic hair. In future years I would learn the technical name for this ridge was the raphe. I couldn't see his asshole. Despite the nearly overwhelming lust that had engulfed me, I was afraid to ask him to lift up so I could see it. I ran my fingers back along the ridge. When I got to the mattress, he pulled his right leg up, bending the knee. That offered a slightly larger opening but not enough to see, or feel, all the way back to his ass.

My fingers walked their way back to his cock. I wrapped my fingers around the base, leaned forward, and put my lips around the crown. Whether it was the proximity of my nose to his pubic hair, the added sense of tasting his cock and precum, or a combination of all the above, his musk increased in intensity until it was all I could smell. I began to run my tongue around the head of his cock, sliding up the middle and over the slit, making a figure eight or the symbol for infinity, take your pick, over the top of his cock head.

That first time, my first time giving a blow-job, smokin' the pole, goin' down, suckin' cock, givin' dome, take your pick, I didn't use my hand for anything other than to hold his cock up straight for my mouth. Just as I would never enjoy having a newel post up my ass, I also don't like one shoved down my throat. I love, LOVE, giving oral but not gagging and retching. Yuck. Rick's cock was the perfect cock for a first blow job. I could easily take the whole shaft in my mouth without gagging, or much anyway. I was kneeling beside him. I wanted to take his cock in my mouth straight on so by necessity, my head and mouth resorted to a certain twisting motion.

I didn't really suck, I don't think anyone does, but I did press my tongue against his shaft as my mouth slid up and down. Not to brag but looking back, I think I did pretty well for my first time.

Although, let's get real. At that age and in that situation, it was Rick's first blow-job, too, I could have licked the head a half-dozen times and he would have gone all Vesuvius on me. He didn't warn me he was going to cum. Like I said, it was his first blow-job, too. He'd never let a girl go anywhere near that far with him. I didn't care. I wanted his cum anyway.

I had taken his whole cock in my mouth, for maybe the fourth or fifth time, when his hands clutched at my hair and his back arched. At first I couldn't taste his cum, he was so far back in my mouth. I struggled against his hands, not to get away but to pull back enough to let him fill my mouth, which he proceeded to do. I couldn't swallow it all. Some ran down his shaft. That was perfect, actually. It gave me an excuse to keep licking his cock.

At times, after jerking off, I had touched a finger to one of the puddles on my belly or chest. Cum is sort of weird isn't it? Part of it is clear and watery and begins to run down your sides almost immediately. Part is thicker and whiter and rests in rounded globs on your skin. It's slick when you rub it but sticky enough to pull into a strand between your fingers. I had, once or twice, put the dipped finger in my mouth. It was the watery component of my jizz, the thicker stuff was too heavy to stick to my finger. The first time I did this I didn't think it really had any taste at all but slowly my mouth woke to this new sensation. Can we dispel with the myth that cum tastes salty? It does not. Mine doesn't. Rick's didn't. No one's cum I've ever tasted was salty.

It's a subtle taste but one that lingers. If you could figure out a way to make the flavor of gum last as long in your mouth as jizz does, you'd make millions. I've tasted cum that was almost bitter and some that was almost sweet. The only real constants I've found are:

1)Somehow you know it's cum. You could blindfold someone and give them different sips of liquid and I'm certain they would always know which one was cum.

2)The flavor lingers in your mouth, coating it.

3)At least for me, it always makes my mouth feel a little numb.

Rick's jizz was, as I remember it, on the sweet side.

When his back fell onto the bed, I did actually suck his cock, softly, milking the last of his cum into my mouth. When I licked the shift, his fingers tightened in my hair. I knew he was over-stimulated and reluctantly stopped and rested my face on the top of his thigh. I watched his dick grow soft, slumping to rest in the curl of his pubes. Cum continued to ooze from the head. When I was sure it was okay, I lifted his now soft dick up and engulfed it again with my mouth.

Finished, for now at least, with his cock, I moved up and lay my head on his belly. His hand stroked my head, his fingers pulling the curls straight, as I listened to the thud of his heart gradually slow. We lay there for a time, a fairly long time I think, relaxing against each other. My dick ached but I ignored it, focusing instead on the feel of his skin against mine. Sucking him was great, better than great, and the acts we would explore in the future would also be great, but equally prominent in memory and wonder was the feel of his skin against mine.

I needed to feel more of it. My free hand began to roam up and down his thighs, as low as I could reach. I was too far away to hear the crinkle of his hair through his body, but in between his breaths and the thud of his heart, I could hear it, faintly with the ear that was not pressed to his stomach. My hand traversed the thicket of his pubic hair and began to explore his side and belly. My arm was pressed over his cock. I could feel it beginning to rouse itself once more. I needed to feel more of his body against mine.

I crawled atop him, forcing him to straighten his right leg so that I could straddle him, and draped myself over his chest. Our cocks rubbed together. I arched my back enough to get my mouth to his nipples. I re-explored his pits, wetter now, then his neck, and finally his mouth. It never occurred to me he might not want to kiss me after cumming in my mouth. The first time someone objected to that I was, frankly, flabbergasted.

Rick did not mind, or if he did he never admitted to it. As we kissed, his fingers clutched at my back. We kissed for a long time. His cock grew hard against mine and we found ourselves rubbing against each other. I was considering cumming that way when Rick spoke for the first time since his soft "please." Something that already seemed as if spoken ages ago.

"Scoot up." I looked at him puzzled. He put his hand on my hips and pushed. "Scoot up. Sit on my chest."

I had not been entirely sure why he wanted me to do that. I had been hoping he'd want to return the favor, although that's not the right word, and blow me but I moved up as he asked. I didn't want to sit on him. I was not a big guy but even so. I knelt. His left hand moved from my hip to cup my ass cheek. His right moved to my front, where it found my dick.

He went right for the head, rubbing his hand over it. Now it was my turn to moan softly. He glided his hand up and down my shaft. I started to move my hips, fucking the tunnel of his fist, when he stopped. Being kinder, or perhaps more desperate than I, he did not make me say "please." His left hand pushed against my butt as he raised his head, opening his mouth. I was finally blessed with understanding. I pushed my hips forward and felt his tongue and lips engulf the head of my dick.

Because of the tilt of his head, I also felt the stubble on his chin against my scrotum. His right hand tightened and urged me forward. I moved my knees forward until they pressed into his armpits. I could feel his sweat on my knees, or could have if I was capable of feeling anything beyond his mouth on my dick.

By raising his head as much as he could, Rick could take half my dick in his mouth. That is not a brag. My dick was no larger than his, he simply could not flex his head forward any further. His chin rested on his chest. As his head began to bob, his hand began to stroke the part of my dick that wasn't in his mouth. I more or less lost control and began to fuck his mouth. His hand kept me from shoving myself so far into his mouth that it would make him gag.

I came harder than I ever had before, maybe since. My whole body quivered. I heard someone whimpering and part of me knew the person whimpering was me. That part of me that maintained a sense of awareness of the real world worried we were being too loud. It was Friday afternoon in a dorm. The place was far from deserted. That part of me was a very, very, small minority at the time.

As my ejaculation fade, so did my whimpers. I freed myself from Rick's mouth and hand and slid my body down his, until his hardon pressed against the cheek of my ass. I moved to lay my head beside his but he intercepted me. Both his hands grasped my head and pulled me to his mouth.

As we kissed I realized he had not swallowed my cum. It was there in his mouth, now in my mouth, on my tongue.

We swallowed together and then slept.