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(Thanks to Skorpan for the inspiration. I know it didn’t turn out how you wanted, but I enjoyed writing it for you, Eric)
I met my boyfriend, Nigel, when we were both sophomores at University. I’d seen him on campus, but never up close. And then once out jogging. I sort of decided to go jogging along the same path at the same time after that, just in case. But no luck.
We didn’t speak until the Autumn. If one has spent any time in New England, one knows that the most beautiful season is Autumn. The air is fresh and clean, the colours are brilliant and the sky is clear blue. I saw Nigel running one morning, having quite forgotten him for a while. As I ran closer and came alongside him, we looked at one another, smiled and passed greetings.
Nigel looked gorgeous in his blue running shorts, long white sleeved UVM sweatshirt, ankle socks and Saucony running sneakers. His long, dark blonde hair streamed along his face and neck as we small talked and ran. Nigel was about 5`8”, 145 lbs, and his body was so slim and muscular.
I could not help but slowing down slightly just to get a glimpse of his ass as he ran slightly ahead of me. I had never seen such a round, firm, muffin ass on a guy before and I was truly impressed. I noticed he had no hair on his legs. Nigel’s legs were so smooth and muscular.
As we ran, Nigel told me he was at Ready Hall. I was at Sichel Hall. Both halls were in the North Trinity area. As we continued running, I learned Nigel was also a sophomore, born and raised in Vermont and wished to work as a teacher. I was working towards a nursing degree and wanted to continue as a Paramedic upon completion of University.
As we headed back to our respective dorms, Nigel asked if I would like to get together some time. I was elated at the invite but tried to keep my excitement low key. We exchanged telephone numbers and went on our separate ways.
Later that evening, my mobile rang and it was Nigel. He wondered if I was doing anything, and when I told him that I was free, he invited me over to his room. I gladly accepted and told him I could be there in 15 minutes.
As soon as I hung up, I jumped into the shower for 3 minutes, then threw on a pair of slim-fitting jeans, t-shirt and a long sleeved sweatshirt. Twenty minutes and I was knocking on his dorm door. When he opened it, Nigel looked even more handsome. Smiling widely, he has his long dark blonde hair pulled back behind his ears, wearing a tight t-shirt and blue jeans. I noticed he was barefoot and could not believe how small and feminine his feet looked. They were well manicured and looked so soft and girl-like.
Nigel invited me to sit and offered me a beer or wine. I accepted red wine and sat on the hard desk chair. Nigel’s dorm room was small and other than his bed, desk and desk chair, there was a plaid love-seat by the window.
Nigel handed me the glass of wine in a beer glass (college life) and sat himself on the love-seat. We chatted for hours – childhood, family, University, friends and ambitions.
And we chatted about ex boyfriends and sex life. Nigel explained that he had only one boyfriend before, short-lived during high school. He had dated a few others his freshman year at University, but not anything really serious. I explained that I had dated occasionally, had a relationship that lasted one year, but we broke up as we were heading to different Universities. As it was getting late, Nigel asked if I wanted to meet him for breakfast the next morning. I gladly accepted and was on my way out the door. Nigel took me by the arm and as I looked at him, he kissed me on the lips. Nigel’s lips were warm, gentle and soft. I was glad he kissed me. As I walked out the door, I gave him a wink, said thanks and that I looked forward to seeing him again.
And so we began dating shortly after. Within months, we had decided to move into a dorm together and all through University, we lived together. Upon graduation, we located a beautiful apartment, were able to find employment and lived very happily together. The perfect couple, you might say. That is, until one day, on a Saturday, our regular Cafe, which we visited faithfully, was closed.
Nigel and I walked around and located a Cafe on a side street off the main road. As we entered, we ordered at the counter and found a table by the front window. I went to the men’s room to wash my hands and upon my return, I saw that our tea and breakfast were served.
Nigel had this shocked look about him and before I could even ask, he began to go into detail about our waiter. Nigel told me he was an Adonis and the described Marque in detail. All I needed to do was look across the dining area to see what he was describing because as Nigel babbled, I saw him. A black Adonis. 5’10”, 170lbs of pure black muscle, an ass that pushed the waiter pants out so nicely and when he walked towards us, all one could see was his full package nestled nicely under the front seam of those pants.
I can’t get Marque Kolej Escort out of my head. That’s great. He’s a hot guy. Nigel and me, well, we are pretty exclusive, but maybe that’s our problem. Familiarity and all that.
