Page 76 of A Boy Called Lovesong

Then, with his tongue moist and warm, he began to lick my aching balls.

He lapped up my testicles.

He sucked on my ball sack.

He ventured lower and teasingly flicked his tongue in and out of my ass.

I let out a groan, a sound that told him I wanted more. He obliged, pushing his tongue as far into my ass as it could reach. He lapped at the flexing and tensing muscles of my passage. He slid his tongue out and licked at the curls of hair that ringed my hole. And when he was done, he ran his tongue all the way up my balls, up the length of my shaft’s main vein, until he reached the crown of my cock and took it between his lips.

With a moan of ecstasy, I squeezed his dirty blond hair in both hands, while he slid my cock all the way into his mouth.

He sucked hard and groaned with an untamed hunger. It reverberated up and down the length of my dick as his head bobbed up and down, faster and faster.

It wasn’t long before I could feel the pressure and pleasure building.

I felt my balls ascending, about to unleash their load. By way of warning, I panted, “I’m gonna come… I’m gonna…”

But before I could finish the sentence, the dam burst and the first surge of cum filled Lovesong’s mouth.

The suction on my cock was so intense I let out a loud cry.

He swallowed hard, then quickly pulled my cock from his throat and pumped my saliva-wet shaft hard with his fist.

I watched as the second surge of cum shot onto his face, splashing over his lips and chin.

Lovesong caught his breath, surprised and beaming with delight at the sensation of my cum hitting his face.

The sight of him licking at his chin made me come even more.

The third and fourth explosion of cum spooled over his cheeks, even launched as high as his forehead, until soon my orgasm slowed to a spurt and ooze that dribbled over his fist.

I panted for air, gasping over and over, “Oh fuck… Oh fuck…”

Lovesong turned his head toward mine and began laughing contentedly. His fist released my spent cock, and he licked his fingers, then he started wiping the cum from his face and licked that too.

“Here, let me help with that,” I said, taking his chin in my hand and guiding his face up to mine.

I kissed his chin, his cheeks, his forehead, lapping up my own cum, before my lips found his.

He stretched out beside me on the bed of cotton, propped up on one elbow, and there we kissed as the storm slowly rolled into the night.

Eventually he pulled away, then reached over to his guitar, laid it against his chest and started playing a sweet, simple melody. He didn’t sing, he didn’t say a word for a long time, he simply played a tune that appeared to be totally spontaneous.

I looked at him, a man completely comfortable in his own skin as he strummed at his guitar, his bronze muscles still shimmering from the rain, his cock thick and long and spent, lying flaccid on one of his sparsely haired thighs.

The sight of him in this rustic old shed was nothing less than perfect.

The melody he played was perfect.

He… was perfect.

I thought nothing could break the spell of that moment. And then—

“You loved him very much, didn’t you?”

The comment jarred me. I wasn’t expecting it. I propped myself up on one elbow. “What do you mean?”

“Your partner. The one who died. I know how much you loved him. I can feel your pain when I touch you. I can taste your grief when I kiss you.”

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