The Blue Cat
Page 28
“No, it’s one of Rupert’s.” I had told Geoff all about Rupert and Vittorio, of course.
Geoff looked more closely at the painting. “But I know those two guys’ faces! Wait a minute…I’ll be damned! They both work for the modelling agency!”
I had to laugh. “Small world. Just think, they must’ve posed for that upstairs, in my bedroom. Recognize the blue-and-white condom dispenser on the nightstand?”
“I sure do. I have fond memories of that piece of porcelain.”
“Imagine what else must’ve gone on, before and after the posing sessions.”
“I am imagining it, and it’s getting me hard. But I never had a clue either of them was gay!”
“No? You must be slipping.”
“You take me upstairs,” he threatened, “and I’ll show you who’s slipping!”
I took him upstairs.
In my bedroom, we embraced. We kissed. We stripped. Geoff pushed me down onto the bed, then leaned over me, gripping my shoulders.
“You haven’t changed,” he whispered. “You’re as beautiful as I remembered.”
“So are you. More beautiful, if anything.”
His hands slipped down my arms as he knelt beside me. He gripped my hands tightly. He happened to glance up and he saw the stuffed blue cat sitting on the nightstand beside the Chinese box that held my supply of condoms and lubricants.
“Who’s that?” Geoff asked.
“Just my little friend from San Floriano. He can be your little friend, too.”
“He’s cute. But I’ve got my own little friend right here, who’s eager to make your re-acquaintance.” As he spoke, Geoff guided my hands to his crotch. I took his cock and fondled it. As I’d remembered, his “little friend” wasn’t all that little, especially once he got excited. He was very excited now.
“Fuck,” I gasped.
“Do you like my cock?” Geoff asked, once again reducing his voice to a whisper, as though the two of us were sharing a secret.
“I love it. I love you. I do, Geoff, I really do.”
“And I love you. Are you mine?” he asked, in the same soft, insinuating whisper. “All mine?”
“Yes. Yours, Geoff. All yours.”
I looked into up his eyes, feeling a wonderful, breathless emotion beginning to rise within me, prompting tears to well up into my eyes.
Slowly we caressed each other, watching each movement, relishing each touch. There was no rush, no frantic fumbling for words. The most exquisite peacefulness I’d ever known filled me and words would have diminished it. Geoff and I touched each other and kissed and held one another close, with our bodies pressed together, our hearts beating like one enclosed within a single body. He twisted around and we lay side by side on the mattress, easing each other’s cock into our mouths. The feelings I experienced at that moment were vastly beyond anything merely sexual. Downstairs, I’d joked about worshipping him, but now that was exactly what I did. My own will, my own desires, no longer existed. I was there only to please him. His long supple cock slipped easily into my throat, as though it had always been meant to fit there and my cock felt exactly the same inside him. We fitted together perfectly. Once again, after all those months during which we were apart, there was that pulsating energy passing back and forth between us, until finally it seemed that our bodies and minds had become one entity—never to be separated again.
The moment when a climax seemed within our reach came and went many times, each time lifting us higher and higher into an exquisite luxury of delay. Finally, slowly, sweetly, we did come. We came at the same time and his life’s essence seemed to pour into me as mine spilled into him. After we lay there quietly, still joined both physically and mentally, long after that last voluptuous tremor had faded, just drifting together in the aftermath of our mutual orgasm...Drifting, I could not help thinking, like a small boat on the Bay of Naples, on a warm still night under a starry sky...Drifting, in perfect peace and fulfilment.
* * * *
As Charlotte Brontë’s heroine Jane Eyre so succinctly put it, Reader, I married him. It was Geoff’s idea that we should spend our honeymoon in San Floriano, at The Blue Cat. Now that, Dear Reader, is another story.
About the Author
Roland Graeme began writing erotic fiction, using a variety of pseudonyms, as a teenager. At first, he pounded out his manuscripts on that now nearly forgotten cultural artifact, a manual typewriter. A great deal has changed in the publishing world since then.
One thing which has not changed is Graeme’s curiosity about all aspects of human sexuality. His other interests include literature, history, music, and art.
A native of Pennsylvania, and the descendant of Swiss immigrants, he now resides in Buffalo, New York.