Nigel is sleeping beside me. His breath is coming in pants. Is he dreaming? Dreaming about fucking? Me? Marque? Fuck, I hope so. Marque I mean.
I lie back in the dark, my hands behind my head. Nigel and I have been an item for so long. Like an old married couple, our friends say. I laugh when I hear it. Nigel always looks confused. I usually kiss him on the face or the head, depending how we are sitting, and say something like ‘we’re made for each other’ or ‘till death us do part’.
But here I am, in the early hours, unable to sleep, wanting to drift off and dream about fucking too. When all I can think about is Marque.
I let my hands slide down to my cock and stroke myself. Nigel stirs, but doesn’t wake. If I woke him now we could fuck, quick and hard and sweaty in the dark, me on top, Nigel taking my cock up his ass like we usually do, this old married couple. And then falling asleep afterwards, spooning him, my hands on his ass or round his cock, stroking him back to sleep.
I am hard under the blanket. Somehow I don’t want to wake Nigel. He is working too hard and is tired. We are not fucking as often as we used to. We need a circuit breaker, an excitement, something to recharge our relationship. Not that Nigel agrees with me. He thinks we are just fine. Old married couples are companions he might say, as I put words in his mouth. They don’t need to fuck every day.
Twice a day, I might say, just to ramp things up. He will laugh but he will turn away. Nigel always has things to do, first, before we fuck. Whereas I just want to fuck and then worry about work and the washing up and housekeeping.
Except when I want to fuck and do the housekeeping at the same time. I picture Nigel in just an apron, washing dishes at the sink and me surprising him, fucking him hard from behind.
My erection is not going to go down. I climb out of bed naked. The apartment is warm and I walk out to the lounge. I open my laptop. It refreshes the porn I was watching earlier before I went to bed. Funny how the guys I watch fucking all look like Nigel and me. Another reason we need a circuit breaker.
A thought occurs to me. I find Marque on Facebook. Jesus he looks good in the pics he posts. Fucking hot. And the guys and girls he is with, fucking hot too. And none of them appear to be too close to him, like a special friend.
I check out his pics, stroking the whole time. And then I decide to message him. We’ve only met once at the cafe, but we chatted and flirted and my thoughts leapt ahead to the inevitable. But I only fuck other guys in my head. I don’t cheat on Nigel, however much I want to.
But first I check Nigel’s Facebook. Just quickly. I know, it’s fucking slack of me, but hey, you gotta stay sane when you have a hot BF like Nigel and every fuckable guy and the rest are hanging round him with their cocks hard and tongues out.
Jesus! When I check Nigel’s page he’s already messaged Marque. ‘Thanks for dinner and chat,’ he’s written, the fucking flirt, as if we were his guests and not his customers. ‘Looking forward to seeing you again’. Looking forward to showing you my cock, he might just as well have written.
And Marque has responded. ‘Hi. Anytime. Your place or mine?’
I’m gonna talk harshly to Nigel when he wakes. Or maybe….
Still on Nigel’s page I type a reply. ‘My place. Dinner. When are you free?’ And press send.
It’s 3am, but Marque replies almost immediately.
‘Sunday? Can do evenings most days, but Sunday is good as don’t work Monday. What can I bring?’
This is moving nicely, I think. But I go too far. ‘Just your hot ass’, I type and press send before I think twice.
And Marque comes straight back. Just an emoji. Thumbs up. Then ‘Seeya Sunday’.
Oh well, that’s on. Lucky Nigel. Do I tell him or make it a surprise? I’ll think about it. I send Marque our address and say 7pm. I switch off the computer and go back to bed. Nigel is breathing slower now. He’s kicked off the blanket and the moonlight is catching his naked ass alluringly. I could eat him. Right now in the moonlight. Marque is coming for lunch. Sunday. The day after tomorrow. How the fuck am I gonna sleep now.
“Let’s go for breakfast.”
Nigel is standing in front of the mirror. He doesn’t turn when I speak, but our eyes meet in the reflection. He is nearly naked, just a pair of tighty whiteys he wears. I’m more a jocks man if I can bother to wear underwear at all. Colours and patterns, or something written on the crotch like ‘fresh meat’ or ‘play time’. Nigel thinks it’s funny. He is so juvenile.
I lie back on the bed. I am naked. We have fucked this morning. Me on top, taking Nigel and his cute ass just the way we like. Rus Escort I am still hard. Maybe there is something wrong with the way my cock takes forever to go down. But I guess it’s better than the alternative.
Nigel is primping. He is so metrosexual.
