30th October 2002: A nice straightforward story of sharing a room with another medical student and the two of wanking off together.
A couple of years ago, I had to spend three months as a junior doctor in Southampton General Hospital as part of my medical training. This meant that, because of the long hours and irregular shifts, I had to move into the cramped student accommodation located at the back of the hospital.
I ended up sharing a room with another medic called Peter. I must admit that I’m not too keen on sharing, but some of my mates ended up in rooms with two or even three other guys, so I guess that I was actually pretty lucky to end up as I did.
While Peter and I wouldn’t ever have been natural friends, he was a decent guy and we got along reasonably well as imposed roommates for the couple of months of my stay. He tended to use the room entirely for the bed and the wardrobe: when he wasn’t sleeping or changing clothes, he was out. He played a lot of rugby and I gather he spent most of his free time either on the rugby pitch or in the pub with his mates. So the temporary loss of my privacy wasn’t such a blow.
One thing that was pretty clear from the start, though, was that Peter saw the room very much as venue for masturbation, regardless of whether I was in it or not. He made no secret and no excuses about that. In fact, he made no references to it all: he would just habitually masturbate, without shame or embarrassment, before he went to sleep or when he woke up. Neither of us ever said anything about it; it was just something he did.
Even though our shifts only occasionally coincided and so he often was at work when I was sleeping, I soon became familiar with his routine. He was very much a lad of habit and rarely ventured from his established pattern. If he was pissed, he’d usually just go straight to sleep and have a wank when he awoke. If he came in straight from work, he’d usually pull himself off before sleeping and make do with just a coffee when he got up. But if he was talking to his girlfriend on the phone before bed, he’d usually have a wank both before sleeping and when he woke up.
One weekend his girlfriend came down from Birmingham , where she was working, to stay over with him. I was kind of interested to see how that would affect his routine but decided I really ought to give him a bit of privacy and so spent that weekend staying with Helen, my girlfriend, even though it meant an hour’s trek across the city before and after every shift at the hospital.
I remember being kind of surprised when I first saw Peter wanking. It must have been on the second or third day of my stay in the hospital accommodation, and I’d just returned from a fairly rigorous fourteen-hour Friday night shift on A & E. It think it was about seven in the morning and, as I was getting into the bed, feeling shattered, Peter’s alarm went off: his shift was about to start.
I got into bed and tried to relax despite the lingering affects of the caffeine and adrenaline I’d been living on throughout most of the night. I turned away from his bed, towards the pock-marked wall, with a pillow over my head to try and block out the increasing brightness coming in through the curtains as the sun rose in the sky. I expected to hear Peter get up and leave the room to make coffee and use the bathroom or whatever, but he stayed in bed, apparently in no rush to get up for work.
I guess I left him ten minutes or so, thinking that he was maybe dozing or had pressed the snooze button on his alarm clock. Then I figured he’d gone back to sleep and so turned over to face him, intending to call over to him and wake him up.
I found, as you’ve probably anticipated, that he was in full swing. He’d pushed the duvet aside, and was lying there, totally naked, masturbating his foreskin up and down his fairly impressive looking cock, totally devoid of self-consciousness.
At first I felt pretty surprised, maybe even a little embarrassed. I should say that I’m no prude – I went to a boys’ boarding school and so masturbating with another guy in the room is hardly new to me – but I guess I was taken aback by the sheer candour of the guy. If I was going to have a wank while sharing a room, I’d do it under the covers, as quietly and discretely as possible; or, more likely, would wait until I was in the toilet or taking a shower. Not so Peter: he just kicked the duvet to one side and jerked away at his dick as openly and unworried as if he were stretching or scratching himself.
I felt an immediate instinct to look away: to leave him to get on with it without a spectator. But then I noticed that his eyes were closed. In any case, it occurred to me that, as he’d obviously heard me moving about in the room after his alarm had gone off, my presence was clearly irrelevant to him.
So I took the opportunity of watching him for a while. Out of curiosity, you know.
His bed was on the opposite wall to mine and so I was looking at the length of his body from his left side.
