After going to bed, showered and, of
course, naked, Anton had lain awake for some time. Then he got up again and
fetched the hand towel from the wash-station. He placed this by his hips when he
lay down. His intention was obvious. He was lying on his back, with his left
hand caressing the inside of his thigh, and nuzzling up against his balls. His
forefinger began stroking the adjacent testicle. His other hand was flat on his
stomach. His penis lay where it had flopped, the glans between the other ball
and his thigh. It was clearly stirring.
The upper hand began to migrate
south, stroking the sensitive skin of the smooth area between the navel and the
pubic hair. He had a thick forest, but low down and with a clean upper line.
When they reached the root of his phallus, he parted his forefinger and second
finger, and ran this vee down to embrace the thickening shank. A few pushes,
with the fingers curving down to engage with the upper scro- tum, and the glans
looked distinctly heavy.
He transferred his forefinger to the other side
of the shaft, and hooked it below it, supporting it so that the glans, by now
doubled in size, was raised up. His thumb rubbed the upper surface of the shank,
and more fingers joined in the support. He took the hand away, to re- assure
himself of the presence of the towel, to catch the sperm and perhaps to cover
himself in case of an intrusion. When he removed his hand, the shaft supported
itself.
He switched on the bedlight, and lay admiring the growing
weapon. By now it was no mere stiffy, but a tree in full flare. He watched the
taut skin pulling slowly back across the glistening plum-surface of his close
textured glans. There was no quick flick of the fingers this time: he was taking
his time. When the skin finally caught up on the flaring corona, the upturned
rim of his glorious helmet, he pressed down with both hands on his pubic lawn,
stretching the skin on the shaft enough to clear the rim.
The first stage
of erection was complete, the ridge of skin below the corona disappearing into
smoothness as the penis filled to its last inch. He used the towel to remove
some of the stickiness from his plum, wincing a little at the touch of the rough
cloth.
Still Anton just lay there, admiring what was certainly very much
to be admired. Then he reached up for a picture book, the stiff member wobbling
in its weak rooting as his upper body arched. He brought the picture of one
beauty to the surface of the bed beside his loins. He held the open book above
his midriff for a long time, look at it, but making no attempt to stimulate his
organ. Apart from the occasionally pulsing which is natural in an unattended
erection, there was no obvi- ous reaction in his tool.
He closed the
book, laid it flat on his stomach, and passed a hand down to grasp his shaft,
then he began the work of the hand on the rod of iron. His technique was
obviously practised, but unsophisticated. Writhing; delicious: he was a toe
wiggler. The thigh muscles filled - full buns with deep side hollows and a clean
division between the curve of the bun and the straighter convexity of the
under-thigh. As the knees came up, the deep top grooves were clear, and most
inviting.
Relaxed - pumping not stopped, but much slowed, and the hand
pres- sure minimal. The he slipped the hand up higher, and began to caress the
point below the glans with the side of his finger. Some fluid had formed at the
eye of his shaft and he slicked it down over the point as a lubricant.
He began to pump once more in this higher position. His sweat- dewed
face, mouth wide open in rictus of excitement; between the tun- nel of his legs,
the balls, now pulled high and close as orgasm neared. His shaft was indeed now
bending back over his belly as he left the plateau for the summit.
Then
again he relaxed. He reached a hand up to move the book, placing it upright on
the bed, propped against the side mirror wall of the alcove and turned the upper
part of his body so that he could stare at it.
And his eyes thus engaged,
he resumed the pumping action. A looser grip at first, his hand sliding farther
up and down the shaft, then a tighter grip at the top, the side of his finger
digging into the sen- sitive point. He meant to complete the job this time.
His other hand was cupped to his bollocks, the forefinger digging into
the root of the shaft beneath the taut skin. Did he mean to halt the flowing?
His hips and thigh reared up once more, his toes and feet twisting the sheet
into knots beneath them. The sheen on his glans was lost as the pores open up
with the climactic blood flow. He would come! He would come!
Too late did
his ball hand clutch for the towel, for the first wad was already airborne,
flying to land above his navel. The twist of his body sent the second jetting to
a splatter on the side mirror. He was obviously very full, for the third spasm
also sent a glob into the air, landing on his still pumping wrist. He spasm
again and again, but this time producing floods of more liquid spunk which
flowed warmly down onto the top of his hand. He spasmed a six and seventh time
too, but this time nearly dry - just a wide working of the glistening eye of his
dick. Then the pent-up breath was released.
Completely still, with his
eyes closed, for about a minute, then wiping the spunk from his stomach and
hand. He began to milk the re- maining juices from his dying cock, pulling
upwards with the tip of his forefinger pressed hard into the underside of his
organ. He wiped the gland carefully, so that the foreskin, now beginning to
bunch be- low his glans, wouldn't stick too painfully when it had return to the
protection position. Finally he cleaned the mirror, before folding the towel
under his prick's tip to mop up any last weeping.
Then he closed his
eyes, flicked the light switch, and rolled over on his side to sleep.
Story continued in the next chapter ----->
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