“On a Saturday?” he said, like we’ve never been out for breakfast on a Saturday.
“Why not? We could go to that cafe, the one we went to last week, what was it called, Black Adonis…”
Nigel laughs out loud. “It is called Cafe Noir. Black sure, as for the rest, you are an eye-roving slut.”
Nigel is plucking his eyelashes. Can you believe it? A grown man, 20-something, plucking his eyelashes. Just a couple mind. He’s not some girly wannabe. Just very careful with the way he looks. I am more, how should I put it, the rough diamond. Where Nigel wears pressed white shirts and trousers with creases down the front and back, I am more jeans and a sleeveless T, you know the ones that let your upper arms bulge out and make you look like some sort of gym junkie who would fuck you over the hood of a car.
“So how long are you going to take to get ready then, beautiful?”
“As long as it takes,” Nigel says. “You just lie back and watch and wank and I’ll be done when you are.” He is applying concealer to a pimple now. I find acne quite attractive. Not the ‘relief map of Switzerland’ kind. Just a little symmetrical undulation, not too red, just enough to give a face character.
“Are you getting ready?” he says. “Or is it cum as you are?”
He says ‘come’ of course, but I always hear ‘cum’. It’s a ‘watching too much porn’ thing. If there’s a ribald pun to be had, I’m for having it.
He is still fussing over his fucking pimple when I am dressed. Yes, jeans and a sleeveless T.
“My favourite gym shirt,” Nigel says, finally deciding the pimple has had enough concealment. “I love your fucking upper arms.”
He steps over, runs his arm hands over my muscles. We kiss. Tongues. I think about suggesting we stay in. Nigel knows what I am thinking and we eye each other a bit, up close while we explore each other’s mouths. And I run my hands over his ass. We are both a little hard when we touch cocks.
But he steps back and selects a white pressed shirt from the wardrobe – Nigel has them done at the dry cleaners at ridiculous expense – slips it over his shoulders and buttons it up half way. He is about to do up another button but I place a hand over his to stop him.
“You know how much I like it when you wear your shirt open,” I say. “You have a beautiful chest.”
He smiles a little uncomfortably. It’s a warm day with a touch of breeze. I love it when Nigel lets his shirt fall open in the wind. He is always well groomed and neatly tanned, and his lightly muscled chest is nearly as alluring as his ass. And you get to see one nipple or the other in deep shadow, if you lean in far enough. I love how guys, straight or gay, try to snatch glimpses of Nigel’s chest when we are out. And how they look when I catch their eye and reveal I know what they are doing.
I nearly leave my hand there and reach down with the other to rub his cock through the tighty whitey, but he turns to the wardrobe and extracts a pair of navy blue tailored trousers. With his suede shoes he is going to look very Princeton preppy this morning, and me his bit of rough.
And I don’t want to miss breakfast at Cafe Noir. I want to keep Nigel away from the computer. You see, he hasn’t seen his Facebook page and what I wrote to Marque last night. And I haven’t told him who’s coming for dinner tomorrow night.
Cafe Noir is pumping. I am thinking maybe it is a gay hangout. I hadn’t noticed this before but it makes sense. Lots of guys. Couples who look a bit like us. And waiters who look a bit like the guys I look at online, just with a few more clothes.
The guy on the door is wearing a sleeveless T like mine and cut off denim shorts. They are so short he either has a tiny cock or he’s pushed it so far underneath he’s fucking his own ass. He shows us to a table by the kitchen. Nigel decides to hold my hand as walk across the room. I like that. He can be demonstrative sometimes. I will reward him with a feel under the table.
We can see the whole room, but the door bangs whenever food comes through. That’s OK because the waiters turn as they step through the door and it’s all ass or cock, front on, right where we are sitting.
“So Nigel,” I say. “Did you know Cafe Noir is gay or are you as shocked as I am?”
Nigel laughs. He dresses so well he looks like he is going for a job interview. It makes me feel like his assistant or his bodyguard.
“I had my suspicions,” he said. We touch hands under the table. I want him to touch my cock, but suddenly he is primping again and looking over my shoulder. I turn around. Marque is standing at the door of the kitchen. I smile and Marque smiles back, then steps out.
“Hi guys,” he says, Yenimahalle Escort leaning down so his face is at eye height, one hand on the table for balance. He is wearing one of those checked shirts with press button studs instead of buttons. Nigel calls them rape shirts because you can just rip them open. And Marque’s shirt is already undone halfway down his chest. He has the most gorgeous abs and chest, not clean shaved, but the hair is closely cropped. I can’t tell if it is natural or groomed, in the deep shadow. “Nigel and Seth,” he says, sort of like he is remembering and letting us know we already mean something to him.
