To Touch the Face - Sixth Installment
To Touch the Face - Part 6
Duncan’s place was… interesting. Based on the expensively cut clothes and his classically masculine, immaculately kept car, I had assumed his living space would tend towards a display of excessive male opulence - high tech gadgets, ultra-modern décor, monochromatic color scheme, etc. To my surprise, we parked behind a converted old four-story office building that had seen some hard years since it’s halcyon days a good part of a century before. He let us in through a large darkened, utilitarian workout space that took up the whole first floor with ranks of weights and benches marching down one side, declaring the place the singular domain of those devoted to serious physical fitness. The highly polished wooden floor reflected the single stark light of the ancient freight elevator that lifted us, rattling and groaning the whole way, up to a fourth floor loft apartment.
Duncan yanked up the noisy wooden gate and waved me into a large, open area that seemed to serve as an all-purpose domestic space that included kitchen, dining room, living room and bedroom all in one. I suppose I wouldn’t have been terribly surprised if the large, antique oak wardrobe in the corner contained a hidden bidet.
“Interesting,” I observed, wandering over to inspect the contents of a row of strictly utilitarian metal shelving that held books, stereo equipment and some unlikely-looking objets d’art.
Duncan moved into the kitchen area, setting down the packages he had brought up from the car onto an island that served as both breakfast bar and extra sink. “I know it’s a little unconventional, but I like having everything in sight and in easy reach. Life itself can get complicated enough so I tend to keep things around me pretty simple.”
I turned and studied him as he busied himself in the kitchen area, efficiently pulling out pans, utensils and various mysterious ingredients. Food had only recently become of interest to me and as far as I was concerned it was really only the final product that mattered, not the process, so I let him pour me a glass of wine and wandered around looking at his books and artwork while he put on some Bach Concertos and bustled about the kitchen.
On closer inspection, I realized that the various items in his eclectic collection of memorabilia were each either fairly contemporary and truly evocative of its maker, or antique and a unique representation of a vanished or vanishing art form. And his books were mostly either first editions of classics or reference texts on somewhat arcane subjects. There was only one shelf devoted to contemporary novels, tending towards the thriller variety, another of poetry and philosophical thought. All in all, it was the living space of a truly discerning Renaissance man, which I suppose Duncan MacLeod was, in the most literal sense. Or maybe it was more appropriate to use that odd new term? What was it now? Metrosexual. That was it.
“What are you smirking about?”
I turned to find Duncan offering a plate of hors d’oeuvres of crispy watercrackers topped with a smooth layer of cream cheese and thick flakes of smoked salmon.
I popped a cracker into my mouth to savor the smoky flavor and varying textures before mumbling, “I was just considering that this seems like the apartment of the quintessential metrosexual, a man of letters, sophisticated, sensitive.” I waved my hand for descriptive emphasis and swallowed the delicious tidbit, slowly licked the remnants of cracker from my lips and settled into the sensual softness of a forest green leather couch, then stretched a little, just as a tease, “secure in his own sexual identity.”
His full lips twitched in a half-smile before he took possession of one of his own appetizers, chewing slowly before swallowing a large mouthful of the dry white wine he had poured us both. “That’s a loaded and somewhat ambiguously complementary term.”
“What? Metrosexual?”
He put the plate of hors d’oeuvres on the imposing, square coffee table that took up a significant portion of the apartment’s center, and gracefully sank into the couch, fixing me with a questioning gaze as he did. “No. The whole secure-in-his-own-sexual-identity thing. That can be interpreted in various ways, including being an arrogant predator of… whomever.” He gestured vaguely with his free hand.
“Are you?”
“A predator?” Duncan asked with a questioning eyebrow, then he looked away and a tight, unhappy expression ghosted across his face before he turned back with a twisted smile. “Yes. Absolutely.” He sat forward and took another sip of wine, setting the crystal down carefully before fixing me with a challenging stare. “Of the worst kind. You should be very careful, Gabe.”
A delicious shiver worked its way from somewhere south and crawled up my whole body, spreading across my shoulders like a sprinkling of fairy dust. Danger was a new concept to me, secure as I had been in the bosom of the Great Almighty’s love and approval. An interesting sensation, I noted, as warmth gathered somewhere in the core of my body. I wanted… what?
“I’m always careful,” I said softly, then leaned over to pick up one of the bite-sized bits on the tray and held it up. He locked eyes with mine for a moment, then he opened his mouth. I fed him the cracker, then brushed an invisible crumb away from his lip, just as a tongue slid across his lips. The moist warmth met the sensitive skin of my finger and both of us froze for just a second. Then he caught my wrist and held it, his eyes never leaving mine as he turned his head just enough to more thoroughly and deliberately taste my finger, then draw it slowly into his mouth.
My God.
