Free Helena by Leo Barton Page A

to me: "This is only the
beginning, Helena, the very beginning."
    After we had
drunk our wine, you took me into the bedroom. There was only one
print on the wall. Of course, I should have guessed. It seemed both
surprising and predictable that the only print that you had on the
wall was Leonardo's cartoon. The room itself was quite spartan:
white walls, floorboards, a double metal bed and Leonardo's Holy
Family looking out onto us, as if in some way, and I can imagine
how blasphemous this would sound to somebody like Gregory, but as
if the enrapture of the figures in the drawing were bestowing some
kind of blessing on us.
    My mind was
fervid. I couldn't think straight. I pulled off the rest of my
clothes and stretched out on the bed in front of you, watching you
as you removed your silk shirt, then the black cotton tee shirt
underneath, exposing your firmed body underneath. You looked so
strong, not over muscular: your biceps were large but did not
bulge; your skin was smooth, your stomach flat; a thin trail of
black hair stretched from your navel to the waist of your jeans,
and then the thicker clump in the centre of your chest. It all
aroused me, even though I had orgasmed under the careful attention
of your tongue only five minutes before. Then you unbuckled your
belt, unzipped yourself, and pulled down your jeans, so that you
climbed onto the bed beside me in only your black cotton pants.
    You lay beside
me on the bed, the thick bulge pressing against my naked skin. I
could wait no longer for what I had wanted to do since you closed
the door behind me: to take you in my mouth. I pushed you quite
hard, you laughing at my efforts, but firmly enough so that you lay
prone on the bed, your head tilted towards me.
    I started at
your feet, running my fingers along the sole of your feet, and then
up to your calves. You twitched as I tickled you, before my hands
roamed higher, spreading out on the firmness of your thighs. I
massaged you, kneading you between the palms of my hand, my fingers
inching higher inside the black of your pants feeling the softer
flesh of your rump, clenching it between my fingers. You, all the
time, making encouraging groaning noises as I reached higher and
higher, until I slightly parted the cheeks of your bottom and
slipped my forefinger between the cleft of your buttocks, pressing
against the taut flesh of your anus. Then I went lower, grabbing
your swollen balls in my hands, squeezing gently and then
harder.
    But I wanted
to go further, Freddie. I needed to go further. Can you remember
all this? Can you remember the amazed look in my eyes, the urgency
of my movements, the excitement I felt having a man under me that I
could manipulate how I pleased?
    Do you
remember, Freddie, how I turned you over, peeled your pants over
your thick erection, pulled them down and then off your ankles, and
positioned my hand under the apex of your thighs. I watched your
steel rod spring up to me, then unsheathed the slicked helmet and
buried you deep inside my mouth. My tongue reached out to the ridge
of your dome as your tool pulsed inside me.
    You moaned
above me as I took more and more of you into my mouth, pressing
down harder and harder onto you, furling my tongue around you, then
coming off you to nibble you underneath, taking one of your
testicles in my mouth while I daintily ran my fingers over the head
of your shaft.
    I could feel
you growing inside me, feel you throbbing in my mouth. Each time I
went down, I went further and further so that the tip of your
member touched the back of my raw throat. I squeezed you hard, as I
kneeled over, and you at first caressed my swaying breasts, before
your hand stretched out until your finger felt the boiling heat of
me. You slid your finger into the moistness of my quim, inching it
up further and further inside me, rotating it around so it pressed
against the interior fleshy walls, and made me suck more and more
avidly on you.
    And then so
quickly you pulled my mouth off