He was well-built, reasonably muscular guy and his chest and legs were covered fairly thickly with black hair. His feet, like mine, protruded from the end of the mattress and so I’d guess he was slightly over six feet tall. His expression was serious and his rhythm was moderately fast: he was obviously intent on reaching his orgasm fairly quickly and without any unnecessary delay. In fact, I think the idea of a guy savouring his masturbatory pleasures was pretty unknown to Peter.
He just lay there for a couple of minutes: his hand doing its thing on his cock, his face expressionless and his breathing apparently normal. Looking like he was just doing it for the sake of it: almost like it was a chore he was attending to.
Masturbation as a bodily function: that’s what it looked like.
I took a good look at his cock. It was large – about seven inches or so – and fairly thick. His foreskin made a slap-slap-slapping sound as he jerked it up and down his length. His bell-end wasn’t especially defined – it was about the same thickness as the shaft of his cock and seemed to blend in with it, instead of being bulbous and clearly separated like a mushroom head as mine is. His balls were large and, like the base of his cock and the lower part of his stomach, densely forested by a tangle of wiry black pubic hair.
I noticed that his bell-end remained fairly dry as he masturbated, as mine does. There was a crude joke back then that my mates used to say about their cocks “dripping” when they saw an attractive girl, and for a while I’d wondered if my cock was somehow odd because it leaked so little precum it was hard. But Peter’s looked pretty similar and it was kind of reassuring to see that.
The smell of his cock was subtle yet unmistakable in the warm air of the room. It was the familiar smell of male excitement: as sharp and distinctive as the smells from girls and women when they get horny. I find the smells from females during sex an overpowering turn-on, and here the smell of Peter’s male equivalent made me feel equally aroused. I felt my own cock stiffening rapidly in my briefs.
I rubbed myself discretely under my duvet as I watched him. The sight, smell and sounds of his cock were really turning me on.
I was surprised that he didn’t use his other hand to caress his body, as I do when I masturbate. I fondle my balls, play with my nipples, rub my stomach, sometimes even play around with my arsehole a little. But Peter just wanked himself with his right hand and his left hand lay motionless at his side. I considered that it might be because he was aware I was watching him, but, like I said, he seemed so disinterested by my presence that I don’t think it would have affected his performance one way or the other. I guess that it was just his way of masturbating: relieving himself in a workmanlike and mechanical way.
He started breathing very quickly about ten seconds before he came. That also turned out to be part of the established routine. His strokes then became very rapid as he headed into his orgasm. With his free hand, he grabbed his discarded briefs which I guess were lying amongst the bedding at his side, and, as his cock started squirting, he cupped them over the top of his cock to catch his semen.
He kept gasping as he milked his cock into his underwear. His orgasm was fairly copious: some of his cum dribbled from his briefs and leaked onto his stomach.
After his climax had subsided, he just lay there for half a minute or so, still holding his cock with his right hand and his briefs over the head of it with the other, recovering his breath. The strong smell of his cum, thick and mildly-cloying, filled the air.
Then he threw his sticky briefs to one side and got up. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep.
After he’d gone for a shower, I pulled off my briefs and masturbated my own cock underneath the duvet. I was really turned on by what I’d just seen and relieved myself urgently and breathlessly. I squirted into my dirty briefs, as he had done, and then threw them onto floor next to my bed.
Then, aware that the room now smelt even more strongly of semen, I fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.
I watched Peter masturbate a few times over the next week or so. Like I said, I soon got the hang of his habits and my presence or absence in the room didn’t seem to matter to him. Sometimes, when we were working the same shift, our alarms would go off together and I’d get out of bed, starting to get ready, with Peter masturbating openly as I did so.
He seemed totally comfortable about doing it, and never talked of it nor made any references to it either while he was doing it or at other times. He mentioned that he had four brothers and so I guess his attitude came from years of sharing a bedroom at home.
I always became hard when he started wanking and would initially attend to my arousal either in bed after he’d left the room or in the toilet or shower behind a locked door.
But then, during the second week, I thought about joining in with him.
I kept wondering, over a few days, how he’d react to having me masturbate alongside him. I thought it most likely that he’d just ignore me but kept worrying whether, as an unquestionably straight guy, he’d view it as being “gay” behaviour. He obviously regarded masturbation as being just something guys do, not even worthy of comment, but maybe the etiquette of masturbating while sharing a room is to do it separately, waiting your turn.
