Perry sat on the settee next to me after coming back from the kitchen with two glasses of chilled dry sherry. It was hot here, in his little house on the edge of Paramaribo, the capital of hot, sweaty Suriname in the north of South America. I had met Perry the previous day in a DIY store in town, both of us idling around, getting out of the sun, with no intention of buying anything. Realising we were both doing the same thing had brought us into conversation and we had got along well, having plenty in common: he a widower, I divorced, both English-speakers, he being Australian and I British, and both stuck in this uncomfortable, dissatisfied country for the time being.
I had gratefully accepted his invitation to his house for lunch because I was as bored as he was and we could have a few drinks and talk about sport, which was something else we had in common. Cricket, to be precise. A gentleman’s game that many people don’t understand.
“Cheers!” he said, raising his glass in my direction and we clinked our toast.
“Favourite ever fast bowler?” I suggested.
“Fred Trueman,” Perry said. “And that’s something coming from an Aussie. But he was a crusty old bugger who called a spade a spade and we like that.”
“Wes Hall,” I offered, and we discussed the merits of the old West Indian terror.
We were on our third glass by midday and things were starting to feel decidedly mellow, when Perry’s voice changed, dropping the hale and hearty tone. We were now talking about women, not bragging exactly but enjoying the memories.
“You ever had sex with a man?” Perry asked cautiously. A flush of blood raced across my face and fear made me tingle. What was I supposed to say? What would he be expecting? What would he respect?
“Be honest,” he said with an encouraging half smile. “In this day and age it’s not outlandish anymore. Any sort of contact, to any extent? Any thoughts about it?” I shook my head and smiled.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” he said. “Go on, everybody thinks about it a bit.”
“What about you?” I asked, just to get off the back foot.
“Sure,” he relied.
“What have you done?” I pursued.
“I’ve had a guy suck my dick,” he said.
“And what was that like?” I asked with indecent haste.
“It was fine,” he replied. “He was kind of nervous, though, so it didn’t go any further.”
“Where did you want it to go?” I asked.
“Oh, all the way,” he said.
“You wanted to bugger him?”
“I wanted to get naked and enjoy it like you would with a woman,” he said patiently. “And yes, fuck his ass, why not? Some men like to be penetrated, particularly when they get to our age.”
I looked away and tried to wipe off my face what I felt must be painted there in big, bold letters: the news that I had indeed fantasised about being fucked.
“I’ll get a bottle of wine,” Perry said, fairly leaping to his feet. This gave me a few seconds to compose myself and consider a plan. I came up with nothing and I knew I was just going to go along with whatever he wanted. The sound of the cork popping out suddenly bore a thrilling relevance.
We were both in baggy shorts and old t-shirts, as the weather demanded.
When Perry sat down again it was right next to me, his thigh touching mine, which sent electric shocks through me. Then his hand landed on my leg and the game was up. I put my hand on his hairy, pale thigh.
“So,” he said, “We’re on the same page, I think. Do you want to suck my cock?” I hesitated and he unzipped his shorts, then slipped them and his underpants down and off. His cock was uncut, long and thick and pale, and hard. And inviting. I couldn’t tell him that, but shit, I wanted to hold his penis and feel it and have him do things to me – anything he wanted.
“Hmm,” I said. “I’ve never…”
He took my right hand and put it on his rod and I closed my fingers around it.
“Come through here,” he said softly and led me into the bedroom. “I’ll close the curtains.”
When he had done that he unceremoniously took off his t-shirt and gestured for me to do the same. I undressed like a bashful girl and responded to his urging by lying on the bed. My cock was semi-erect and I was quite proud of it. He wrapped his big hand around it.
“You’re a good looking guy,” he said, giving it a stroke. “Let’s take it slowly. How about if I have a wank?” He knelt up and straddled me and I waited as his nice big balls jiggled as he jerked his cock. He was slim and wiry, not muscular but with a sort of hidden strength. I pretended to just let him get on with it but my mind raced with the knowledge that this naked man was astride me as I lay, naked and unprotesting, while he masturbated. My erection got bigger and harder. Then he started to breathe heavily and his trunk straightened before he leaned forwards and a bolt of cum shot from his cock. Hot, gooey semen landed on my chest and I could feel it, I could see it, I could smell it, that strange ammoniac aroma that felt rude as it invaded my nostrils. Something of this man was inside me, in my tubes and lungs and stomach.
I was thrilled, but I couldn’t let him know that.
Perry grunted as he squeezed the last of his load out of his knob and it fell in stringy drops onto my stomach. Then he climbed off and went into the bathroom.
As soon as he was gone my fingers went into the pool of his fluid and I put my fingertips into my mouth to taste another man’s spunk.
That was the end of our first lunchtime date, which I told myself was not in fact a date, because dates hold the prospect of sex, eventually, and I hadn’t intended that at all. As it had turned out, Perry had obviously needed to cum and I had let him do it in my presence, as a friend would.
It would be better, I thought, if I didn’t see him again, and as several days went by I began to feel safe – safe from myself as much as from him. Then there appeared a little spot of longing for something I had felt and which I wanted to feel again. I went into my bedroom, lay naked on my back and imagined him above me, that tight, powerful body, those big balls and that smooth, plump penis. I wanted him to cum on my balls next time. Or in my crack: yes, in my crack. I wanted to feel his hot semen running down my anus.
After I had relieved myself into a tissue and got dressed, a text arrived and knew it would be him. It was. One line: “Tomorrow, same time, same place?”
“Okay,” my pathetically passive self replied. What I wanted to write was, “This time you can cum in my arse crack,” but I was too reserved, too cautious for that sort of thing.
