by James Lear
Henry’s inhibitions were melting as rapidly as ice cream in sunshine, and now he was massaging my cock and balls, licking his lips and breathing heavily. It was time to take things to the next level.
“Don’t move.”
I bolted the door, just in case an irate Jessop came looking for its wayward offspring, and returned to my position. I know how difficult it is for fumbling fingers to deal with buttons and buckles, and so I did what any gentleman would do under the circumstances and undid my own pants, allowing my hard cock to spring out and hit Henry on the chin.
It was a very handsome, well-molded chin with a little dimple in the middle, in which the head of my cock rested for a while. Henry looked up at me and smiled. Oh, for the camera of Captain Hathaway, to record that moment!
“It’s all yours.”
His eyes widened a little, taking in the fact, and then he circled my cock with his hand, tentatively moving the skin backward and forward, squeezing lightly to feel the rigidity and girth, and his tongue came out of his mouth.
“Taste it, boy.”
I’ll say one thing for the Jessops, however much I disliked them personally—they had raised an obedient son. Henry licked the tip of my cock, where a clear drop of juice was forming at the piss hole, flinched a little as if it gave him a mild electric shock, tasted and found that it was good—and then there was no stopping him. From licking he graduated quickly to sucking, and after a few initial gags he learned how to take at least two thirds of my dick in his mouth without choking.
I suppose I could have just let him suck me for a while, then pulled out and shot in his face while he jerked off. That might have been enough for a first-timer like Henry Jessop. But I never claimed to be a considerate lover, and it’s my experience that young men like him want to be pushed to their limits. Then, when they’re nursing a sore ass and a guilty conscience, they can console themselves by saying, “It was all Mitch’s fault—I never thought it would go that far.” If you’re tutting and shaking your head at this point, that’s fine, you have my respect. I save my better nature for work.
“Get up.”
Removing Henry from my cock was a bit like prising a limpet off a rock, but we managed eventually.
“Strip. I want you naked.”
He pulled off his shirt and shorts with the swift efficiency of a sportsman; I guessed that, back home, Henry was a star of the football field or cricket pitch. Well, he was about to learn a new game, one that he could take back and practice on his teammates, perhaps.
I was already familiar with Henry’s body, but to see it up close was like walking through the museum and seeing the Greek marbles come to life. His underpants, baggy white cotton, were the last vestige of modesty and civilization left about him. He whipped them down over his knees, stepped out of them and there he was, naked and smooth and hard and about to be fucked every which way.
I shed my clothes almost as quickly as he had; I would have been faster, but Henry kept grabbing my dick as if he was afraid it was going to disappear like a feast in a fairy tale. By now I was at full stiffness, my balls swinging heavy and low. Where Henry was smooth white marble, I was dark and furry; the contrast was not lost on him, and he ran his fingers through the hair on my chest and stomach, losing them in the dense, soft bush around my dick.
“You ever been fucked, Henry?”
“No.”
“Even at school? I’ve heard about your English schools.”
“I didn’t go to that sort of place.”
“I’m going to be the first, then.”
“Won’t it hurt?”
“Of course it’ll fucking hurt.” I took hold of his cock, which was jumping around, sticky diamonds hanging from silken threads of juice that smeared his thighs. “But you can take it, can’t you?”
“I suppose so.” He sounded so meek and submissive, as if he was about to receive punishment from a superior. If his cock hadn’t been quite so hard, I might have had second thoughts. However, from the way in which he was grabbing and squeezing me, and the insistent pulsing of his own prick, I had no qualms about proceeding.
“Get on the bed. On your front. And spread your legs.”
That was what he needed to hear. He practically dived through the air, landing with a twang and a creak on the rumpled sheets where, just minutes before, I had been napping. His ass was round and smooth, split like a pumpkin where his thighs angled outwards. There was no hair to block my view of the pink entrance to the interior, just a slight golden down on the upper slopes of his buttocks.