One day at the hospital while mulling over someone’s medical records, I found myself thinking about it again and realised that I was starting to become fascinated by the idea of joining in with him.
I thought about the two of us jerking our cocks together; just lying in our beds, without any discussion, relieving ourselves in unison. I became aware that I was smiling and that one of the nurses was staring at me. The records were spelling out the details of some hideous illness and here I was smirking over them like a Cheshire cat. Jesus, get a grip, Wallace.
That night he was out with his mates and came back at about midnight, stinking of alcohol.
I was lying awake when he returned, knowing that he wouldn’t masturbate since he’d been out, but nevertheless hoping he would. Even before he’d closed the door and took off his coat, my cock was stiff as a board in anticipation that he might.
But he didn’t.
Next morning, though, his alarm went off first, and, as I expected, he switched it off and got to work on his dick almost immediately. He pushed the duvet to one side and then, in one swift movement, pulled down his briefs and threw them to the side.
His cock was already hard, its seven inches throbbing and demanding attention. He lay back down and, closing his eyes, wrapped his fist around it immediately, gratifying it with a moderately fast rhythm.
I was watching him, waiting for my alarm to go off.
After a minute or so, it did, and I turned it off. He didn’t miss a beat: he just lay there, eyes closed, now undeniably aware I was awake, but quite happy to relieve himself in my presence.
I lay back down and pushed my duvet to the side of me. My cock was already hard and I released it from my briefs, pulling them off with one hand without getting up.
Then I took my cock, about an inch longer than his, in my fingers and started gently and slowly masturbating myself, relishing the sensation of doing it in front of Peter. I deliberately made my wrist slap rhythmically against my hip as I did it, so that he would be aware that I was joining him.
He looked over at me almost immediately. I saw him out of the corner of my eye. His hand didn’t stop wanking his cock, he just looked over at me to see what I was doing.
I just kept working at myself, peeling my foreskin right back so he could see my large, swollen bell-end and then rolling it back over the head, slowly but with a confident, regular rhythm.
He kept watching me and that made me feel more excited; made my cock swell harder in my hand. His own hand kept doing its thing, its rhythm up and down his cock totally unaffected by what I was doing, but he kept on staring at me, watching my cock.
Maybe it was the first time he’d seen another guy masturbate – or, at least, seen a guy outside his family do his thing, assuming my theory about him and his brothers was true. I guess it could even have been the first time he saw another guy’s erect cock. Whatever, he seemed totally fascinated by what I was doing and kept looking at it for a minute or so as I played with it in front of him.
Then, as my rhythm increased and my excitement grew, I looked over at him, checking out his cock first and then looking up at his face. We made eye contact and, as we stared at each other’s faces and continued masturbating ourselves, he betrayed a small grin and sort of shrugged. Like he was trying to say, “When you gotta go…”.
I looked back down at his cock and was aware that he did the same to mine. I watched his hand sliding up and down its length, its rhythm a little faster than that which he normally liked to maintain. My rhythm was a lot faster than his, but that could have been because I don’t usually masturbate as much of my cock with each stroke as he did. I guess I usually pump only the top half of my dick whereas he seemed to rub most of the length of his, making long sweeping motions with each stroke.
We just lay there for a while, masturbating together, in silence. Both of us continually looking down at our own cocks and then over at each other’s; both of us being fairly mechanical in our actions. Like this was just something guys did; just two roommates relieving ourselves before getting up for work.
The casual manner with which we masturbated together on that first morning really turned me on. It was like semen release was simply a biological necessity that we were both attending to: two guys impassively pumping their cocks with the same disinterest that they’d show if they were urinating alongside each other.
But towards the end, as my climax approached, I couldn’t help but break my own mental image and reached out to caress my balls with my other hand. My right hand just wasn’t enough: my left really needed to get involved.
Then I broke the silence by gasping in pleasure, and my right hand sped up on my dick, becoming almost a blur as I felt my orgasm beginning to consume me.
Peter stared over at me, no doubt fascinated to see another guy in this state.
I grabbed my discarded briefs and managed to catch all but the first few squirts of my white cum with them. Peter kept staring; watching the liquid spurting in short brief bursts from my fat purple cock head into the white material of my underpants. Even when it had subsided into a thin, weak dribble, he kept looking.
