Between the Stacks

[zypha]

This is a very beautiful story. Keep it up

 

[AcidA]

Very well written indeed, keep it up!

 

[Crataegus]

Three things: Once again, I want to thank you all for your kind words; it means a lot to know that you enjoy reading what drivel I splash onto a page. I don't know that I would have written beyond the first couple of chapters if not for you who read. And so, thank you.

Secondly, I'm having some troubles getting the next chapter written (viz. I can't think of what comes next and am faffing my time away laying around watching tv), so if y'all have any brilliant ideas, lay them on me! I'm not planning on jumping straight into the 'action', as it were. I know you've been reading for nearly 9 000 words without so much as a kiss (or rather, just receiving one now), but I really don't want to rush this, as it can be more than that, I think. So, with that in mind, if you have anything that I should think about, please do tell me. I'm interested to hear your feedback!

Third: I just want to know...well, basically, I want to know what you think of our two protagonists? I'm trying to figure out where this has to go next, but I want to try to get to know Niels and Malcolm better before I do. So, I thought what better way to get to know them than to see them through your eyes? And so, if you would be willing/interested, I'd love to know what you think about them.

Thank you once again, my readers. Your involvement means the world to me.

 

[Q12]

Great chapter!!! Been waiting for that moment! I do hope the next one brings the 'big' scene though!

I think not rushing it is great, I mean straight to the action stories are nice in their own regards, but sometimes a more human element and development makes the story more interesting. It just makes it more believable than two random strangers meeting and then have sex 5 minutes later.

I love the characters personally. I think we know a fair bit about them which is nice, but I do think a little more could be revealed about Niels. But I imagine that could naturally flow after the 'action' scene and an subsequent intimacy. It makes sense that we wouldnt know TOO much about him at the current point, because until late, hes made shorter appearances and generally other things were going on besides an interaction between the two of them.

Im sure whatever you do will be great, and I cant wait to see it!

 

[4357]

Dear Crat,
You are a gifted writer! Crystal clear details and dialogue generate a wonderfully detailed image of your story. Excellent! Do continue...
X

 

[Crataegus]

Chapter Six–or is that seven? I've been up for 28h now, can't remember any more–will be up as soon as I get some sleep then proof it to make sure it makes sense (I'm not sure at this point…and this is why one shouldn't write when over-tired).

Sorry to keep you all waiting! On the plus side, I broke 10 000 words with this next chapter, with plenty more to come!

And on that note, good night! Don't expect me to stay up writing for y'all every night!

 

[Crataegus]

Ugh. I'm sorry this has been so long in coming, when I said it would be up the day before yesterday. I ended up not sleeping until late the night before last (a long story involving a park, new underwear, and pancakes), and when I ended up rereading it yesterday morning, I realised that it was all shit. So, I was rewriting it all day yesterday. I'm still not entirely sure whether I like it, but there we are. An artist's work is never done, if I can be so hubristic as to call myself an 'artist'. Please note, I had to split this up into two parts as it's gotten too long to fit all in one post.

And so, without further ado.

Chapter Six: Part I

While the piano continued playing its song of longing, my lips touched his. He did not press in and devour my mouth in a kiss of passion; instead he let my mouth find his—we kissed in a gentle joy instead of in the flames of true passion. I'm definitely not one to shy away from a passionate kiss—I've had my share of barn-burners in my time, and I'm not afraid to let one happen again; but to turn the temperature up on this kiss would be to spoil it in some inexpressible way; it was a kiss that one has but once in a life-time, as it was the kiss of the ultimate recognition of a love that has burnt brightly in the shadows of the deep hidden recesses of one's heart—the shadows that one doesn't know exist until by some miracle, the one who holds the key to their light bursts into your life and sheds a glow of pure existence across your being. And so, our bodies pressing together—his warmth spread through my body, both through his form pressed against mine, but so too through the luminous harmony spreading from my heart—we stood, our lips only making but the sparest movements so as not to burst this subtle and delicate sanctuary of stillness in the yawning tempest of time that surrounds one at every second of one's fragile existence on this turning mote of dust in the vast void of nothingness.

With the force of our feeling still reverberating through the room, we pulled apart a mite, only enough to let time come rushing back into the vacuum of separation left of our haven from the world. At some point during our kiss—using such a simple word for the act we'd just performed seems near to sullying it, but such is the way with indescribables and language, is it not?—his heavy arms had found their way to surrounding me: one behind, reaching around my waist to find a rest on my side, the other around my shoulders, half-tucking me into the strong crook of his arm; both of my arms were around his neck, holding each-other in a mirror image of our own embrace. We held one another for an endless moment—a short eternity, it felt like, but perhaps the mind has its own tricks to play, switching the endless and the finite in moments of sublime exultancy—until it felt all at once as though his body and mine were not entirely separate beings. His eyes—a blue to make the sea weep salt tear-floods in envy—shone at me with a ferocity of emotion that I wasn't expecting.

We parted, our arms disentangling themselves. He stared at me; I stared back. Words seemed to be the most useless invention of man ever devised at that moment. After all, when one shares such an experience, how does one speak thereof? Is it possible? Perhaps I've managed to convey some shadow of what I know to be true. Whatever the case, I knew that I wasn't the only one for whom time had stopped.

He opened his mouth slowly, as if to speak. He stopped and closed it again—now was not the time for words, his silent expression seemed to say; now was the time to speak in a way only the body knows how; and with a small step towards me, he closed the distance—he towered over me in a way I found oddly thrilling—and looked into my eyes for a hungry moment before bending himself down towards me. I stood up on my toes, closing the distance. This was yet another kind of touch yet.

