2001-02-04 - 15:30:38
Inflamed Consent

Inflamed Consent

Although 'getting together' had been my tentative suggestion earlier in the day, when Kentaro phoned me at 9 o'clock last night I wasn't sure I wanted company. I did not know what I wanted, but in light of my intensely solitary weekend so far, I invited him over.

As usual, I offered him tea or a coke when he arrived. He wanted alcohol, he said. I don't have any, I said, realizing I'd not yet covered off the why of that. Kentaro asked if it would be okay to pop over to a liquor store; I said sure, so long as he understood I would not be partaking.

While he was gone to get his vodka coolers, I briefly fretted. Wondering if I should have simply forbade him from bringing booze in, feeling a bit loser-like at that thought.

Was I okay with this? Was I vulnerable to a slip? No, I decided: I was fine.

Kentaro returned with his bottles, and I told him I was an alcoholic. Although he seemed to understand, he obviously did not; a few minutes later he asked if I was sure I didn't want a cooler. I explained alcoholism to him more elaborately; he got it. "I should not have brought this here tonight," he said, remorse in his voice. I assured him it was okay, that being around drinking people was not usually a problem. I said that whatever he didn't consume I'd need him to take back home, that's all.

So this was all fine. I lit candles and his Asian Pine incense. We were both tired; I felt uncomfortable sitting there with him. The conversation was stilted.

"I've been in a weird mood all day," I said. Kentaro asked what was wrong. I said nothing was, it was just a Saturday thing. This was all that needed to be said; I began to relax.

Using his calling card, he phoned a friend back in Tokyo. His Japanese spilled out like water, not harsh like I expected. A stream of gentle rapid words.

Kentaro makes a lingering "Oh-h-h-h-h" while he processes something I've said; a nodding belly-tone, chanting on and on.

He has two laughs: a polite, fake one--soft sibilant "tee" forced out through his teeth--and a wide-eyed, impish giggle that gives me a hard-on.

We crawled into bed around midnight, his first ever sleep-over. As I stripped down to my undies and crawled in, I indicated my wish to postpone sex until the morning. Kentaro curled in beside me, still dressed in his vinyl trackpants and t-shirt. I objected to all these clothes; he eventually stripped down too.

Guess what happened next?

Our drowsy cuddle gradually transformed into a blistering melee. It wasn't merely that I woke up; as my caresses degenerated to brutal gropes and slaps, I gave over to some vortex of nasty lust. Kentaro became a writhing whimper of supplication: drool-lipped, pliable, swooning. An origami of quivering flesh.

I thonged his underwear up the crack of his ass, pulled that rope tighter, harder, again and again and again; I grabbed and wrestled and gnashed and smacked.

We'd crossed some boundary beyond which there was no him or I to cling to; I retreated, momentarily: whispered "You do know the magic word here--always--is 'Stop', eh?" He knew.

Kentaro engulfed my cock, sucking and licking and choking and crying. I pulled his cleft butt-cheeks onto my glazed face, whacking and licking and shrieking up into him, spit fizzing against skin. I manouevred him back farther, gobbled his dick as I yanked on his balls.

Afterwards, I complimented his acumen in the blowjob/handjob department. "It's been several years since anyone's made me cum that way," I said. Kentaro giggled shyly.

"Oh," I added, as I do each and every time, "Have I told you how much I love your ass?"

He hid his face in the pillow, said yes I'd "mentioned" that. "And you have nice breasts," he replied.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Um, you have a nice big chest, I mean," he clarified. "Manly chest."

After wrestling over who had to sleep on the cold wet splatter-spot, we soon drifted off.

This morning, Kentaro drank tea and yawned as he talked about all the homework he must attend to before tomorrow. I sat there--cigarette in one hand, coffee cup in the other-- sleepily admiring his heavy eyelids, those luscious pink lips, his gentle happy presence in my world.

Marveling at how two quiet boys can flare up such a blaze.

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