The Lesson

It was getting late. Harry and John had been drinking and talking – putting the world to rights – and were now both sitting on one of the sofas in John's sitting room – the easier to pass the dope pipe between them. A silence falls – not a difficult one – they are never stuck for words these two. Pleasantly pissed and mildly stoned. Harry leans back into the corner of the sofa with his hands behind his head, sliding his bum forward and his legs further apart.

"Feels nice," he says, slightly moving his knees in and out. John isn't quite sure as to what he's talking about exactly, but he recognises the movement. It comes at that point of stoned relaxation when the dope has arrived somewhere in the area of the groin and you become aware of your cock for the first time in a little while and the thought makes the cost begin to fill – not quite to the point of getting a hard-on – but enough to make you feel that one isn't very far away and that it wouldn't take much...

John says "So, have you given any more thoughts as to whether we should make your fantasy a one last time reality or leave it as a fantasy – for all time?"

"And which fantasy might that be?," says Harry grinning.

"The one," says John, "where Harry gets a lesson in how to suck cock and wanks John off before John brings the attention of his mouth and fingers to Harry's cock and then wanks him to an earth-shattering climax."

"Steady," say Harry, but too late, for his cock has heard and he can feel it growing inexorably to a serious hard-on. He twitches his knees in and out.

"Dunno," he says as John's hand arrives on the inside of his thigh, "there are one or two things I might have problems with, but," he adds, as John's hand moves up and down the inside of his thigh, "if you keep on doing what your doing, then we might," he continues as John's hand arrives at the top of his thigh, "have no choice in the matter."

"Shame," says John dropping to his knees on the floor between Harry's legs, "but I guess we could just take it a step at a time and see," he goes on, slowly unbuckling Harry's belt, "what happens. You don't have to be perfect."

Harry's breath quickens as John unbuttons his jeans and slowly slides the zip down. He lifts his hips slightly as John pulls off the jeans to reveal Harry's hard, elegant, long cock straining at the white cotton of his Y-fronts. With fingertips and back of forefingers, John brushes his way up Harry's thighs to eventually hook his fingers inside the briefs and gently stroke Harry's balls. He pulls at the briefs, easing them down slightly so that the balls drop out either side. He repeats the course taken by his fingers with his mouth – dry kissing his way from knee to groin – and repeat the action with his tongue-tip and then the flat of his tongue, wet with saliva; digging the tongue deep into the corners of Harry's groin, licking his balls, catching them gently between his lips, massaging them with his tongue-tip until they take on a wet slippery life of their own. Sliding his fingers and then his hands into Harry's briefs at the top of his thighs, he gently strokes Harry's cock, pulling the briefs down an inch further, allowing his cock to stretch skywards inside the briefs, but refusing to release it, wanking it gently inside the tent of white cotton. Retreating the way he has come, John stops and looks at the expression of pleasure on Harry's face.

Harry opens his eyes and say "Don't stop."

John grins and says "Sorry, that was just a taster. You've got work to do before you get any more of that."

Rising to his feet, he crosses the room and returns with a bottle of poppers. He unscrews the top, releasing the sweet, sickly smell, and puts the bottle to one side. With a grin, he slowly unbuttons his jeans, dropping them to the floor, Harry watching from under his eyelashes. John's cock makes a hard outline in his briefs; a glimpse of the swollen head trying to escape from the leg of the Y-fronts. John eases the cotton back over the head of his cock; slides back the foreskin and, wetting his fingers, slips them gently over the hard velvet head. Eyes half-closed he gives a little moan, then eases his aching cock back into his briefs. He arranges himself and Harry on the sofa, their backs against either end, each with one leg up against the back of the sofa – the other foot on the floor, legs spread wide, groin touching groin.

"Now," says John, "fingers only at first and do your worst."

John shuts his eyes with pleasure as Harry's long fingers stroke their way up the inside of his thighs and caress and squeeze the hardness of his cock through the cotton, fingers stealing their way inside his briefs; teasing, touching, stroking it to a glorious aching rod of iron. John returns the favour, then, reaching inside the Y-fronts, eases Harry's cock out of the leg of the briefs to expose the whole of its elegant length. Harry moans as John wets his fingers and slides them smoothly over the purple, slippery head, easing the foreskin back all the way; wet finger-tips teasing the ridge of the cock; wet forefingers gliding down the long hard shaft; making a wet fist of his hand, gently wanking Harry's cock to a gloriously aching hard-on.