This was truly the touch of passion. It was as though a bolt had struck us both blind, deaf, and dumb to the world around us; all we could do was feel one another—the heat of his body; the rough stubble adorning his cheeks; the strong firmness of his arms—and so we did. As we kissed, his hands explored my body, lightly brushing over as though he were discovering the touch of another person for the first time. I ran my hand down his back, feeling the power his body held in check while he touched my bruised body.

Again we parted, and this time it was clear what his eyes were saying. 'I've wanted to do that since the day I saw you, Malcolm.' he said in a low voice. 'I didn't think you were interested.'

Not interested? How could I not be! He drops into my life like an atom bomb—no, not an atom bomb; that brings about the old Oppenheimer quote: I am become death, destroyer of worlds; this must be a sort of atom repairer—don't give me that look, I don't do physics; as far as I'm concerned, microwaves are really boxes which hold hundreds of fairies which use magic to cook the food—to have taken my scattered life and suddenly make it absolutely clear and absolutely simple. The winding course of fate has been all at once warped, the weft being shocked sharply into crystalline alignment.

I shook my head slowly at him—the piano's song of longing was fading now, washing back into the mists of the orchestral stage; did it find its love? I'm not entirely certain to this day, but I know every time I hear that music, I remember this moment me and Niels shared, and the ebbing is not the resignation of a heart to failed longing, but the gentle blossoming of something deeper and altogether more beautiful—and smiled. It felt good to smile. Smiling had been a difficult task in the hours since...well, since—let me suffice to just say that—and when he was there, I didn't feel the need to couch my smile in restraints of social decency. After all, one mustn't smile when there's not been some amusing anecdote told which one is to smile at. Bollocks to that.

With a steady hand, Niels reached slowly up, brushing my short hair back with a crusty sort of sound. He frowned. 'Come, Malcolm. We need to get you properly cleaned up.'

I smiled sheepishly and nodded. Getting the previous night properly cleaned off—possibly with the hottest water I could find, and the strongest soap he had. Always wash the past away to get dirty again another day, as my grandmother would say.

He turned, starting to head out of the room. He paused and looked back. All of a sudden, he strode back over to me, and with nary a word, picked me up, carrying me down the hall. I squeaked in surprise, instantly wrapping my arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. I didn't think he'd drop me—after all, it's not like I would be that heavy for him—but the body does strange things when it jumps into autopilot.

I wondered how high up I was at that moment. After all, I'd never seen the world from that perspective, and it set off the curiosity circuits in my brain without me meaning to actually blurt the question out, 'Niels, how tall are you? Six-three? Six-four?'

He chuckled and shook his head, 'Normally I don't answer that question—you wouldn't believe how often I get asked it—but for you, I will...but you first.'

I sighed and half-hid my face in his shoulder. Usually I'm not embarrassed about my height—after all, it's not like I can do anything about it, right?—but with him being so...frankly, overwhelmingly masculine—it's hard not to look that way while bodily carrying another grown man—and right there, I suddenly became bashful about it. 'I'm...five-foot-three.' I mumbled, blushing as we—or rather, he, as I wasn't the one moving—stepped into the bathroom. It was tasteful; done in dark browns and accents of Lincoln green. The first thing I noticed about the bathroom however, was the extra-large shower. I'm used to the bathtub showers, where if you're any taller than 5'10” you need to duck to properly rinse your hair—funnily enough, they work just fine for me—and so this thing was something very different than my norm. Attached directly to the ceiling was what looked like a clear glass bowl with assorted coloured stones (of course, tastefully matching the rest of the bathroom) and a number of small holes in the glass. I wasn't, to be truthful, entirely certain that it was a shower when I first saw it.

'I see you like what I've done with the room, hmm? I had that shower specially made because I was tired of the stupid faucet ones that ran too hard, too soft, or' he sniggered quietly for a moment, 'or too short.' He kissed me lightly on the cheek—his stubble was prickly, but not abrasive, and it sent a quick shiver running through me. It was a very simple gesture, but one with a great significance: When one kisses someone else's mouth, they get kissed back—it's a sort of kiss tit-for-tat; but when one kisses the cheek of another, it does nothing but give them comfort, companionship, or whatever the purpose of the gesture was; it's useless for the giver, and thus all the more precious to receive from him. I assure you, I wasn't thinking such thoughts at the time, but in the times since, I've come across a depth that I didn't see then.

When he had first picked me up, I'd done what anyone would: Wrap your legs around their waist, and hold on. Now that we'd arrived at our destination, I carefully unwrapped myself from around him and put my feet—wait a minute...my feet weren't touching the ground. I stretched out my feet...and still nothing. I guess he was more than a foot—pardon the pun—taller than I am. He felt my toes brush his pant leg as I did this and chuckled, 'Are you trying to tickle me there? Or are you trying to do this...' he lowered me down until my toes touched the floor. He let me down just enough to stand on my tiptoes, but his arms still under my own prevented me from standing back on my feet proper. I held steady for a few seconds before I over balanced myself and had to lean on him. I collapsed forward into a hug.

He folded his arms around me in return, my feet were let to fall back to lay flat. I nuzzled my face into his chest—for not having showered for the day, and having carried me from the other room, he smelt fantastic. I let my hands fall slowly, feeling the strong muscles of his back. One hand left my back for a moment, reaching over towards the wall. I heard him pick up something and suddenly I could hear the music from the other room being paired by its equal in this room—a declamatory orchestra was beating out a savage sort of off-kilter waltz; this was a music far from the longing of the previous music. He chuckled to himself, holding a hand out as if to say 'Just wait for it...'