Now the smell of my semen filled the air of the room.
When I’d recovered, I stood up. Peter was still looking at me and still masturbating, the head of his cock looking a deep angry purple colour from the friction of his foreskin.
I walked over to my alarm clock and reset the alarm. My cock stood out in front of me at almost a right angle to my body: still hard, but not hard enough to curve upwards. I noticed that a thin string of my cum hung from my piss slit on the broad purple bell-end.
Peter kept looking at it and then, as I turned my arse to him and walked over to pick up my towel, he started breathing quickly and I realised he was cumming.
He spent a few seconds squirting his own sperm into his underwear, staring at the white jets as they shot in spasms from his cock.
Then, bleary-eyed, he looked up at me watching him.
I said, “I’ll get a shower first, then, mate.”
He nodded, still breathing quickly. And then I left the room.
Once I’d broken the ice by joining in with him, Peter and I started masturbating together on an almost daily basis. At first I’d wait for him to start and then join in, but after a few days, I felt confident enough to be the one to get things going.
We never spoke about it: we just masturbated together and looked over at each other as we did it, and then, after we’d both climaxed, made smalltalk about other stuff or went to sleep, depending the time of day.
I think Peter would have been content for it to have remained a fairly non-sensual event – just two roommates having a wank to relieve themselves – but, within a couple of days, the urge to caress myself with my left hand while I was pleasuring myself with my right became too much to suppress.
I started by playing with my balls, and Peter seemed pretty intrigued by that. I kneaded them between my fingers and thumb, rolling them around like birds’ eggs in my loose scrotum. Peter stared over at me as I did it, and even craned his neck to one side to get a better view when my right hand and my cock obscured things.
Then I fondled my nipples and my chest a bit. I’m pretty well worked out and my chest is fairly smooth; I kind of like running my fingernails around on the taut skin and touching my sensitive nipples. As well as that, a small patch of soft blond hair nestles in the middle of my chest, between my pecs, and I enjoy playing with that when I’m wanking sometimes. Peter seemed to find all that pretty interesting too: he peered over at me unashamedly as I fondled and caressed myself.
I even ventured to become a little more vocal as I masturbated, gasping and sighing as the waves of pleasure washed over me. I was careful not to overdo it and steered well clear the amateur theatricals that girls sometimes think they need to put on. I just stopped suppressing the sounds that I normally make when I’m wanking.
Peter’s response to this was slow and fairly tentative. He seemed fascinated to watch what I was doing but didn’t seem willing to apply the same ideas to his own self-pleasuring. For a week or so he just looked over at me while he did his standard thing: right hand pumping his cock with a fairly average rhythm, left hand lying at his side.
But then, late one night, once we’d both started jerking ourselves after we’d both been on the phone for over an hour to our respective girlfriends, his left hand got involved in the action. As nonchalantly as he could, he raised it from the mattress and laid it on his balls. I say “laid it” because he seemed uncertain about what to do with it: he just sort of placed it there and let it sit there for a while.
He let his left hand rest on his balls for a minute or so and then, making very gentle and subtle movements, he started caressing them with his fingertips; running his fingers through the thick black hair on his balls, as if slowly and gently combing it. The movements were slow but sensual: in complete contrast to the steady and workmanlike masturbating of his cock by his right hand.
He looked over at my face and saw that I was watching him. His cheeks went a little pink and his expression betrayed the fact that it was from embarrassment rather than excitement. Before he had time to withdraw his hand and act like it had never happened, I reached for my own balls with my left hand and made a point of rubbing them to reassure him that this was a totally natural thing to do.
He looked down at what I was doing, his left hand just resting against his balls, and watched me kneading my own smaller pair between my fingers and thumb for a few seconds. Then his own hand returned to fondling his, and we lay like that for a few minutes: the two of us jerking our cocks with our right hands and playing with our balls with our left hands. Both of us looking down at ourselves, and then over at each other.
Peter’s left hand soon began losing its inhibitions and he began running his fingers over the large paired mounds of his balls, as if gently tickling them. As he did so, his right hand began steadily speeding up as it worked his foreskin, pulling it up and down the thick shaft of his cock with a new-found fervour.