"O.K.," he says, "your turn with the wet fingers." – and Harry takes up the challenge, easing John's cock out of the leg of his briefs, wanking it slowly, and then, slipping wet fingertips over the swollen purple cock-head; tentatively at first, but with growing assurance as he watches the helplessly ecstatic pleasure on John's face that his long, wet, sensitive fingers bring.

"Well done," says John opening his eyes, and, by way of thanks, hands the bottle of poppers to Harry who inhales deeply feeling the rush of pure sensation, the increase of heart rate, the blood speeding round his body to his groin, pumping his already swollen cock to the very essence of hardness. John takes both cocks in one hand, wanking them together ever so gently, rubbing his wet thumb and forefinger over and under and between the swollen heads.

"Nice," says Harry.

"Yup," says John, "but there's a lesson to be learned." And taking Harry's hand he starts to nuzzle his little finger with his lips. "So," he says, "let's say that this is a clit belonging to the woman you desire most. The trick is to keep your teeth out of the way and your mouth wet. Not," he adds, "that I know much about clits, but I do know cocks and, in this instance, I think that size is probably the only difference."

Gently, slowly, and with the slightest of suction, he pulls at Harry's finger-end with his mouth, flickering the tip of his tongue across the end, eventually drawing the whole finger into his mouth, massaging it with the warm, wet flat of his tongue, slowly raising the level of suction and pumping his mouth up and down the length of the finger.

"Now," he say, "you do the same thing – on your own finger – reproduce the sensation that I've just given you. A small tip," he adds, "is to imagine that you're an old man without his false teeth – gross I know, but give it just a touch of that – don't go overboard with the idea, otherwise you'll lose the sensitivity of your lips." And Harry does so while by way of encouragement, John gently, slightly pulls and strokes Harry's cock.

"O.K.," he says, "let's see how you're doing. Try my finger." So Harry does and is, as John knew he would be, a natural, but he makes Harry repeat the process with a forefinger and then with two fingers together until John is satisfied that he's learned that part of the lesson.

"Next stage," he says. Picking up the bottle of poppers, he stands up and crosses the room, his rampant cock leading the way, and fetches the long mirror from the hallway,

"O.K., we're over here now."

Harry, his cock reaching skywards, goes to join him. John positions him with his back against one of the pillars of the room divider and adjusts the mirror so that Harry can see his cock reflected in it.

"Pay attention," he says, kneeling down at the altar of Harry's long cock, "keep your eyes open, and watch what I'm doing. But, before I do anything, I'm going to put this on; we don't want you coming too soon." He slides Harry's briefs off, allowing his balls to fall free, straps a leather cock-strap around Harry's cock and balls, increasing, if such a thing were possible, its long lean hardness, and hands him the bottle of poppers.

Harry watches in the mirror as John extends the tip of his tongue to the head of Harry's pulsing cock to taste the warm saltiness of the pre-cum. Harry's cock twitches in response, and John withdraws his tongue, and then extends it again, flicking with wetness the twitching head, teasing it to reach heavenward, and then suddenly slides the wet O of his lips over the head to meet the edge of the straining foreskin, skimming the point of his tongue around and along the ridge at the back of the cockhead, within the warm cave of his mouth. With one hand he gently pulls down on Harry's cock, letting the tip of his fingers rest and move slightly, glancingly through the pubic hair and with the other he cups and cradles the heavy handing balls, sliding his fingertips into the very crease of the groin, then behind the balls, along the ridge towards the crack of Harry's arse.

"Move your legs apart a little more, and bend your knees a little."

Harry does so, feels his balls swinging free, his cock develop a life almost of its own, a proudness, well beyond the reach of any moral human qualms, an animality.

He inhales deeply on the poppers as he watches and feels John's mouth inch down the length of his cock, his heart rate increasing, all the sensation in his body rushing to his groin, an awareness of the velvet of his cockhead against the warm wet firmness of the roof of the mouth, the pull of the slight suction drawing his cock towards the back of the throat. Half-moan, half-gasp – animal noise – as the lips reach his pubic bone; feels the whole length of his hard cock enclosed in a warm et tunnel.