“Marque, good to see you,” Nigel says. I want to invite Marque to sit with us, but of course he is busy. He takes our order, French toast for me, bacon, eggs and avocado for Nigel.
I wonder when the dinner invitation is going to come up. Marque has suggested meeting but Nigel doesn’t know I have responded. I feel a little bad now. These things have a habit of going wrong. I am always being impetuous and then having to make things right with Nigel.
Marque is busy, taking things in and out of the kitchen. We get a broad smile each time, white teeth through thick lips. He walks like black guys on screen, as if he is feeling every step up through his legs until it makes his cock bounce and ass swivel. I’ve tried to walk like that but it looks weird on a white guy.
Cafe Noir gets quieter. Marque comes back to see if we enjoyed the meal and sits with us for a bit. The table only takes two, so we have to squeeze up to fit an extra chair. Marque slips a cigarette into his mouth, but doesn’t light up. It’s not allowed. I don’t really like smoking and made Nigel give it up. But in Marque’s big hands and thick lips, the cigarette looks so sexy I want to take it up myself. And Nigel and I smoke pot so really I shouldn’t be so precious.
“So what are you guys cooking me for dinner?”
Nigel looks at me like he knows I’ve done something. He reads me like a book. It’s why we fit so well together. Why I love him. I don’t say I love him enough. And Nigel works so hard for me. I don’t deserve him.
“Dinner….?” I put my hand on Nigel’s arm. “I…um…invited Marque to dinner. Tomorrow night,” I say.
Nigel doesn’t look cross, just sort of quizzical like whenever I’ve done something and not told him. Like the time he came home and found I’d invited that Korean student to bunk on our couch for a week. Well, he was cute and was stuck in that religious hostel and I sort of fancied him. We didn’t fuck. I’m not even sure he was totally gay although he dressed like a Kpop singer which is pretty gay. And I’d have fucked him if he stayed any longer, and if Nigel wanted me to. But Nigel was keen for him to move on. I’ve got his email.
“Tomorrow night. Great,” says Nigel. “Seth is cooking. Anything you don’t eat, Marque?”
The chef looks out of the kitchen and beckons to Marque, who puts the unlit cigarette in the pocket of his rape shirt. “Gotta go guys. Looking forward to it. See you at 7.”
Nigel and I walk home in silence for the first few blocks. There is a little wood just off the high street by the brook. Only a hectare maybe, but very wooded. The path is dark and private. Nigel goes first and we are maybe half way through, when he turns so quickly I bump into him. He grabs me tight so I can’t escape and looks straight into my eyes.
“So someone invited Marque to dinner,” he says, sternly but I can see he’s smiling.
“I confess,” I say. “On your Facebook page.”
“You dirty fucker,” he says. “No ass for you for the rest of the day.”
He lets me go and keeps walking, but turns again. “And this dinner, baby, is going to be one helluva production. And it’s all on you. I’m going to choose the music and the wine, go to the gym, maybe a massage and a facial, I might even buy a new outfit. And you, Cinderella, you are going to slave over a hot stove like the domestic goddess you truly are.”
Nigel is trying to be stern but he can’t keep it up. He laughs and I do too. The breeze blows his shirt open enough to uncover his left nipple which is framed in that long gold neck chain I gave him. I want to push him into the trees and fuck him, ass up on a bed of moss somewhere. We’ve done it here before. He’s thinking it too.
“No ass for you,” he says and runs off.
Just like he said, Nigel woke on Sunday and went to the gym. I watched him dress, first his jockstrap, then the tiny gym shorts with the splits at the sides, and the singlet, the black one which makes him look more muscled than he is. I asked if he wanted me to come, but he stepped over, and hushed me with a finger.
“You are cooking, big boy. You invite the black adonis to dinner, then you get to seduce him, foodwise I mean.” Nigel leaned down and kissed me, then said, “and I don’t mean macaroni cheese. There must be something else Americans can cook.” He laughed, blew me a kiss and left.
I lay in bed for much too long, playing with my cock and wondering what the fuck I was going to cook. I was concentrating so hard I couldn’t even get hard. Which only worried me more. Erectile disfunction? Fuck! At my tender age. I’m going to have to fuck Nigel with a dildo if I can’t get it up. But then he likes things up his ass, so maybe one of us will still be happy.
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