I opened my legs wider and started rubbing the underside of my balls, running my fingers along the hairy ridge connecting my balls with my arsehole. Peter looked over at me, first at what I was doing, and then up to my face. Our eyes met again and he grinned broadly at me, as though the novelty of exploring masturbatory pleasures alongside another guy had just struck him. I found myself grinning back at him; both of us amused at what we were doing, like we were a couple of naughty schoolboys. Then our gazes returned to each others’ cocks and balls, and at our hands playing with them.
Peter cupped his balls with his left hand and squeezed them. He obviously liked that sensation because he gasped and his right hand further increased its pace up and down his cock. He looked down at himself and squeezed the base of his balls between his fingers and thumb so that they bulged upwards against the taut skin of his scrotum, looking like two pink eggs amidst his thick bush of pubic hair. Abruptly, white gobs of his semen started pulsing out of his cock head, spraying across his stomach and chest, covering the black curly hair with beads and strings of his cum.
He kept frantically pumping his cock even as his orgasm subsided, and kept squeezing his balls, making no attempt to reach for his underpants to quell the flow. Then, as abruptly as his climax had started, he stopped wanking and took both hands away from his cock and balls, and lay back on his pillow with his eyes closed. I looked over at him like that, covered contently in the mess of his own pleasure, his cum dripping through the thick wiry hair on his chest and stomach, his cock still thick but resting floppily against his lower abdomen, and felt my own orgasm overtake me.
As my own white jets spewed from my cock, I saw Peter looking over at me out of the corner of my eye. Like him, I made no attempt to catch my mess: I just let it spray across my chest and stomach as he had done, revelling in the feel of it on my skin.
Then, as I lay there recovering, he stood up and started wiping the cum from his chest hair with his briefs. His cock stood out from his body, pointing downwards but still half-erect, with a drip of cum hanging from the end of it. His large balls hung down below it, looking impressive even without his fist squeezing them.
As he finished off cleaning himself up, wiping the sweat from his arse crack with his underpants, I stood up to reach for my briefs. My own cock was still almost fully hard and it arched upwards, the stem showing faint pink and white bands from the squeezing of my fingers. I wiped my own cum from my chest and we looked at each other again. This time I grinned first and he followed suit. Neither of us were self-conscious about the state of our cocks in front of each other, and that in itself felt pretty good. We hardly knew each other, but we had an unspoken agreement that this was okay, that this was pretty good actually, and that was unexpectedly pleasant.
He said, “I’ll make us some coffee. You want to take the first shower?”
I nodded and wiped the cum from my cock, still smiling.
He pulled on his robe and left the room, his cock still hard enough to make an obvious lump at the front of it.
Over the next week or so I noticed that Peter’s habits were becoming a lot less predictable: he’d often push his duvet away and start playing with his dick in the evening even if he’d already masturbated in the morning. Moreover, his visits to the pub no longer seemed to dampen his appetite: on the contrary, when he came in smelling of alcohol I noticed that his briefs tented upwards even while he was undressing and he seemed unable to get into bed fast enough to get things started.
We were obviously both aware that we were enjoying having a bit of company while we did our thing but, like I said before, not a word was ever spoken about it between us. We just both accepted that if we were together in the room and in bed, one of us would initiate things, and the other would invariably follow his lead.
One day around that time, in the kitchen, one of the other guys in the flat was talking about a couple of guys he knew from dentistry. They’d done something to piss him off – I wasn’t really listening to him but the gist was that they were both in it together – and he started going on about them.
“They’re a pair of complete fucking wankers,” he was ranting. “That’s why they’re so friendly with each other. ‘Cos they’re both fucking wankers. Fucking wank-buddies.”
Peter was in the middle of turning his toast over on the grill-pan but I saw his eyes glance over at me from the side. I was pouring milk into a cup of tea and I smirked without being able to stop myself. He got on with what he was doing but I noticed that he was smirking too.
It turned out that, while I like to use my left hand to caress my balls and touch my arsehole while I wank, Peter was more excited by playing around with the dense fur of hair on his stomach and over his chest. He just loved running his left hand through it, stroking it and teasing it between his fingers, while his right went to work assaulting his cock. He didn’t leave his balls out altogether, of course, but once he’d discovered how good it felt to run his fingers through his chest hair, he never showed them quite the same attention as he had on that first night.