John pulls his mouth all the way back up the cock to the head; teases the head with his tongue, then slides his mouth back down and up again, pumping the harness; wanking it with his mouth. He lets the cock ride free from his mouth, traces with wet fingers the path just taken by his mouth, following his fingers with his tongue; alternating the tip and the flat of his tongue; slipping his tongue over and around the hanging balls – reaching with warm wetness up behind the balls, digging the tip of his tongue up into the crack of Harry's arse. He wanks the cock with a wet fist easing off the pressure gradually; subsiding.

He looks up at Harry and grins.

"So, do you want to have a go?"

With a little reluctance on Harry's part, they change places. John sees, in the mirror, Harry kneeling, waking slowly on his own cock – trying to bring some relief to the aching, potentially explosive length. He watches as Harry extends his tongue-tip toward the glistening purple head of John's swollen cock.

"Just try tasting it," he says.

And Harry does so, experiencing the warm wet saltiness, feeling the velvet smoothness against the tip of his tongue. Remembering the lesson, he tucks his teeth very slightly behind his lips and slowly and gently eases the first inch into his mouth – and out again. He repeats the action, swirling his tongue-tip against the head, and John moans and bucks his hips a fraction. Encouraged he eases another inch into his mouth, as John drags on the poppers, feeling his cock become a rod of pure physical sensation – losing sense of time and place – conscious only of his cock and the warm wetness of Harry's mouth.

He moans "Don't stop, please don't stop – that's very nice."

Harry, his natural sensuality overcoming his habitual fastidiousness, realises that he can take control, that there are no rules, that he need only do what his intuitive sexiness tells him is pleasure-giving and within his abilities. John inhales again on the poppers as Harry begins to wank the cock with his mouth and with his long wet fingers – John feeling himself float on a tide of pure physical ecstasy and sensation – writhing and gently bucking his hips, as Harry eases more and more cock into his mouth – making a wet fist of his mouth – a cunt – pumping it in and out and in – to the very essence of aching hardness. A buck of the hips too far and Harry suddenly gags and stops.

John smiles and mutters, "Sorry, you were getting too good. Nice one though, very nice – if it had been a clit there wouldn't have been a problem. Nearly on the home straight – just one more thing I want you to experience. Help me to turn the sofa round."

"Why?," asks Harry.

"You'll see."

They turn the sofa so that its back is facing the television. John arranges Harry so that he's kneeling on the cushions with his knees apart, his arms resting on the back of the sofa, facing the screen, his well – shaped arse exposed. With the remote control, John flicks on the video ad hands Harry the poppers.

"Now, a couple of really good lungfuls of those."

Harry does as he is bid, feeling, once again, the rush of sensation to his groin. On the screen a young blood specimen of the best of American manhood is sitting on, and facing the back of an upright chair, his round arse hanging off the edge of the chair, whilst another dark-haired specimen is flicking his tongue-tip around the pink arsehole.

Harry is aware, amongst the mass of sensation in his groin, of his cock being gently pulled down between his legs and of it being slowly, firmly wanked, pumped, milked. He inhales again on the poppers as he feels wet fingers ease the cheeks of his arse apart, feels a wet forefinger running gently up and down and round the rim of his arsehole. The wet forefinger is replaced by the tip of John's tongue. Harry almost loses consciousness in an ecstasy of pleasure, as John's tongue flickers around his arsehole, stroking, sucking, gently, very gently biting, pushing its way in – feels his arse being fucked by a tongue. The sensation seems to go on for ever – he is becoming nothing more, bodily, than his cock and balls and the rim of his arse. The tongue stops, and on screen, the young blonde is bucking his hips against the edge of the chair as his companion finger-fucks his arse – languidly wanking his own impressive hard-on. Harry feels John follow suit – a wet forefinger easing its way into the hot smoothness of his own arse and hitting the spot – massaging it to the height of pure sensation, whilst a hand is gently, firmly, relentlessly pumping his cock. Harry has no discrimination any more – doesn't care any more – this is sex itself personified – without words.