I felt like the wolf descending on the fold. Kneeling on the marble floor I grabbed Henry’s calves and pulled him towards me until my face made contact with his ass. He looked over his shoulder at the first contact of my scratchy stubble, and I retained eye contact as long as I could. I pulled his cheeks apart, gazed for a moment at the perfect little asterisk surrounded by rosy-pink skin, and then I devoured him. He tasted good—clean and slightly salty, presumably from a recent dip in the Mediterranean. I lapped away, pushing my tongue a little deeper every time, and from what I could hear Henry was enjoying himself, calling on God in a way that his evangelical parents might have found surprising. I reached underneath to make sure he was still stiff, and it was so wet and sticky under there I wondered if he had come already. If getting rimmed had this effect on him, he was going to be one wild fuck.
“Please, please stop,” he said, his voice rather wheezy, as if he’d just run up the cliff path. “I need to…I can’t…” He pushed himself up on his hands and turned over, his face bright red, chin wet with saliva. “I don’t want to…you know. Not yet.”
That answered that question. I’d get my dick inside him first, then see how long he could hold off.
“Okay, Henry. Take a break. And while you’re resting, suck this.” I sat on the bed beside him, and cradled his head in my lap while he sucked on my cock, his eyes closed, moaning gently, almost purring, as I filled his mouth. His neck was stretched and exposed, the details of the trachea and Adam’s apple clear beneath the skin, the carotid artery standing out. I caressed his throat, his jawline, his lips as they ran up and down the satin skin of my shaft.
“Now I’m going to teach you a lesson,” I said, pulling him up. “Partly for breaking into my room and snooping around uninvited. But mostly because from the first moment I saw you, the only thing I’ve been able to think about is fucking your ass.”
This wasn’t true, of course, as in my short time on the island I’d already fucked Joseph Vella and Bill Conrad, but Henry didn’t need to know that. There was romance in the air—the sea, the shutters, the low light, the fragrance and taste of young male flesh—and I was in no hurry to dispel it.
He said, “Can I kiss you?”
I answered him with deeds rather than words, tasting my own dick in his mouth. We embraced, smooth skin against fur, my hand reaching around to find his ass and give him a little preview of what was to come. As my finger slipped past his ring, he made a “mmmf” noise inside my mouth. I put my other hand on the back of his blond head, pulling him in to the kiss. He did not resist. My tongue pushed into him, just as my finger pushed into his ass. His neck and cheeks were flushed, his cock hard and oozing.
“Now kneel.”
He was swift to obey, resting on his elbows and presenting his ass to whatever awaited it. It was already wet with my spit, and my finger had relaxed him a bit; if I’d really wanted to punish him I would have pushed in without further ado. However, I wanted Henry’s first experience of buggery to be a good one, and so I made a liberal application of lubricant to my cock. The cool, clear jelly felt good, and I had the feeling that my cock couldn’t get any harder. Henry Jessop was about to get the equivalent of a steel bar in his guts.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” His voice was quiet and shaky, but desire was conquering fear. I reached around to feel his stiff cock, then spread his ass cheeks as wide as they would go and rubbed my cock up and down the smooth gr
oove between them. Henry let out a loud, deep sigh of relief, as if the missing piece of his life’s puzzle had been found.
Once his hole was nice and slippery, I allowed the head of my dick to rest against it, and waited. This is a little game I like to play, to find out just how badly a guy wants to be fucked. In Henry’s case, the answer was “in the worst possible way.” He looked over his shoulder when I stopped moving, his brows contracted in disappointment, and then pushed backward against me. My cock was at just the right location and angle (I’ve had lots of practice) and so hard that it slipped right into him. When he realized what had happened, his blue eyes opened wide, his mouth hung open, and then he said “Ouch!”
“Hurts?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to take it out?”
“No.”