I often found myself wondering, while I was at work or around Helen’s waiting for her to get ready to go out, why he’d never before ventured to use his left hand on his body while he masturbated. Surely it was a perfectly natural thing to do: inevitable even. I surmised, from odd comments he’d made, that his family were pretty traditional, perhaps religious. This would explain why he had, in his shared bedroom with his brothers, become used to masturbating in a coldly functional rather than sensual way. Enjoying his release, but reticent about finding pleasure in his own body.
I loved to watch him making up for his lost time; discovering the pleasures he’d missed and exploring his body with his free hand while he masturbated. I loved to see his hand roam across his chest and around his nipples, to hear the coarse sounds of the thick wiry hair as he ran his fingers through it, and to watch his cock swell to its maximum, shiny-headed size in response.
I would approach orgasm as I looked over at him, my hand a blur on my cock, and then, as I felt it coming too close, welling up inside me, I’d stop altogether and remove my hand to let my breath catch up. At first Peter seemed intrigued by this – would look over at me as if wondering what the problem was – but after a few times he realised what I was doing and, within a day or so, started following my example. And within another couple of days, both of us were controlling our orgasms, postponing them three of four times on some occasions, to glean the maximum pleasure from our right hands.
I remember the first time I fingered my arse while he watched me wanking. It must have been in the last week of us sharing the room: I’d had to delay doing it, even though I’d really wanted to show Peter this last trick for about two weeks, until I could be sure that he wouldn’t get freaked out by it. I’d had to wait until we were totally comfortable together; until we fully trusted each other as spectators of our most personal, most intimate moments.
I kept thinking, “What if he gets funny about it? What if he has a go at me?” Perhaps he’d think it was “going too far”, or would regard it as something feminine and therefore unacceptable. He liked to play with his balls and chest hair, but maybe he considered those masculine, almost rugged, pursuits; natural and wholesome areas for a guy to mess around with while he was pleasuring himself. He’d never shown any sign of exploring his own arsehole, not even the slightest interest in it, so perhaps he regarded that area as being out of bounds for normal, healthy guys.
But then, during a couple of our sessions, I began to notice that whenever I pushed my left hand between my legs and ran my fingers along the hairy ridge between my balls and my arsehole, Peter would stare over at me, intrigued by what I was doing. His right hand would speed up on his cock and his bell-end would bulge and glisten. He didn’t copy what I did – just as I didn’t, couldn’t, copy what he did with his chest hair – but he seemed fascinated to watch me do it.
So then, late one evening, while we were masturbating together and when I knew he was looking over at me, I licked the outstretched finger of my left hand, pushed it between my open legs, and penetrated my warm tight arsehole with it. Peter stared over at me, engrossed by what I was doing. I opened my legs further to allow myself better access, and pushed my middle finger further into my hot soft passage, gently moving my hand in and out so that it was obvious that my finger was inside.
Peter’s reaction was abrupt and unexpected. He grunted loudly and immediately began shooting thick strings of semen across his stomach and chest, gasping and panting as his balls emptied themselves.
I was impressed by his response. Most of his cum covered the black carpet of his chest hair, white and viscous on the thick fur, but some had splashed over his neck and a few spurts had even hit his face. Drips of it were on his cheeks and nose and made beads around his mouth.
He looked over at me when his breathing had subsided, and grinned broadly. Like his orgasm had been a deliberate joke.
I grinned back, continuing to finger my arse as I masturbated.
Then Peter did something which was even more unexpected. Instead of picking up his briefs and wiping himself as he would normally, he looked down at his chest and then started rubbing his cum into his chest, matting it in the dense forest of hair. The sounds it made were exquisite – rough and wiry, coarse yet unmistakably wet. The smell of it, thick and mildly cloying, wafted over me, as I watched him rubbing his sticky mess into his black body hair.
Then my own orgasm hit in. My own semen leapt out of my cock, reaching as far as my neck but not my face as Peter’s had. Peter looked over at me as I pumped myself dry, watching my cock empty itself over my almost hairless chest and stomach. And when I’d finished, as I just lay there panting in the haze of my climax, he got up and walked over to the foot of my bed to stare between my legs. My finger was still inside me and Peter made no excuse that he was looking at it, perhaps wanting to make certain that I really had penetrated my arse.