The piano broke in over the orchestra, its song sweet and tender. 'So much refined that ourselves know not what it is.' he said quietly, smiling.

I frowned in thought, a realisation coming to mind suddenly, 'This is going to sound odd, but...did you write this?'

He merely nodded, 'Interassurèd of the mind, care less, eyes' he used a thumb to brush my cheek, 'lips,' he brushed over my bottom lip, 'and hands to miss.' he dropped his hand down to dwarf mine in his. 'It's based on a poem. Beautiful one by John Donne.' he paused, looking into my eyes. 'You're a beautiful man, Malcolm.' he smiled at me a moment. 'But' his tone changed to a jovial smirk, 'you'd be even better clean!'

Of course, I blushed, the reddness creeping down my neck. 'B-but...' I searched around for something to stall with—my nerves had finally come back. As I said earlier, I've not done terribly for myself now that I've spent the time getting into some sort of shape (a shape other than my previously rounded one, that is); that didn't make the prospect of him seeing me sans clothing any less nervewracking. Aha! I found my excuse! 'But you still haven't answered my question!'

He tsked and shook his head, 'Now now, there's no point in stalling. After all, I've already seen you shirtless, remember?'

Damn. He was right. And he knew I knew it. I sighed and my hand went to the button at my collar—granted, it was lower than my actual collars because it was a number of sizes too big—and began the ritual of unbuttoning. After the first one was undone, he smiled and gently brushed my hands aside. 'Let me.' he said as he continued. I had a small amount of red-blonde fuzz on my chest, but nothing to write home about. Being a redhead, apart from certain notable exceptions, I tend to have a light reddish-blonde coating of hair. He paused unbuttoning to run his index finger lightly down the centre of my chest to where he'd undone the shirt to. After a moment fiddling with the button, he began his trip down the shirt anew. The music had taken the savage dancing rhythm of the orchestra and sweetened it with the loving song of the piano and seemed to be circling around a conclusion that it couldn't quite reach. The soloist and the collective hearkening to one another over the flow of notes and chords. Circling circling circling, they danced around one another, closing the gap for an instant before careering apart again. It was exhilarating. This man, taking his time to do this intimate act of getting me undressed; this music, swooning between the savage and the sublime.

 

[Crataegus]

Chapter Six: Part II

Finally, as the piano and orchestra crossed paths once again with a flourish of recognition, the shirt slid languidly off my shoulders to puddle at my feet. The air pressed close, sending a small shiver through me.

Without word, he pulled his tshirt over his own head. I drank in the sight of him; his stomach carved in even rows like marching soldiers; his chest, strong and broad; his shoulders holding up his corded neck and that beautiful smile. His chest had a fair dusting of blonde hair; thicker than mine, but you may not know from a first glance, as the hairs were near colourless. His expression changed subtly, the open smile twisting into a slightly worried look. 'You're still nervous, aren't you?' it wasn't really a question—it was probably clear as day to him that I was; I wasn't really trying to hide it—but instead a simple statement. 'You shouldn't be. You're a very handsome man, Malcolm.' he emphasised the last word with a hand placed in the centre of my chest—it was warm, gentle.

He looked at me for another moment before turning away and turning on the shower. He fiddled with the taps for a while, one arm stuck out under the downpour. When satisfied, he turned back. The steam was already forming in the air. It dulled the senses; the music had a veil over it, softening the renewed savagery of the orchestra—where had the piano gone? Where was its hand on the rudder, steering the group away from their violent sounds?—it misted the eyes, turning the room into a shadowplay of silhouettes and hazy shapes. His voice, still clear, came through the steam to me. 'If you stand by the mirror, you can have a bit of privacy. The steam should be thick enough soon.'

So it was, and as I stood by the mirror, I could see his form move through the mist till it was hidden around the tiled side of the shower. Breath in; breath out. I took off my socks, folding them carefully—I was stalling, you see—and putting them on the counter. The air was thick now, and the mirror held no secrets about what the room around me held. I slowly undid my belt and then my button and flies. I pushed down my jeans, along with my briefs—that's right, the secret's out, I'm a briefs man—leaving me standing bared to the warm mist and the glowing music. I bent over, folded my other clothes and lined them up along next to the socks. I couldn't see myself in the mirror as anything but a vague form. I closed my eyes; the music flowed over me. The circling around seemed to have begun to close in on a climax. The orchestra for the first time took up the piano's melody, singing it out across time and space; a clarion call to beauty.

My reverie broke when I felt an arm reach past my head. As my eyes opened, I saw a hand wiping away the steam condensed on the mirror. It revealed Niels standing behind me—maybe I was wrong about my original guess of 6'3”—a smile on his face. 'Hello Malcolm.' He wrapped his arms around me and pulled my bare form against his own.

As we stood, the piano and orchestra finally met in an apotheosis of sound and a triumph of the searching, circling lovers. The piano proclaimed its theme, and in the same breath, that of the orchestra. They sang together, voices mingling and becoming one triumphant chorale. His arms held me close, and the music finally ended, the final chords resounding with a glorious finality.

Those who had loved and never met, all at once, had found each other. And they saw that it was good.

 

[Q12]

ahhhhhh you would stop right there! :biggrin1:

Great work as usual! Continue soon please!!! haha, I need to know what happens next! :wink:

 

[AcidA]

Absolutely awesome chapter, wish it hadn't ended... While I know that you shouldn't rush an artist:

GIVE US MORE DAMNIT!!!