“Good boy. Now just stay still, wait and breathe. Trust me, Henry, I know what I’m doing. In a minute, you’re going to feel better than you’ve ever felt in your life.”
“Really? Because right now… Oh… I mean… Oh…” He shifted around, trying to get comfortable, and then I felt his ass relax and he got very comfortable indeed. He rocked gently forward and backward on his knees; all I had to do was stay still, and stay hard, and he basically fucked himself.
“Oh, Mitch. Oh, God…”
I started thrusting forward every time he pushed back, and soon I was all the way in, all the way out, and Henry was taking it. Not just taking it—he was devouring it. I was being sucked into a vacuum, the softest, slickest vacuum you can imagine. As a doctor, it’s hard not to think of what you’re doing in crude physiological terms, but even so, my professional understanding of the gastrointestinal tract, anal valves, mucosa and so on was clouded by images of velvet and roses and ripe peaches.
Henry’s right hand started working on his cock; this would not do, so I grabbed him and put the brakes on. “You’re not going to come yet, boy, however much you want to. I’m going to fuck you and fuck you and when I say you can come, that’s when you come. Understand?”
“Yes. It’s just… It feels as if I’m going to… I’ve got to…”
He was having difficulty completing a sentence, which meant that his brain was well and truly awash with whatever chemicals we release during sexual pleasure. I never did get around to much neurology.
“Now get up.”
I pulled out, although Henry’s ass lips were reluctant to let me go and actually pouted at me. “Now you’re going to sit on it.” I stretched out on the bed, hands behind my head, and let Henry figure out the rest. It didn’t take long. He straddled me, took hold of my cock and lowered away. Within seconds his buttocks were resting on my hips. I like fucking guys this way, especially if they’re as beautiful as Henry Jessop; you can watch every detail of the muscles moving under the skin; you have a perfect view of the facial expression; and you can see the cock bobbing up and down as you plunge deep inside them.
Henry had stamina enough for two. His thigh muscles, firm and strong from the athletics track or the football field, rippled and bunched as he levered himself up and down. His torso and abdomen inflated and deflated with every breath, his tits sticking out and begging to be pinched. I reached up and grabbed them, pulling him up and down none too gently. He yelped. I hoped his parents were out, or deaf, because the sound of their offspring being impaled might have distressed them.
But Henry was anything but distressed. A steady stream of juice was running from the end of his cock, dripping onto my hairy stomach where it sat for a while before being absorbed. I scooped it up on my fingers and stuck them in Henry’s mouth. He took them both to the third knuckle. Whatever I had to give, he’d take.
After five minutes of bouncing, Henry was reaching the point of no return—he was going to come, even without touching his dick. And much as I liked the idea of him shooting over my stomach, I wanted him to feel my full weight ploughing into him before I gave him his release.
“Get off.”
“No, please…”
I sat up, threw my arms around his waist and lifted him off my cock. He buried his face in my neck and shoulder, whimpering with frustration.
“Take it easy, boy. Don’t worry. We’re nearly there.”
I needed a piss, and Henry needed to take a break. He followed me into the bathroom like a puppy and watched in fascination as I pointed my still-hard cock at the toilet bowl.
“Want to hold it?”
“May I?”
“Jesus, are you always so polite?”
“Sorry…”
I grabbed his hand and put it on my cock just as the piss started to thunder through it. I don’t know if there is a history of equestrianism in my family, but I certainly piss like a horse. Henry licked his lips. Now, if you’re familiar with my story you’ll know that I’m far from squeamish about urine, and the thought crossed my mind that I could dump Henry in the tub and hose him down—but perhaps I’d leave that until he was a little more experienced. Next time, for instance. For now, it was enough that he held me while I relieved myself; a man who’s prepared to do that is prepared to do pretty much anything.
“Right. Are you ready?”
He was still hard, shifting from foot to foot with impatience. I grabbed him around the neck and kissed him, rubbing the wet end of my cock against his thigh, kneading and slapping his ass.
