Don't Read in the Closet volume one (76 page)

"Why did you?"

"I lived with a tattoo artist. He wanted to practice."

"I think he did a beautiful job."

Bruno nodded. "I won't get any more. No one can take Danny's
place or match his work."

Micha swallowed hard, trapped under Bruno's body, under his gaze.
"I don't want to replace him. I want to be me. With you."

Bruno bestowed another kiss on him. Only the second in their
lives. It wasn't something Micha had ever seen him do, even with Danny, and he
sank deeper into the bed under the assault, wiggling until he had his legs
straightened and his body was spread under Bruno.

"Do me," he panted, the moment Bruno released his lips.

"Not now. You should rest."

"Now!" Micha slid his hands up under Bruno's shirt,
finding his nipples with his fingertips and playing over the quickly puckering
nubs. "I want you to."

Bruno shook his head even as his big body shuddered under the
impact of Micha's intense gaze and questing finger. The little imp could always
get to him. "You're insatiable."

"I can keep up to you." He removed one hand and ran it
down into Bruno's boxers, cupping his rapidly filling cock, stroking it with
merciless intent. "I want you."

"We're out of lube."

"The condoms are lubed."

"Your ankle—"

"Isn't required for fucking. Now shut up and do it."

"Now who's dictating?"

Micha smiled. "Get used to it. I like sex. I like your
cock." Micha wrapped his fingers around the shaft in his hand and pumped
smoothly, gratified by the way Bruno's lips parted in a silent moan. "And
I'm all talked out."

Sinking into tight, willing flesh, with Micha's legs wrapped
securely around his waist, Bruno found he didn't need words. All the things he
thought he didn't know how to do, he found he'd just forgotten. Or perhaps
chosen to forget. Death had left him numb, all kinds of things left unsaid,
impossible to say over a grave. Impossible to hold onto and not end up hollowed
out from trying to keep his grip on the impossible.

"Let go," Micha encouraged, the words breathless pants.

"Of what?"

"Of everything." Micha reached up and touched Bruno's
face, trailing his fingers through the sweat. "You can't hurt me."

"I already did."

"Love hurts, baby."

"Ungh!" Micha's words caught Bruno off guard. Micha's
blinding smile trapped him.

"Come, Bruno. Finish."

"Oh." Bruno dropped his chin, trying to hide from the
light of Micha's incredible trust. "Fuck!" all the tension of the
lonely years coiled, the stress and fear of seeing death once again reach out
for what was his, it all twisted into a great knot, spiralling inside Bruno's
guts and he moaned.

"Harder," Micha encouraged, fumbling to find purchase
on slick skin with shaking fingers. "You can fall. I'm right here."

"Too—"

"Not too anything. Just do it."

Bruno shivered under all that certainty. He already knew how
easily everything could fall apart. He met Micha's gaze and everything stopped.
For a split second, the world stood still.

Then Micha smiled. The sun came out. Bruno's orgasm ripped
through him and all he could think was he didn't deserve any of it.

After a few minutes, he felt Micha's arms slip around his
shoulders. He let the slighter man roll them onto their sides and he just lay
there, listening to Micha
breathe
, feeling their
bodies slide into sleepy stillness.

Afternoon sun brushed across the blankets. Bruno watched it
through half-lidded eyes as it crawled slowly towards the window beside the
bed. The light was different, clearer than the morning misty glow that had
awakened him, coming at the room from the opposite direction, a completely
different angle. He glanced at Micha to see the other man sound asleep at last.
He slid down and curled securely around him as the last rays of sun covered
them both in a blanket of light and warmth.

THE END

Author bio:
Jaime Samms
has been writing for various publishers since the fall of 2008, although she's
been writing for herself far longer. Often asked why men, what’s so fascinating
about writing stories about men falling in love, she's never come up with an
easy answer.

These days, you can find
her work on her website. If you flip through the pages of her site, you’ll find
plenty of free reading and a bit of art, as well (Gotta use that Fine Arts
Diploma for something!). she also writes for Freya’s Bower, Loveyoudivine
Alterotica, Pink Petal Books, Dreamspinner Press and Total E-Bound Publishing.

Social networking:

Website:
http://www.jaime-samms.net

Livejournal:
http://dontkickmycane.livejournal.com

Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/prof...