No, I mean really! What on earth had possessed the Creator to cause the human body to react like this, especially given the whole over-population thing? Oh, I know he’s male - Holy Mother of God, do I know that. And I know intercourse between males does nothing towards population growth, but the general gist of the question is the same.
My whole body wanted nothing more than to melt into the solid, masculine warmth set before me like a giant vat of thick, dark chocolate sauce. I leaned in closer as he sucked on one digit of one hand, while some distant part of my brain busily catalogued my racing heartbeat, my flushed, sweaty skin, the heat that had suddenly enveloped my crotch and the utterly nonsensical visions that were skipping across my mind’s eye - of Duncan, naked and sweaty, pressed up against me while rubbing that needy, pulsing, hot place between my legs. My breath sped, my finger wanted to go deeper into that moist, hot place in his mouth. No, I wanted more than that. So much more…
He released my finger and swallowed, the thick, corded muscles of his neck rippling with the effort. His pupils had widened almost to black as he tenderly pushed an errant curl away from my face, then leaned closer and gently pressed his lips against mine. Whatever dim rational thought process that previously existed suddenly seemed to go on holiday and I crawled into his lap, wrapping my legs around him, enveloping him in my arms, my weight tipping Duncan awkwardly almost onto his back. He didn’t seem to mind it at all, though, and I felt arms enfold my back to pull me even closer and his mouth open to welcome my impulsively questing tongue.
I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, but I couldn’t stop either. He tasted so good, like the sea, like the smoky, savory salmon we had just eaten, like all the things I never realized I had wanted until that very moment. I wanted to crawl so deep inside I might never see the light of day again, but kissing wasn’t really enough, so I breathily bit his jaw, licked his neck, sucked at his collarbone until I heard a quite satisfying groan rumble from his chest.
“Wait!” the phrase must’ve been said several times before it penetrated my fog of need. Big hands had taken firm hold of my shoulders and gently put a little distance between us. “Wait, Gabe. Slow down a little!”
“Why?” The question came out sounding embarrassingly high and breathless.
He just studied me for a few seconds. I must’ve been quite a sight with my hair flopping down into my eyes, my lips all red and wet, and with my fair skin, I was probably an interesting shade of bright pink.
But a slow smile curved those marvelous, kiss-swollen lips. “Because I prefer seduction to ‘wham-bang-thank-you-sir’ sex, if that’s okay with you.”
It wasn’t okay with me, actually, but I didn’t want to say that out loud, so I equivocated. “I thought this was seduction,” I whispered breathlessly, once again latching onto his neck like it was my non-existent mother’s full and tasty breast.
Again, he gently pushed me away. “Gabriel, it’s nice to let things build slowly. Anticipation is half the enjoyment. Besides,” he nodded towards the kitchen, “my carefully planned dinner will be ruined, and we wouldn’t want that.”
I sat back with a slightly grumpy sigh. Fine for him. Four hundred years worth of sex under his belt, so he was probably a master of “anticipation”. I just wanted to do it. Here. Now. Anticipation could wait until the second or third session, assuming we did this more than once. But admitting my frustratingly virginal state was just not in the cards.
But hell, I’d waited this long, another half an hour wouldn’t kill me. At least I didn’t think it would. “Okay,” I sighed again with no grace at all. Manners had never been my strong suit, but then what had I ever needed manners for? “But dinner better be really good.”
He chuckled in a dark, rich voice, full of promise of things to come, and I barely managed to restrain myself from grabbing the front of his soft denim shirt and ripping it, imagining buttons flying, fabric tearing… I took a deep, calming breath and merely smiled tightly.
….to be continued
Duncan’s place was… interesting. Based on the expensively cut clothes and his classically masculine, immaculately kept car, I had assumed his living space would tend towards a display of excessive male opulence - high tech gadgets, ultra-modern décor, monochromatic color scheme, etc. To my surprise, we parked behind a converted old four-story office building that had seen some hard years since it’s halcyon days a good part of a century before. He let us in through a large darkened, utilitarian workout space that took up the whole first floor with ranks of weights and benches marching down one side, declaring the place the singular domain of those devoted to serious physical fitness. The highly polished wooden floor reflected the single stark light of the ancient freight elevator that lifted us, rattling and groaning the whole way, up to a fourth floor loft apartment.
Duncan yanked up the noisy wooden gate and waved me into a large, open area that seemed to serve as an all-purpose domestic space that included kitchen, dining room, living room and bedroom all in one. I suppose I wouldn’t have been terribly surprised if the large, antique oak wardrobe in the corner contained a hidden bidet.
“Interesting,” I observed, wandering over to inspect the contents of a row of strictly utilitarian metal shelving that held books, stereo equipment and some unlikely-looking objets d’art.
Duncan moved into the kitchen area, setting down the packages he had brought up from the car onto an island that served as both breakfast bar and extra sink. “I know it’s a little unconventional, but I like having everything in sight and in easy reach. Life itself can get complicated enough so I tend to keep things around me pretty simple.”