 

[Crataegus]

Just a quick question for my readers (before you ask, yes, I've already started on Chapter Seven--had done before I actually posted Six :tongue. I tend to have a fairly paranthetical style, with lots of side-comments. I do it in part because that's just how I speak (A.D.D. leads to that a lot), and in part because I like filling out the story some without intruding too heavily on the action. My question is this:

Should I try to cut back on the asides, keep them as they are, or have more of them?

I'm not saying that I'll follow the advice for this story, but for the next one, I'll keep your suggestions in mind. The main reason I probably won't follow the advice in this one is because I want a unity of style through it, which would be kind of defeated by changing part-way through.

Any other suggestions, of course, are welcome.

I know it was mean to cut the chapter where I did, but it was getting too long (nearly 3 000 words for that chapter, versus Chapter Three's barely 900), and I saw a good opportunity to break for the next chapter. So I'm not going to apologise for it, even if it's a tease.

 

[AcidA]

Honestly, keep it just the way it is

 

[Q12]

I think the side-comments are fine as long as you feel they dont overly break the flow.

 

[Crataegus]

Well, I was bored and lonely last night (New Year's Eve by yourself isn't fun, and I don't plan on repeating it again), so I decided I'd give y'all a bit of a gift. I've been working on it since before 22h00, and I got the next chapter done. As it's now mid-morning, and I haven't slept since last year, I'm going to try to head to bed now.

As always, thanks for reading, and tell me what you think! Your feedback (whether culpatory or laudatory) is always helpful!

Just a warning, this part is a long one, and I think you'll like it.

Chapter Seven: Part I

As the last notes of Niels' music ebbed away, I felt myself getting lost in his embrace. And before you ask, yes, he was naked, and yes, his dick was indeed pressing against me—needless to say, it was pretty awesome—but that wasn't what was important at that moment. Seeing his smiling face above my own smiling—albeit swollen—face in his mirror made the last 24 hours that bit more bearable. I let myself sink into his body, my head lolling back against his chest, my eyes closing.

As we stood, I let my mind touch the feelers of sensation springing from our contact: I could feel the short hair on my head against the coarser, sparser hair on his chest; I could feel his heart beating—tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump—deep behind the wall of muscle and bone that formed his chest; I could feel him press against me more firmly in a steady rhythm with each breath; I could feel the soft skin of his stomach pressing against the middle of my back—voids in the firm surface which could only have been the taut bands of sinew enshrining the most coveted of muscular forms chiselled into his stomach; I could feel his penis against the small of my back—a hot shape only touching lightly, but unmistakable in its form; I could feel the strength of his arms as they held me to him. I let my senses expand, one by one, to encompass the full sensation of him. I could smell him—a light, masculine sent; I could hear his breaths—in, out, in, out; I could taste the light tang of the steam with every inhalation.

Of a sudden mind, I pulled away from him—not far, just enough to turn around to face him. I faced the centre of his chest, close enough that my nose was tickled by the hairs there. His hand rose to my chin, lifting it softly. I stood up on my tiptoes, and we kissed again. Our lips met, our tongues darted, and our hands searched questioningly on each other's bodies to find an anchor. As we separated a fraction of an inch, a smile lifted his lips, 'Not so nervous now, are you?'

I kissed him again. We broke again. 'How could I be with you here?' I pressed closer to him to emphasise my reply. I pressed my face into his chest, sighing contently.

He chuckled, 'Now now. We have to get clean, otherwise we'll never get anything done.'

With a sigh, I pulled my arms back to my sides and took a step back—of course, I found the counter by accident and fell back onto a hand. Niels' chuckle smiled at me through the still thickening mist. 'If you're trying to be enticing, you don't have to try. But I've steeled myself against your wiles and am hardened against the idea of taking advantage while you're not yet washed.'

A blush spread across my face again as I quickly righted myself and cleared my throat. 'Well then...er....' I took a couple steps forward till I was standing next to the glass enclosure around the shower, 'Shall we...get to it?' I blushed further as I accidentally innuendoed back at him.

He laughed and headed into the steamy glassed-in room that was his shower. 'Slow down, tiger. We have all the time in the world to get all sudsy. No need to rush.'

I followed him—now, I'm not really a top (you try getting people at least a half-foot taller than you to agree to bottom, then ask me why), but I do like me a nice arse, and by George his fit the bill. As Anna might say of her girl-of-the-hour's breasts: Perky, with all kinds of attitude—under the spray, stepping carefully so as not to slip.

The water was hot—nearly too hot, but I've always liked my showers and baths either scalding or freezing; it's strange, but we all have our quirks, right?—and it made me groan as I got used to the steady raining heat. Niels waited on the outskirts of the spray, letting me take the vast majority of the water. Perhaps he saw how much I was enjoying it—or perhaps he was enjoying watching me—but I'm unsure either way. All I knew was that the heat of the water and the steady falling rhythm felt divine on my weary and aching body. First I let the water fall over my back, letting it simply drip over me, forming thin rivulets down my sides and legs. Once the ache had begun to leave my back, I lifted my head to let the water go down my front, forming the strange patterns that it always makes in chest hair as the chaos of water combs it every which direction. My god it was a wonderful feeling. I looked down for a moment and opened my eyes; the water flowing away into the drain was very lightly stained with red. The relics of the night before were washing away.