We lurched and staggered back to the bed, and I pushed him down on his back. He seemed to know what was coming. I placed a pillow underneath him, took him by the calves and pulled him into position. My cock lined up with his hole and I was in.
It didn’t take long. Henry was so fucking beautiful, and the sunshine filtering through the slats of the shutters, the fragrant breeze and distant sounds of the harbor all contributed to the intensity of the moment.
“Now you can come.”
Henry grabbed his dick, stroked it two or three times and started spraying great feathery jets of sperm all over his stomach and chest. I wasn’t far behind him, but I delayed for as long as I could, wanting him to experience the overwhelming pleasure of being fucked right through an orgasm and beyond. Then, when he was squirming and moaning, I pushed deep inside him and let go. He pressed himself into me, our pelvises grinding together, unwilling to relinquish this moment of absolute connection, straining his head forward for a kiss. I managed to lean down, our bodies slipping and slurping from the thick coating of jizz, and joined my mouth to his. It was an awkward position, however passionate, and as my cock began to soften I slid out of his ass.
We slept for a while, and when I awoke I was alone; Henry had left the room as cautiously as he’d entered it. I hoped he wouldn’t bump into his folks before he’d had a chance to clean up and come back down to earth. I’ve had some good fucks in my time, and that was up there in the top ten. The top five, maybe. His blue eyes, his pink flushed cheeks, the tautness of his belly as I ploughed into him… My hand went to my cock, still damp and sticky, and started to stroke.
And that’s when I heard, from directly below my window, a voice raised in brute grief—a stricken bellow, breaking as it gained in volume. I flung open the shutters. There was a crowd on the harbor wall clustered around a boat that had just been tied up. At the centee of that dark throng was Anthony Vella, hands clutching his head, gray hair standing up in crazy tufts, swaying as his knees gave way, the ghastly yell of an animal in pain getting hoarser and higher. My eye followed the collective gaze to the boat, and there, only partly concealed by a bundle of nets, was the dead body of his son Joseph.
VIII
I THREW MY CLOTHES ON AND RACED DOWN TO THE HARBOR wall. The heat and sunlight hit me hard, and for a moment all I could see was a confused jumble of backs against the hard metallic glare. A hand grabbed my arm.
“Mitch, thank God. I was just coming to get you.” Martin Dear’s handsome face was pale, the eyes bloodshot. “Hey! Make way!” He pushed me through the crowd. “This man is a doctor! Let him pass!” The bodies parted, and I was ushered to the
water’s edge. Vella Senior was on his knees, pushing away all offers of help in the fury of his grief. Vella Junior lay in the bottom of the boat, knees drawn up to his chest, elbows tucked in like a sleeping child, the upper side of his head caked with thick drying blood. There was a massive contusion on his temple, the skin so badly torn that bone was visible. There was no doubt whatsoever that he was dead.
“Who found him?”
One of the young men I’d seen hanging around with Vella when I arrived put his hand up. It shook with nerves.
“Where?”
He pointed out towards the headland. “On the rocks. Under the cliff.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
“Have the police been informed?”
His eyes sought others, glances exchanged among the bystanders. Nobody spoke.
“Martin,” I said, “go and telephone the police straight away.”
“But surely…an accident.”
That seemed the least likely explanation—Joseph’s sure-footed-ness, his familiarity with the clifftop paths, was remarkable. And the firmness of his beautiful brown body, his hairy ass opening up to me, the ardor of his kisses, all of them finished, destroyed, cold.
“That is for the police to decide.”
People started backing away. Clearly the Maltese police don’t command the same respect as the English. The locals were closing ranks, united in their distrust of the police; I would get very little out of them, I could see. But one thing was clear: Joseph Vella’s death was no accident. Young men like that don’t fall off cliffs— especially not in the same place as Ned Porter had died two years ago. All it would take was some suggestion of suicide and I’d know I was on to something.