I looked up at him, standing there with his chest hair matted by thick white gobs of his own cum, looking down between my legs. I withdrew my finger, with a slippery sound, and he licked his lips involuntarily.
Then he looked back up at my face and grinned, his teeth white and perfect. He said, “Does the water heat up in the evenings? I’m gonna need to take a shower.”
I nodded, still recovering my breath.
I moved out on a Sunday afternoon. My work in the hospital was through; I couldn’t wait to get back to my own room on the other side of the city and back to normal hours and normal life.
That last morning with Peter was kind of special, though.
I’d been out the night before, celebrating my “release” with some friends, and hadn’t got in until three or four in the morning. Peter had been asleep when I got in. Our boxes and suitcases were stacked up at one end of the room: the following evening another couple of guys would be filling our places.
In the morning, Peter woke me with a couple of mugs of coffee for the two of us. His hair was still wet from having a shower, his face slightly pink from his razor.
We sat on the edge of our beds and drank our coffee, Peter in his robe, me in my briefs. We chatted about where we’d been the night before, surprised that our groups hadn’t run into one another in a few of the clubs we’d been in, and about how good it felt to have got this part of our training over.
Then, as the conversation was ebbing, Peter stood up and pulled his robe off. It fell to the floor, revealing his hairy body, his thick but mainly flaccid cock and large balls.
He looked at me looking at him and, instead of reaching for a clean pair of briefs as I expected him to, he smiled and rubbed his left hand around his chest, rustling his fingers through his hair.
I smiled back and he glanced down at the front of my briefs, grinning more broadly with satisfaction at the response I was showing to his display. He kept working his hands around his chest, gripping his abs and seeming to revel in the coarse wiry noises he was making with his hair. His cock began to thicken and rise up from the paired mounds of his heavy balls.
I stood up and pulled my briefs down, revealing my own rapidly hardening cock.
Then Peter squeezed his with his right hand and began gently jerking his foreskin backwards and forwards. Not long uniform strokes as he had in that first week, but short irregular tugs, changing his rhythm and squeezing the head between his fingers and thumb to bring himself to maximum size.
I grabbed my own and followed his lead, slowly and sensually stimulating my bell-end which was easing itself out of my retracting foreskin as my cock thickened and expanded.
We stood like that for half a minute or so, facing each other in the space between our beds, our hands speeding up on our cocks as we began masturbating in earnest.
Then Peter to a couple of steps towards me and, still wanking his cock, grabbed my left hand and raised it to his chest. My fingers pressed into the coarse hair of his chest, nestling in the thick fur.
Peter’s eyes were hard on my face, searching it possibly for signs of disgust or horror. I didn’t show either of these, but I dare say my expression initially betrayed some of the surprise I felt.
I stared into his eyes. He gave a small sheepish grin, like he was saying, “This is okay, isn’t it?”
In reply, I began gently caressing his chest, running my fingers through the wiry black hair, feeling the hard muscular skin beneath it. It was an odd sensation – a feeling that, since most of my previous sexual encounters had been with a girls, I’d never experienced. The coarseness of the hair, the tightness of the muscle beneath it, were intensely masculine and unexpectedly exciting.
Peter’s enjoyment was immediate. Closing his eyes and lifting his head upwards, he released my hand, allowing it to roam across his abs and around his nipples. His right hand began attacking his cock in a frenzy, jerking it faster than I’d ever seen, and he opened his mouth, gasping gently at the feel of my fingers on his chest, combing through his wonderful carpet of hair.
I looked down at his cock, his fist tight around it and his foreskin rolling and unrolling across his red bell-end in a blur of motion. I worked my left hand down to his stomach, feeling the muscles contracting and relaxing as he pushed his hips in and out to meet his hand. The hair down here seemed longer and less dense, softer and smoother except for a thick belt of coarse curly growth around his belly button, leading from his chest to his pubes.
He stopped masturbating abruptly and we both stared at his cock, visibly throbbing in mid-air with the same rhythm that he was panting. His body was tense, like he was fighting off the climax that was threatening to explode.
As we watched, a bead of shiny precum formed on his piss slit, growing to the size of a small pearl. I took my hand off his stomach and reached down to it, intending to rub it into the taut shiny skin of his cock head, but Peter stopped me. Perhaps touching each other’s cocks was a step too far for him, or perhaps he was too close to the edge of his orgasm to have anything risk pushing him over.