While I had been enjoying my soaking, a quiet orchestra had begun playing quiet, probing, questioning chords. Suddenly, with a bang, the orchestra took up a merry tune. Needless to say, this startled me, and it was only thanks to Niels—having stepped forward to get in somewhat under the shower—steadying me with a hand on my shoulder, that I didn't fall over. 'Sorry about that. I forgot that it was quite a sudden introduction. At least it gave me the chance to get closer to you, right?' As he spoke, Niels stepped closer, and I stepped back, giving him space under the stream of water. I finally looked him over from stem to stern, taking my time. After all, his eyes were closed, and he was stretching languidly under the water.

The water served only to highlight the definition of his body. His arms, which he rose from time to time while stretching, were thick with muscles, his forearms showing thick ropey veins in a number of places. Moving across and down, I looked over his shoulders, and on down to his fuzzy chest. Just as my hair had done, his began making intricate swirls in the water, which aided the contrast as I looked down over the tight stomach with its ridges and valleys. Down in the central valley of his abs I saw a trail of hair leading its way down away from his navel, until the peaks flattened into the expanse below his stomach, and the small trail broadened out into the neatly trimmed patch that was his groin. His waist cut in around his hips, pointing my gaze as the markings on a flower guide a bee, and between that trail of hair and the Apollo's belt, my eyes could not help but continue down.

And what a sight my eyes saw there. Now, I'm not good at guessing lengths, heights, or weights by sight alone—which explains why I first thought he was only six-foot-three—but I know what size the average guy's royal jewels are—after all, I've known my fair share of them—and these were.... Well, they'd make any man proud to have them. I swear I'm not a size-queen—my ex was significantly smaller than average, and we fucked like rabbits—but there's nothing wrong with enjoying a big one either. It hung pendulously, the tip extending a good distance past the equally proportioned sac behind it. It was long, it was thick, it still showed a foreskin, and it suited his otherwise extra-large frame very well.

I do well for myself in that department, being a touch above average myself—although, honestly, I'm fairly average apart from the thickness, which is somewhat above the norm. But what with most of my partners having been strict tops, it's never really come up—not that it has any trouble coming up, hell, it was coming up as I looked in on him—so I don't really bother trying to brag about being proportioned beyond my height.. Still, he made me look quite small. As I said, I'm fine with being smaller than someone else—you tend to build a pretty thick skin at my height—but the degree was still a bit startling.

Finally his eyes opened and he grinned at me—I blushed (would you expect anything less of me at this point?), which only broadened his smile. 'You must be getting cold out there. You should come close; you know, get cozy. After all, I don't bite.' he chuckled to himself, 'Well, not unless certain other things are happening too.'

With a red flush still staining my cheeks, I took a half-step closer to him. His only response to my hesitancy was to raise a single eyebrow and sigh. 'Don't make me carry you over here. Did the sight of me naked so horrify you that you're now scared to get close?' he smirked as he spoke, evidencing the good-natured teasing in his words. I closed the distance to stand before him lamely, blinking as the water flowed down over me.

 

[Crataegus]

Chapter Seven: Part II

Niels sighed, 'I guess I'll just have to take the lead then.' he stepped closer still, till we were near touching again. He reached behind me to put a large hand on the small of my back—at least, the majority of his hand was on the small of my back; there was a good portion of it which was a bit south of there—and pushed lightly but steadily. At his coaxing, I moved closer still, pressing out wet bodies together. I stood on my tiptoes and he leaned in to kiss me. There was water flowing over my upturned face, and it poured over our lips as we kissed, but it only added to the sensory feel of the shared experience. As his tongue flicked against my lips, enticing them to part, his hand moved down to knead my arse in his hand.

We broke lips and a small noise escaped me. He pushed me forward, stepping back at the same time and using my arse as leverage, until his cock was pressed firmly against my stomach and we had left the downpour. I wasn't certain, but I was pretty sure that his prick had been somewhat smaller last time I'd felt it pressed up against me like that. 'Now. We should make sure you get cleaned up.' he held me in place with his hand on my backside, while reaching over my shoulder to grab a bottle of shampoo from a recess in the wall. 'Hold out your hand?' I followed his direction, trying desperately not to think of his cock pressing against me—as much as it was an intimate situation, I didn't want to get a hardon quite so intrusively, especially when he didn't have one of his own to match it. I mostly failed, of course, and was by this point sporting a fair semi, although I tend to hang until I'm nearly fully erect, so it wasn't quite as obvious as it could be.

With a squirt, he deposited a loonie-sized amount of the shampoo on my hand, and I began lathering it into my hair. It didn't take long, and before you can say something that takes about thirty seconds to say, I was standing with a large poof of suds hiding my coppery hair. He motioned for me to put out my hand again, and he squirted the bottle into it again. Did I mention that this whole time, he'd continued kneading my arse in a way that still distracts me to this day as I think about it? No? Well he was. And it was getting harder to ignore it as we stayed locked together by his grip.

I sudsed up his hair as I had mine, and he pushed me back into the water by stepping forward, and letting momentum do its thing. I resisted slightly—I admit it, I mainly did it so he'd press against me more fully, but damn it, you would have done the same—but made no effort in avoiding going backwards. With the shampoo safely back in its cubby and my hair thoroughly rinsed, his free hand reached up to the cut on my forehead. 'It looks like you'll be fine. Just don't pick a fight with any doorframes, lampposts, or pavement, and it should heal with no problems.'

I nodded. It was about time I took some initiative of my own. Enough of this shy-guy shit. I was a man, he was hot, and I wasn't going to let my nervousness stop me. Okay, so I'd let it stop me from taking any sort of real immediate initiative, but it wasn't going to stop me from showing him that I was pretty damn okay with what was happening. My left hand rose up slowly to brush his side lightly; up and down; and finally landing on his hip.

