Page 7 of Choosing Hope
Seeing her breasts jiggle in her tiny string bikinis became like an addiction.
Since the first time Carlo caught me touching myself in our room at school, something between us shifted. He grew progressively bolder; he didn’t push me—just always present, always patient. He was aware that I struggled with the shame tangled around my desire, but somehow, he made space for it. For me.
With every teasing glance, every careful touch, he coaxed pleasure from the fear that grasped me. He gave me time to absorb what was already there between us. Our connection and our love. Until it was impossible to separate the rush of euphoria his attention brought to my body.
That summer, what started as an observation of our adolescent self-masturbation, developed into Carlo wrapping his hand around me, and pulling my cock until I exploded for him.
The heat of his hand, coupled with the strength of his fingers, and his own personal experience, made each occasion better than the last.
Yet, I remained fixated on having my first experience with a woman.
As we got into bed one night, after spending the entire afternoon on the beach with Chess, he came in from the shower, buck naked.
As always, he’d planned the brief erotic scene in his mind without consulting me. His dark eyes studied me from across the room.
“Are you going to make a move on her?”
I rocked my head back and forth. It was a ridiculous question; he was aware Chess had fallen for him.
Laying on the bed, Carlo approached me in my position.
The climate in Italy at this time of the year was so hot, that at night I only slept under a thin white sheet for privacy and to stop any potential nighttime breeze giving me a chill.
Seeing Carlo looming over me with his familiar air of assurance had its usual effect, and I knew he wouldn’t miss my growing erection under the thin sheet; it begged for his touch.
“I’m going to give you an experience, that is as close to the sensations of sex with a woman as I can,” he murmured.
My muscles tightened, my posture became stiff, and my eyebrows collided into a deep frown.
“I’m not gay, Carlo. I’m not putting my dick there,” I insisted.
He bobbed his head softly, immediately understanding my reservations. The tips of his fingers trailed slowly down one of the prominent veins in my bicep.
“I’m not asking you to. Yet,” he whispered.
Already lost to him, I was barely aware of him lifting the sheet away to expose my skin. His movement was slow and careful and gave me ample time to stop him.
The breath he sucked through his teeth each time he saw me naked and aroused for him never failed to make me feel invincible.
With only a slight tremor now, I lifted my hand tentatively, trailing my fingertips up the inside of his leg.
Experience told me he’d be monitoring my progress. And I could tell by the way that his dick jumped at my fingers climbing closer to his scrotum, how desperate he was for them to reach their goal.
The last time we were together, Carlo asked me to jerk him off onto my crotch; the sight of his semen staining my skin turned him on.
It took time to gain enough confidence to touch him freely, yet once I’d overcome my shyness, seeing his reaction to my caress made me feel powerful.
I adored Carlo’s familiar self-assurance, but knowing only I saw this softer, vulnerable side naturally drew me closer to him.
With each new experience, our actions became progressively more adventurous.
As I stroked my fingers over his balls, he released a long, pained groan. But even though the tightness of the skin on his penis showed how ready he was to release, we both knew he wouldn’t take his own pleasure until he’d sated mine.
He permitted himself just a couple more minutes of enjoyment before returning his concentration to me.
“Lay flat on your back, legs spread, and close your eyes.”
I followed his instructions. But closing my eyes gave me a sense of vulnerability. As the bed dipped under his weight at the end, I glanced up.