Twitter: JaimeSamms

Selected by Justin South

Dear Author,

I was looking through
the 'cuddling' pictures of the NFSW picture thread and I kind of fell in love
with this one.

To the untrained eye it
seems like there isn't much going on, but to me I feel like there's something
reflecting in this man's eyes, some unnamed emotion.

I feel like there's
something he wants to tell me but he can't express it through words, I was
thinking that maybe you can help me figure what he wants to say?

Or am I reading too much
into this this pic? Am I seeing something that just isn't there?

[PHOTO: A close-up photo of two shirtless
men facing each other. On the right, one leans forward, head turned away from
the viewer, his right arm behind the other's neck to cup his chin from the far
side. The other looks at him with beseeching blue eyes, a forearm sideways
against his chest.]

Sincerely,

Gabrielle

Genre:
contemporary

Tags:
male beauty, shyness, first love,
hurt/comfort, disability, despair, love

Words:
4,713

REFLECTIONS

by Justin South

As always, my
mind surges in a rhapsody of shameless wicked love when I gaze at him. His
beauty stuns my senses, a euphoric accord of orgasmic splendours. His eyes
mesmerise me, their colours a miasma of delicate hues, of tropical blues and
greens tinged with subtle ambers. His lips intrigue my desire, arouse my
libido,
ignite
the furnace of my lustful mind. Who
could resist his enchanting, sexy allure? Not me. Not as I glance at him across
the aisle, avoiding him noticing my covert licentious curiosity, more so, my
long
held,
rampant, frustrated infatuation.

On occasions he
glances my way, appearing to notice the familiar faces and raised newspapers,
not making eye contact with any nor meeting my furtive stares, or apparently
discerning my swift evasive head turns towards street scenes. Other times, on
hot, sunny summer days, I hide behind wraparound shades, facing ahead although
riveting my gaze on him, absorbing the symmetry and craftsmanship of his
beauty, again not annoying his attention, let alone arousing interest.
Sometimes his eyes smile to
thoughts,
oftentimes they
seem to signal a wary alertness, possibly reflecting sadness, or conflict or
pain. I wonder what bothers him. Maybe, he is burdened with a work problem. Or
is lonely. He seldom grins, but who does when journeying to work, lost in one’s
mind? Recently, when he peered my way, I challenged my bashfulness, nodding
barely dimpled cheeks, not detecting reaction. Perhaps, my sudden morning
greeting confounded him, or he missed seeing or chose to ignore me, or is shy?
Who knows?

Today my heart
fluttered, my body warmed to an unexpected rush. Today, he looked at me, his
directness surprising me, meeting my defensive response, snapping my head away.
Yet, in the window reflection, I saw his lips curve and eyes soften, conveyed
on a graceful, unobtrusive nod, honouring me in friendly recognition. I return
a nervous, pensive acknowledgement, dimpling my cheeks and half closing my eyes
in happy response, ending by resting my gaze on his lips.

Those lips I
crave to feel brushing mine, crunching mine and exploring my cheeks and nose
and eyelids and forehead and chin and neck and ears while writhing and grinding
and rolling and groping and moaning in delirious naked ecstasy on black silky
sheets bathed in moon glow. Those lips I yearn to romance my body; dance my
nipples, tickle my pits and assault my navel, raging the bonfires of innate
lust, before creating frenzied frolic and havoc with my excited cock. Later
longing, after similarly enchanting his body, to lie embraced, cocooned in
tender, beautiful bliss, exhausted, cooling,
reviving
our energies. Sweat beads my forehead, cheeks burn, eyes blur, my breath
quickens and restlessness rages between my legs. I return his nod and polite
smile again, noticing his
raised
, questioning
eyebrows.

How I hunger to
taste, inhale and explore his exquisite beauty. To roam my hands over the
perfect features and chemistry of his face, and trace the outline of his
flawless beckoning lips, those majestic providers of my oral fantasies. To
feast my eyes on the beautiful flushed shades of those manly lips converging to
his surrounding delectable dark tanned flesh, like sunset gently greeting dusk.
How I wish to discover the splendours of his torso. To finger and lip and lick
his strong defined chest and nipples, those tent poles under his body-fitting
polo-necks he now wears, thankfully replacing bulkier winter garments. And to
sink the implements of my quest into the valleys of his abs, and rub and doodle
them over their muscly plateaus.