When he’d recovered he looked up at me and grinned again.
I was still masturbating myself, enormously turned on by seeing him so close to his orgasm and by seeing his cock up-close oozing its juices.
Peter grabbed his cock again and continued his work, more slowly. I put my hand back on his chest and his face once again fell into an expression of pleasure, his breathing rapidly speeding up.
He reached up and grabbed my shoulder. I wasn’t sure what he was doing but then realised he was trying to push me down. My first thought was that he wanted me to suck him, even though that would have been ridiculously out-of-character for the guy, but when I buckled my knees and dropped down, he followed me so that we were both crouching in front of each other.
Then he raised his left hand to his mouth and licked his middle finger, and I understood his intentions. He pushed his hand downwards between my legs, and clumsily felt around my most private, most intimate areas, groping between my arse-cheeks, fiddling around to find my hole.
When he pressed his finger into me, pushing it an inch or so inside my passage, I gasped from both the pain and pleasure of it. My right hand speeded up on my cock and my balls started jumping around, bobbing up and down and smacking against his wrist which was reaching underneath me. The sound of them, of my scrotum slapping against his skin like a single rhythmic applause, seemed loud in the silence of the room.
He pushed his finger into my arse up to the knuckle, and then slowly withdrew it. Then pushed it in again, maybe a little deeper, and withdrew it again. Then again, getting a little faster and a little deeper, then again. Until we were both panting like dogs, both wanking our cocks in a frenzy.
My left hand dropped away from his chest and he fell against me, his rough wiry hair rubbing into my smoother skin. He rubbed his chest against mine, our nipples coming together like they were kissing, almost grinding our torsos together.
Our hands kept working at our cocks and, for a short time, our knuckles kept jarring painfully against each other until we managed to coincide our rhythms.
I knew we were both extremely close to cumming and so I didn’t hold back. The sensation was too powerful: too intense. The feel of his finger inside my arse was amazing, slamming into me then out, in then out, and the sensation of his thick fur of chest hair rubbing into my own chest even more exciting.
After all I’d taught Peter about the art of self-pleasure during those couple of months, it turned out on that last morning that he made a pretty good teacher himself.
I think the best part was when he came. The feel of it erupting into the narrow space between us, splashing upwards between our chests and stomachs, hot and wet, was fantastic. The feel of it lubricating our chests as we kept thrusting against each other, the smell of it, thick and seedy in the air.
My own orgasm was seconds behind it. His finger was still pummelling my arsehole, still sliding in and out of me, and it enhanced and intensified the power of my climax. I sprayed my own cum, thinner and less viscous, to add to the wetness between us; my own white fountain combining with his.
After we’d calmed down, still panting but recovering, we pulled apart. Peter’s finger was still inside me: he seemed fascinated to leave it there, maybe wanting to feel my excitement diminish, to feel my pulse slow down. Our chests and stomachs were covered with our semen, his seeming more thickly coated than mine because it clung to his hair. Our cocks, only gradually softening, pressed into each other like a couple of lovers, his looking thicker and mine slightly longer.
Then Peter pulled his finger out of me and we stood up.
He reached for his briefs and started wiping himself down. He said, “We’ll have to look each other up sometime. I’ll give you my number… maybe a drink sometime…”
But then, things moved on, we got back to our own lives, and we never did.
I often wonder what would have happened if we’d been together another week or so after that Sunday morning. How it would have progressed if it had continued, what other stuff we could have learned together.
Even now, I wonder whether, one evening or morning, shattered by the intensity of the work and the long hours, we’d have taken it a bit further. Whether he’d have replaced his finger with something more substantial; replaced the squeezing of his right hand with my tighter muscles. Whether I’d have enjoyed having him on top of me, his chest hair rubbing against my hairless stomach as he fucked me. How it would have felt.
But it didn’t happen. Once I’d got back into the routine of normal life, back around my own things and together with my old friends, Peter seemed unreal; the whole of those three months remembered like something from a bizarre dream. So I never called him.
And I guess he felt the same because, even though I gave him my number, he never called me.
Maybe we’d both learned enough.
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