'So you are able to move. Well then, why don't you come up here and say hi properly.' He smirked at me.

He didn't need to ask twice.

I stood up straighter, my hand reaching up to the nape of his neck, and I pulled him down towards me. Remember how I mentioned that I wasn't afraid of barn-burner kisses? Well, if you didn't believe me before, believe me now, because damn this man was a magician with his tongue. He flicked his tongue in, touching my tongue, my teeth, brushing against my lips, and all of it sending shivers up my spine and back down to end directly in my steadily inflating dick.

I continued kissing him, but I moved my lips so they trailed across his jaw, tracing the squared lines of it. His stubble prickled slightly, but I've always liked that feeling. It can get...abrasive if it's used over-zealously, but that wasn't a problem, as I wasn't planning on staying there long. I continued brushing my lips—not quite a kiss, but something more subtle; almost as if I were trying to read the braille of his body—down his neck and along his shoulder. I stopped, looking up at him as though I were asking permission. He nodded very slightly, and I needed no more encouragement than that.

I tilted my head down slightly—for I needed no change in height other than that—and ran my lips lightly over his nipple. He made a very quiet, very deep sound from the bottom of his chest. I did it again, and was similarly rewarded with the sound. I placed my lips over the stiffening peak of his nipple and touched my tongue to it. Only a moment, but the sound repeated, louder this time. I pulled back and looked up at him, a cheeky grin on my face. I was getting near hard by this point, and it was only by stepping back quickly into the cooler air away from the falling water that I was able to keep some semblance of flaccidness.

Quickly, I went to the other side of the shower from him, the cheeky grin still adorning my face. I took a look around and found the second recess in the wall where the soap was sitting daintily on a small rest. I grabbed it, swung it momentarily out under the water, and began to build up a thick layer of suds on my hands. Niels grinned at me in a playful manner. His long legs took him nearly to me in only a single stride, and it was only by deking around him that I got to the other side of the shower before he was upon me.

'Is that how it is, Malcolm? That's how you want this?' he grinned.

I nodded, deking around him as he advanced again. On my way by, I swiped his back with a heavily soaped hand, leaving a trail of bubbles along it. 'You're the one who said we need to get clean, so what's the problem?'

We went around the shower a few more times before he caught me on my way past. I plastered my hands on his chest, covering it in a soapy film. 'There. Now, I better make sure you don't miss any spots.' I said with growing confidence. I put the soap in the recess beside me and before he could reach up to do it himself, I began to rub the suds over him. Firm, but gentle. That's how my masseuse friend (Anna's sister, as it happened) told me to massage someone, and who was I to argue?

He watched intently as I went about my task. I concentrated on making sure my hands covered every part of him with the soap. I rubbed over his chest first teasing his nipples again as I did, reaching upwards to massage the bulk of his shoulders and neck. I went down one arm, then the other, pausing to get more soap on my hands in between. I held his large hands—even with both of mine rubbing his, he still dwarfed my grip on his hand—and massaged them, each finger getting attentions of its own. I motioned for him to turn, and he did wordlessly. I spent a long time on his back, pausing here and there to work at a knot or a kink. I received some please grunts when I found one and worked it out.

Here's where it gets tricky. Do you continue working your way down, and do his arse and junk next, or do you go down to the feet and work back up? The first way, you end up missing the feet and legs—and don't try to pretend that you don't know why—and the second way you end up doing things out of order. A small problem, I know, but its one that one is forced to tackle when one is with an extremely attractive man in a shower while washing him slowly and making sure you get every part of him. Every part.

I decided on the latter solution—and would be rewarded for it, as I soon found out. And I knelt behind him—damn that was a nice arse, and it was sitting there in front of me—and worked on his feet, then up his calves—which, I should add, were probably getting close to as thick as my biceps. I stopped there, admiring the view in front of me for a moment before moving on to his hamstrings, rubbing them and getting every square milimetre clean and soapy.

Now for the moment of truth.

I tapped his foot, and he looked around and down at me. I made a motion for him to turn around.

He smiled to me cryptically for a moment before turning slowly, bringing what he'd smiled about into view.

I stared at it, and it stared right back. With a slight curve to the right, and an equally slight curve upward, his cock stood at attention in front of my face. And my previous estimates had indeed been correct; he wasn't average. Not by a fairly wide margin, and he was the owner of by far the thickest dick I'd seen.

I swallowed hard, determined to finish what I'd started. Had my hands been shaking nervously like that before? I didn't think they had, but perhaps. I rubbed his quads slowly, looking up at the giant towering before me—and I don't just mean the man, if you catch my drift—from time to time.

When I'd gone over the mass of his quads, I bit my lip nervously. It's not that I hadn't been with a guy before—we've already established that, I hope—and it's not that I hadn't seen a big dick before—not all of my exes were small—it was that this particular big dick was attached to an incredible man. He was kind, funny, smart, and let's not be coy about this, sexy as fuck.

My own cock sticking out at its usual ninety degrees—and hard as fuck, let me tell you—I reached out and hesitantly began to rub my soapy hand over dick. I wasn't rubbing it in a sexual manner, but when you're rubbing a cock, I suppose everything is relative. Above me, as I carefully pulled back his foreskin to clean the whole thing, I heard a deep growling moan escape him. So he was enjoying himself. Good. I still was determined to get him clean without it turning into a blowjob on the spot. And god damn was it hard—I mean difficult, of course. I moved on to getting the soap in his neatly trimmed pubes, the lather turning them prematurely white. Last, but certainly not least—no part of this man was least—I reached out and gently soaped up his balls, rolling them lightly in one hand. They were hanging quite loose and they were big. Many times—my ex included—when a guy has a big dick, his balls look too small for him. Niels didn't have that problem. The two extra-large eggs hanging low in his sac left no doubt about it: He was well hung, and well proportioned.

