Lifeline
Lifeline is published in the “Cruise Lines” anthology by Alyson Books
Purchase at Purchase at Amazon.com
“I know what it is you fear,” I murmur to him. My hand slides between his legs and he whimpers childishly like the man–unknown-to-men I believe him to be. All he does is tremble in my arms; “I know what it is that you have been hiding.” My hand slips upwards, over his groin, and I feel to my utter delight the life surging beneath the serge and I step back, into the shadow of the lifeboat, pulling him with me, thrilling to the sudden acquiescence of him, swaying and pliant in my arms, as if hypnotised by my unprovoked attack on his person and senses. “I know what it is that you need.” I wrap one arm around his waist, and bend him at the waist, pulling him tight against me, push one leg between his, and grind my hardness against his, now fully erect and hot as a furnace.
He tries to push me away, but I see the conflict in his face.
“I..” he manages, “I don’t..” my mouth plunders his, claiming him as my own and he submits to me utterly, like I knew he would. His mouth is sweet with brandy and sour with tobacco, his teeth perfect, his tongue languid as if waiting for a call to arms. My own coils around it, wakes it from its dormancy and he gives a soft wordless whimper as he explores my own mouth with a simple naivety that sends me to paradise. Then his hands join in and he’s fumbling at my jacket buttons, wrenching them from their holes and pulling my shirt free from my trousers in an impatience which shows he’s been holding his repression for far too long.
“That’s right,” I sigh in his ear, “Let it flow from you, be what you want to be.” I cast a look up the deck; the young couple are making their way back toward us, together with the late night prowlers. Only one place to hide, and we stumble towards the lifeboat; both of the same mind, shirts untucked and mouths melded, my fingers popping open the buttons of his fly, certain of the prize within. We scramble, undignified, up into the boat and I slit the canvas, we slip and slide in, giggling like schoolboys. He hits the damp planks first and his restraint, in the seclusion of the musty sea-scented cave, melts away. The moonlight pours through the rip in the canvas and he lets me unclip his braces, pull his trousers and underclothes over his pale hips and he hisses in surprise and pleasure as my mouth sinks to the soft skin under his navel and follows the trail of gold down, down, down to my reward.
As soon as I suck him into my mouth, he spurts with hot thick streams of seed and he groans in embarrassment, flinging one arm over his face, I swallow all he has to give in grateful greediness and slide up, pulling his arm away. I stroke his soft curls and his brow with gentle fingers and kiss his eyelids, his soft cheeks, his bruised and pouting lips.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, almost to himself. I make reassuring shushing noises, like I would to a child, and begin to deliberately and carefully to divest him of every stitch of clothing, not satisfied until he is pale and trembling in the chilly April night. I tear my own clothes from me and then finally we are flesh to flesh. Every instinct I have wants to turn him over and plunge deep into his body, but I content myself with stroking his thighs gently, and kissing him deeper and deeper feeling myself falling hopelessly under his spell like I knew I would.