But tomorrow came and I found myself choosing my most revealing, slightly feminine underpants. They were just briefs, not particularly tight or provocative, but with a pattern that could be construed as floral.
When he let me into his home, I felt guilty and weak at the knees. He grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses and we sat on the settee as we had before, our thighs touching brazenly.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he said with a laugh. “Thought I might have put you off with my performance last time.” To my complete surprise, I found myself putting my hand inside the leg of his shorts, feeling his cock, which was still on its best behaviour. It stirred obligingly beneath the cotton of his pants. He put his hand inside my shorts and threw himself across me, grabbing my head and kissing me on the mouth. This was somehow taking more of a liberty than his airborne orgasm had been, but I relaxed and let it happen, feeling his cock suddenly burst into life, filling my hand.
“Wow,” he said as he sat back after the initial skirmish.
“Yes,” I said. “That was a surprise.”
“Never kissed a man?” he asked. “Me neither. Making progress, I guess. Look, I want to suck you. And… and that’s not all. Shall we go through?”
Naked on his bed, we resumed the kiss, he lying on top of me, his balls on my thigh. This time we kissed like we meant it, like it was the established prelude to what was to come. Gradually we slid around into a 69, him on top, and I was sucking his cock, smelling his balls and trying to get my tongue further down, into his arse. He beat me to it, his strong arms pulling my compliant body into position so he could lick my crack. After a few seconds of this, with his eagerness hand in hand with my complicity, he climbed off and swung round to face me.
“On your knees so I can lick you properly,” he said firmly.
Nobody had ever done this before and I was nervous as much as thrilled as his tongue sent unimagined thrills through me. His right hand was round at the front, finding my cock and wanking me. I came in mere seconds, sending floods of cum onto his sheets. And suddenly I was awake again, myself again after this astonishing electric dream had lit up my body and made me take leave of my senses. That’s how it felt for a few minutes, anyway, long enough to get dressed and leave hastily, muttering apologies and feeling embarrassed.
By the time I got home, the balanced was almost restored again and I found myself fantasising about the shocking assault on my equanimity which had reduced me to animal madness for a few moments.
I had been kissed, seduced, coerced and defiled – and as the minutes went by I knew I wanted to do it again.
Impulsively I sent Perry a message.
“Sorry. Shocked. Ashamed. Amazed. Thrilled. Come here.”
I was instantly concerned about the privacy aspect of this. I lived on the ground floor of a house with two apartments above, one occupied by a fat, hairy Indian with a long beard and the other by a tall, muscular black police officer. Since my first encounter with Perry I had entertained thoughts about both of these men, but I had no idea if they would welcome such a thing. If they knew I was conducting a homosexual relationship, would they react badly in the unthinking, uncivilised way that small communities often did?
I prayed they were both out and that no one would see Perry’s arrival, although in truth he looked like me: innocent and old enough not to be involved in any kind of sexual shenanigans. On the other hand, this was a country full of testosterone-fuelled African men, and some of the white men were suspected of lusting after them, as was the case throughout the Caribbean region. What the uneducated and the unworldly didn’t take into account was that it was something that happened in every community in every country, regardless of race and colour. What made the black stud/white admirer thing so prominent was all to do with history, slavery, white privilege and so on. If only they knew it, I was now living proof of this. Yes, I would gladly have got naked for the black cop upstairs, but I would also have loved to feel the Indian guy’s hairy mid section and suck his mysterious Asian cock. And, of course, I was engaged in an unspeakable relationship with another tame, despicable white man.
Just as I was thinking this, my tame, despicable friend arrived and I ushered him into the lounge. I thought about closing the curtains, but decided that would look suspicious in itself, so I took him into the bedroom, where the curtains remained closed most of the time anyway, to keep out the sun.
Suddenly I couldn’t think why it was all so cloak-and-dagger. Perry took me in his arms and my role as recipient of his ardour was clear once more. He pulled my clothes off and then his, and turned me around, pushing me so I had to put my hands on the bed. He dropped to his knees and resumed licking my arse and I resumed being reduced to jelly by his insistence. I loved being at his command in the bedroom.
“I’m going to wank into your crack,” he announced. “Stand there like that.” He positioned himself and began to masturbate. I looked across at the wardrobe mirror and saw that with a small adjustment I could watch our reflections as they did these terrible things. I moved a little and muttered “The mirror,” and he understood. Now I could see my naked form and Perry standing behind me with his cock in his hand. These two perverts were performing for my entertainment, a dominant old man standing behind an equally old but strangely receptive one. The dominant one began stroking his cock again and I watched the submissive one’s eyes glaze over as he surrendered to the situation. Perry wanked himself to the edge very quickly before leaning forward so his face was in my ear and his front all against my back. “Do you want my spunk?” he whispered, and the conspiratorial tone made it seem even ruder.
“Yes,” I whispered back. “I want your spunk in my arse.” Right on cue, he unleashed a torrent of creamy white stuff between my cheeks and I experienced an incredible thrill as I felt it splat against my normally untouched area, my private zone where all that usually happened was I would wash it with shower gel and water or wipe it with paper. Now it was full of semen and as I looked at our reflection it drove home the knowledge of just how base and crude an act I had just permitted. I reached around and prodded some of Perry’s semen into my crinkled hole. Now I felt properly submissive, used by this wonderful human animal for his primeval satisfaction. I felt like a caveman who had just been ambushed behind a tree by another who had wanted to masturbate but had found an even better alternative. I wished that Perry would fuck me and as we arranged ourselves on my bed, me wiping his cum out of my crevice and he lying there with a little smile on his face, I told him so.
“So when are you going to penetrate me?” I asked.
“You’re ready for that, are you?” he said, knowing the answer. “Tomorrow.”