After a few moments longer fondling his balls, the soap making them slick and hard to get a proper feel on, I pulled my hand away. Without a word, I put my hands under the water still coming down and rinsed them clean of soap. I stood up.

The soapy giant grinned at me, his cock sticking out steel-rod hard. 'I guess I'm clean then. But after the teasing you just gave me, I'm not sure I should let you get away with quickly soaping yourself down. I don't think that would be hardly fair. So, you stand there, and I'll get you nice and clean.' He stepped under the water, rinsing the lather off with a teasing slowness. His hands rubbing the soap off with a seductive slowness that made my already-hard prick spring to attention harder still.

And so he did. Following my lead, he got me equally soapy, paying special attention to my own member. He played with the head, seemingly curious about my lack of foreskin. My parents weren't Jewish, but my mother had insisted that her best-friend's aunt's daughter was a medicologist (or something like that), and she said that it was vital boys be circumcised. So I got the snip. He ran a finger very lightly over the white line of the scar, which drove me crazy. My toes curled under my feet and I couldn't help but let out a quite moan.

When he was satisfied, he motioned for me to rinse. I did, my eyes stuck on him, his eyes glued to me. When the last vestiges of bubbles had left my skin, he stepped quickly forward, put a hand to the back of my head, and we kissed again under the falling water.

While our tongues were still dancing, and our lips still duelling, he reached over to the wall and turned off the shower. We stayed, air-drying while the last of the water drained away, our lips locked together.

When we pulled apart, he grinned at me, a hand brushing down my side like a feather-stroke. 'Get dried off. Don't want you to catch a chill.' he smirked a cheeky grin at me, stepped out of the shower, and before I could react, a large fluffy towel was thrown at my head. When I left the shower myself and looked around, wrapping the towel inexpertly around my waist, I found him gone. I furrowed my brows. What was he planning?

 

[AcidA]

What a start to the new year!

 

[Q12]

Fantastic as usual. Cant wait to see what Niels is up to in the next chapter!

 

[Crataegus]

I'm trying something a little different with the next section. I won't put it up till I have both it and the next chapter done. If you don't want to, you don't have to read the section before Chapter Eight, but you can (and I encourage you to do so!). If this next section works well, I may do it again (I've numbered it in anticipation of doing so), and would appreciate your thoughts on whether it works or not.

I realise this is cryptic, but it'll make sense when I put it up. I'm going to try to get it all done tonight, but I'm not going to promise anything, as I've not really started yet, and as things are running, that's a few hours of writing. :tongue:

 

[Q12]

Looking forward to it!

 

[Crataegus]

Chapter Eight is on its way to being done, and I shan't go to bed tonight until I've finished it. So, in the mean time, I'll put up the next section. Just to tide you over.

If you don't want to read this, you don't have to. It's not vital to the story. Of course, I'd prefer you did, but you don't have to.

As always, comments, questions, and criticism are welcome!

Interlude I:

Now, I know what you're expecting. You're expecting me to pause right when it's getting good and keep you waiting. You'd be right. And that's why I'm going to say that just this once you can skip ahead to the next part of the story. I know me and Malcolm going at it like especially horny rabbits is what you came here for, but damn it, I want to prove that I'm more than just a guy who knocks up the hero of the story. So, this next section is a bit more about me. Self-centred, I know, but I don't care.

Why don't I start off by filling in a few of the blanks that have been left by Malcolm's telling of the story so far? First off, my full name is Niels Carl Eetu Østergård-Hämäläinen (though I usually spell it Oestergaard-Hamalainen over here, and often drop the second half; and if you're wondering why my family switched from the traditional Østergaard to how it now is, it's because my grandfather decided he liked the look of the letter å better than aa). I'm 26 years-old, and I'm the only son of Anders Kristian Østergård and Johanna Aina Hämäläinen, a Dane and a Finn.

They met one day while my father was on a holiday in Finland. She was studying history at the local university, and met him on the tram. When they first met, my mother saw him and found him to be the most handsome man she'd ever seen. He wore his fedora like a moviestar, she later told me. He thought she was a vision of loveliness, and told her such in his rich baritone. Unfortunately for the young lovers, he spoke not one word of Finnish, and she spoke a similar amount of Danish. Eventually, through a rough pidgin of Swedish (which they could both understand, though my father's ability to speak it was a bit rough), Danish, and Finnish, they managed to fall hopelessly in love.

Over the years, my mother learnt to speak Danish like a Fynsk native. Neither of them have learnt English, in part because both of them are from the country, and in part because knowing three languages was enough. They'd already spent a good amount of time learning each-other's native tongues. Well, I say they learnt each-other's languages; it would be more accurate to say my mother learnt Danish and my father learnt how to embarrass himself by trying to speak Finnish.