How I desire to
nuzzle my face into the cleft of his cool tight jeans, to open the zip with my
teeth and free his ample bulge. To lick and grope his cock with my lips through
his briefs, seeing the bloating excitement, feeling the heat, seeing salivated
outlines of its exquisite tumescent features under the taut, stretched cotton.
How I long my teeth to grip the waistband and rip the elastic to his ankles, to
bathe my face in the aromas of his manliness, burying my nose in the huskiness
of his pubic playground, and taste the delectable flavours of his virility. How
I want to feel his manly excitement in my hands and between my lips and cup his
butt cheeks in my palms, and scrimmage in voluptuous delight, our hard hot
leaking cocks viced between our bellies. My heart screams to love him. And make
wondrous love to him.

I wish he could
be mine, to end my loneliness, to release me from the closet of cloistered life
and unwelcoming attitudes, to free me to enjoy my body’s cravings. How stupid
am I? He occasionally wears a ring, he must be married! Nevertheless, I gaze
peripherally at him as he readies for his stop, watching him rise, focusing
directly to better view his slender body form and visualise his athletic torso,
naked. I ogle his buttocks, wishing my hands roamed those two neat half pearls
of soft pliable, curvaceous flesh, sinking my fanned thumbs into his divine,
sweet cleavage.

Again he stuns
me, twisting his lithe body my way, blessing me with another faint lip and eye
smile and nod, adding the gesture of a delicate wave. My eyes blaze,
appreciating his friendly farewell, watching him alight into the drizzle. As
usual, I stare after him, worshiping the glimpses of his taut butt cheeks,
undulating under the tight denim each stride towards his regular destination,
the coffee shop on the corner. I dream of those cheeks cupped in my hands as my
lips pleasure his cock, tasting the dew drops and harvesting his seed. Two
stops later, I raise the document case off my lap to depart. Bugger! Another
sticky patch.

****

Memories of his
farewell invade my mind, rendering concentration impossible. After numerous
attempts to start writing the article, I give up, opting for an early lunch, to
check out the coffee shop, intrigued by his friendliness, aroused by the hope
of seeing him. I enter to whiffs of coffee aromas and tender, stirring notes of
bouzouki strings, and gaze over numerous coffee bean burlap bags stacked about
the floor, their tops rolled revealing their contents. Above, displays of
cheese wheels and quality olive oils and vinegars fill shelves, inviting
inspection and sampling.

Their bouquets
blend with freshly ground beans and espresso brews, causing mayhem to my
drooling epicurean senses. No wonder he heads here every morning I reason,
praying again he also visits for lunch. Overhead chalkboard menus roil my
salivary glands, causing anguish deciding a low-fat lunch, settling for a roast
lamb sandwich and Greek salad with long black special blend. I meander to the
remaining seat at a table in the small eat-in area, presided by a Goth chick,
her face a junkyard of metal piercings, her fingers gloved in odd medieval ring
things, her body seat-dancing to music from a bud in one ear, her mobile
clutched to the other. She nods scant approval to share while finalising a date
between blowing gum bubbles. I munch the sandwich in silence, gazing ahead to
the serving area thinking what I’d do to him on a date, blowing more than
bubbles, my steel-hard rod seeking piercings elsewhere.

My jaw drops. I
see his face pass behind the counter attendants, delivering a tray of coffee
packs to the cashier, her resemblance obvious. I drop my head, sinking my teeth
into the shaking sandwich as another burst of bubble gum splits the air,
wishfully thinking of splitting his cheeks and bursting my nuts in lascivious
ruckus on the stacks of bean bags. To twist and roll and clench our naked
bodies in arousing passion over the open tops, spraying beans and cheeses and
oils and vinegars about in ecstatic disarray. To slide to the floor on cascades
of beans from split and overturned bags, blending them as we grind and crunch
and hump our pelvises and bellies and chests and lips. To writhe and thrash and
squirm our oil glistened, bean streaked bodies in torrid steaming, slimy,
aromatic fervour, our sweaty moaning excitement brewing our desire, our hot
cream erupting in contented satiable bliss. I raise my face to sip my mug,
feeling flushed and sticky and heady and grimy, and open my eyes into his
staring gaze. My dazed eyeballs lock to his until he beckons me to a door,
signed ‘Staff only’. Bewitched, I enter three paces into his lair, stopping
close before him.