He feels the finger easing itself out of his arse, his cock being gently released, hears John get to his fees and feels the hard length of John's cock – streaming with pre-cum – being rubbed firmly, smoothly, and slightly urgently along the crack of his arse.

"Don't know about you," John murmers, "but I'm nearly there."

The cock leaves his arse, and turning, Harry sees his friend sit on the other sofa with his legs spread wide – eyes half-closed – moaning gently as he wanks the wet length of his cock – varying the rhythm from fast to slow and back to fast, rubbing his wet finger-tips over and around a cock-head ready to explode.

Harry climbs off the sofa, and kneeling between his friends legs, takes control of the wanking – setting a steady, gentle, relentless pace. "Thanks," John moans, "that's great – feels really good." And surrendering to the sensation, he puts one hand up behind his head, and with the wet fingers of the other, strokes, from time to time, the swollen head – darting in and out of the rhythm of Harry's hand – his knees moving in and out – his hips bucking gently, slightly desperately, urgently. He takes one final lungful of poppers – his breathing becomes faster and faster – deeper and deeper – catching in his throat – animal noises from somewhere far inside – moans, half-gasps. Faster still and faster – panting – and he comes – in an explosive frenzy of sound and movement – taking forever – the cum flying in spurts from his cock-head – hitting the back of the sofa – the wall – a monstrous volcanic release – finally easing, dying down, subsiding – replacing his friend's hand with his own – milking the last few drops of cum – easing the now exquisite tenderness back down to earth, to reality.

He opens his eyes. "Fucking hell, "he says. And then, "Thank you."

Harry drops onto the sofa beside John – pulling urgently at his hard-on, helpless to control any more the overwhelming demands of the mass of pure sensation that his cock has become.

"Hey," John says, "that's my job."

And, once more dropping to his knees, he takes over Harry's cock – with mouth and wet fingers alternately gently teasing and then firmly pumping the aching rod – with tongue and the lightest touch of fingernail skimming the inside of Harry's thighs – pulling and sucking his balls – rolling them in his mouth – gently, firmly tugging at them – letting them go. Harry's hips are slip way forward – bucking relentlessly – his knees as far apart as his taut thigh muscles will allow – he is all cock – nothing else matters. He drags hard on the poppers – goes with the rush of sensation as John increases the pace, wanking Harry's cock with his mouth – his lips a tight O against the explosive hardness of its wet slippery length. He reaches behind Harry's balls and slides a wet finger-tip against the crack of Harry's arsehole – feels the muscle begin to give – to widen – eases a wet finger into the dark warmth. Harry moans urgently as the finger hits the spot – feels the cum begin to rise. John replaces his mouth with his hand – leaning back, pulling Harry's cock forward to the peak of hardness – slipping a wet slick fist up and down its shining purple length – flicking a tongue tip around its explosively swollen head, then down into Harry's groin – biting at the hollow at the very top of his thigh – tongue-tip flicking and darting over and around the tightening balls – and back up to the cock-head – a wet sensuous dart slipping in and out of the rhythm of the hand – occasionally swallowing the hard purple velvet head for a split second – a dance of cock and mouth and hand – tempo increasing until the three become one insistent, compulsive, primitive, animal machine.

Harry inhales deeply on the poppers for the last time, sets his hips down low and bucks in time to the pace of John's hand and mouth. Low animal noises begin to rise from deep inside – breath quickens to an ecstatic rhythm. John's hand speeds up – faster – urgent – and against the tightness of his fist he feels the rumble come – feels the geyser of cum rise the length of Harry's throbbing cock – the animal moans exploding to a shout – a cry of soul release – and Harry comes – splattering his chest, his stomach, his thighs with hot, urgent, powerful spurt after spurt of energy – endless ecstasy of pure sensation.

John slows the rhythm as the geyser subsides to sporadic jerks – Harry's hips bucking once, twice more and coming to rest – sweat on his face and torso – breathing hard and sharp and fast – breathing easing – body still.

"Wow," he says, and then "Um, thanks."

"Welcome," says John.

"Not sure," says Harry "what I'm feeling."

"Don't worry about it," says John "we did say it was a one-off."

"So we did," says Harry "and maybe it was."

"Maybe?" John queries.

Harry grins, "Maybe," he says.