My first memory as a child is that of my mother. She was leaning over me as I lay in my bed. She said something—her words have been lost to the tides of time—and leant over to kiss my forehead softly. She was a caring woman, and often went out of her way to do things that other people didn't. She would do things like walk down to my school when I forgot my lunch, spend the whole night darning a sock I'd mangled because 'It's my Thursday sock! I can't wear those socks, because those are for Friday!' even though I'd already worn them out of order. She often baked my father his favourite biscuits, and never forced him to eat Finnish food. I've always liked it even if he didn't. To this day, if I want to feel at home I'll make some of my mother's food. Heavy rye bread, pungent jams, and baked cheese. Of course, I can't get most of the things I need to make these, but I do my best—as all immigrants do.

I grew up with the sounds of my father's Danish and my mother's Finnish in my ears. While she did not like to sing for others, my father was a man who would never say something if he had a tune to sing it. He was the de facto leader of a small local choir in my hometown, and he later got me singing there too. When I was a boy my voice was, like most young boys, high and sweet, and my father beamed to hear me. I loved those days. He once heard me singing one of my mother's songs (I remember the words to this day, though my Finnish leaves much to be desired) and decided at that moment that he would do everything in his power to make sure that music would be my life. As I grew older, like all young men, my voice broke. I lost my soft and sweet voice. I did not get the rich baritone of my father, and was left with a somewhat coarse bass. My father was disappointed, I knew. I learnt to play the piano and later the French horn, and let their voices sing when I no longer could sing with a soft voice.

When I was still young we moved into a small flat in Odense. Because I had grown up as my father had in a small house in the countryside on Funen, moving to the large city was a seismic change for me. My bike ride to school had changed into a bus trip, my neighbours were only feet away from our front door, and most of all, the house which had always resounded with two languages steadily became a place of only one. The one thing I'll never forgive my mother for is not teaching me her native tongue. I've been working to learn, but it's a struggle to learn now that my once young and pliable brain has set in its ways. Perhaps one day, when I visit the homeland I've never seen, I'll be able to speak to my countrymen in our own language.

Of course, I grew up. And up, and up. I grew like a weed, and a strong one, my father told me then. I was the height I am now by the age of 17, and over the next three years broadened from a beanpole into the man I am now. Like every boy my age, I played football and was one of the relatively few to play rugby. I loved the competition of it. On the field, I wasn't a gawky teenager, but an athlete, and if it's not too arrogant to say so, quite a good one.

I was a good student, but never got top grades. I did well enough to enter the University of Copenhagen, and left home to study music there. I studied there for a year, spending much of my time doing something that I'd never gotten the chance to before: I wrote my own music. It was around this time too that I told my family the secret I'd held since my school-days. I liked other men. I didn't tell my father until after I'd told my mother. She smiled and nodded, saying something to herself in Finnish. I frowned and she told me that she had suspected, and that she was happy I had told her. I hugged her, and she cried into my shoulder. I told my father later that day and he merely told me that he was proud of me. He was never one for showing wide emotions. He just told me he was proud and moved onto a new topic. And there I was. I had told my parents my darkest secret and they'd done what they always had: Support me.

I left the university after only one year there. I wanted to travel; I wanted to see the world. So I went home for a few months, took back the job I'd had as a youth working in my neighbour's little corner store, and saved money until I could afford to make the biggest decision I'd ever made.

I moved to Vancouver five years ago and went to school there. I finished studying composition and wrote mainly piano pieces for me to play. I got a job working in a small medical clinic. I worked as a secretary for one of the doctors, and honestly couldn't care less about the job. The reason I kept going to work there is that there was a piano in the lobby. I couldn't afford my own, and the people who worked at the clinic were happy to have the old clunker used. So, every break I got I played, often playing things I'd written myself. I looked around and eventually found a small low-budget television show that hired me on as a composer. They liked my stuff! And better yet, this little science-fiction show gained a bit of a cult following, and they went from being a low-budget show to a higher budget. This ultimately meant that I moved out of my old shoebox apartment and into a larger flat with a view out over a small park.

I got to work on a few more things, and earlier this year I wrote the music for a film! I got the job from a friend-of-a-friend who had worked on the science-fiction show with me, and she had recommended me to the filmmakers. I used the money I got from this to do something I'd been dying to do since I left home those years ago: I bought my own piano. It wasn't some big massive grand, it was just a little baby-grand that barely fits in my flat. Unlike most of its kin, it has a deep red wood body and a nice heavy touch to it. It's an antique, and let me tell you, it was horrid to move into my place.

While I was going to school in Vancouver, I had a couple of flings, but the guys turned either to be not as serious as I wanted, or, as in the case of one, a cheating bastard. I don't particularly want to talk about my past relationships, as they weren't especially good ones or interesting ones.

To finish off, I suppose I'll tell you what I was doing in the days leading up to the beginning of this tale. I still write to home fairly regularly, sending a letter nearly every week. Of course, they're in Danish, but my father is at least picking up a little bit of English. My mother is on the decline, and I don't know how much longer she'll be able to write me back. Both she and my father write me back separately, but my mother's letter are getting shorter and her once beautifully lucid writing is getting jerkier and more angular. I half loathe when I receive a letter from her, because it serves as a reminder of the woman I knew when I was young, sitting on her lap, her clear voice singing out the songs handed down to her by her mother and her mother before.

I write music still, and was just putting the finishing touches on a sample for a commercial when this story began. It's not glamorous but it pays the bills. If they accept me, that is. In-between pieces written for money I've been writing more for the local orchestras, and recently played one of my pieces in concert. The very concerto I had put on the stereo for Malcolm.

Which, I suppose, brings us around full circle. You now know more about the man who found Malcolm. I'm not a terribly interesting man, but I am who I am. And who I am is Niels Carl Eetu Østergård-Hämäläinen. Or Oestergaard-Hamalainen, if you prefer.