I turned and studied him as he busied himself in the kitchen area, efficiently pulling out pans, utensils and various mysterious ingredients. Food had only recently become of interest to me and as far as I was concerned it was really only the final product that mattered, not the process, so I let him pour me a glass of wine and wandered around looking at his books and artwork while he put on some Bach Concertos and bustled about the kitchen.
On closer inspection, I realized that the various items in his eclectic collection of memorabilia were each either fairly contemporary and truly evocative of its maker, or antique and a unique representation of a vanished or vanishing art form. And his books were mostly either first editions of classics or reference texts on somewhat arcane subjects. There was only one shelf devoted to contemporary novels, tending towards the thriller variety, another of poetry and philosophical thought. All in all, it was the living space of a truly discerning Renaissance man, which I suppose Duncan MacLeod was, in the most literal sense. Or maybe it was more appropriate to use that odd new term? What was it now? Metrosexual. That was it.
“What are you smirking about?”
I turned to find Duncan offering a plate of hors d’oeuvres of crispy watercrackers topped with a smooth layer of cream cheese and thick flakes of smoked salmon.
I popped a cracker into my mouth to savor the smoky flavor and varying textures before mumbling, “I was just considering that this seems like the apartment of the quintessential metrosexual, a man of letters, sophisticated, sensitive.” I waved my hand for descriptive emphasis and swallowed the delicious tidbit, slowly licked the remnants of cracker from my lips and settled into the sensual softness of a forest green leather couch, then stretched a little, just as a tease, “secure in his own sexual identity.”
His full lips twitched in a half-smile before he took possession of one of his own appetizers, chewing slowly before swallowing a large mouthful of the dry white wine he had poured us both. “That’s a loaded and somewhat ambiguously complementary term.”
“What? Metrosexual?”
He put the plate of hors d’oeuvres on the imposing, square coffee table that took up a significant portion of the apartment’s center, and gracefully sank into the couch, fixing me with a questioning gaze as he did. “No. The whole secure-in-his-own-sexual-identity thing. That can be interpreted in various ways, including being an arrogant predator of… whomever.” He gestured vaguely with his free hand.
“Are you?”
“A predator?” Duncan asked with a questioning eyebrow, then he looked away and a tight, unhappy expression ghosted across his face before he turned back with a twisted smile. “Yes. Absolutely.” He sat forward and took another sip of wine, setting the crystal down carefully before fixing me with a challenging stare. “Of the worst kind. You should be very careful, Gabe.”
A delicious shiver worked its way from somewhere south and crawled up my whole body, spreading across my shoulders like a sprinkling of fairy dust. Danger was a new concept to me, secure as I had been in the bosom of the Great Almighty’s love and approval. An interesting sensation, I noted, as warmth gathered somewhere in the core of my body. I wanted… what?
“I’m always careful,” I said softly, then leaned over to pick up one of the bite-sized bits on the tray and held it up. He locked eyes with mine for a moment, then he opened his mouth. I fed him the cracker, then brushed an invisible crumb away from his lip, just as a tongue slid across his lips. The moist warmth met the sensitive skin of my finger and both of us froze for just a second. Then he caught my wrist and held it, his eyes never leaving mine as he turned his head just enough to more thoroughly and deliberately taste my finger, then draw it slowly into his mouth.
My God.
No, I mean really! What on earth had possessed the Creator to cause the human body to react like this, especially given the whole over-population thing? Oh, I know he’s male - Holy Mother of God, do I know that. And I know intercourse between males does nothing towards population growth, but the general gist of the question is the same.
My whole body wanted nothing more than to melt into the solid, masculine warmth set before me like a giant vat of thick, dark chocolate sauce. I leaned in closer as he sucked on one digit of one hand, while some distant part of my brain busily catalogued my racing heartbeat, my flushed, sweaty skin, the heat that had suddenly enveloped my crotch and the utterly nonsensical visions that were skipping across my mind’s eye - of Duncan, naked and sweaty, pressed up against me while rubbing that needy, pulsing, hot place between my legs. My breath sped, my finger wanted to go deeper into that moist, hot place in his mouth. No, I wanted more than that. So much more…
He released my finger and swallowed, the thick, corded muscles of his neck rippling with the effort. His pupils had widened almost to black as he tenderly pushed an errant curl away from my face, then leaned closer and gently pressed his lips against mine. Whatever dim rational thought process that previously existed suddenly seemed to go on holiday and I crawled into his lap, wrapping my legs around him, enveloping him in my arms, my weight tipping Duncan awkwardly almost onto his back. He didn’t seem to mind it at all, though, and I felt arms enfold my back to pull me even closer and his mouth open to welcome my impulsively questing tongue.
I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, but I couldn’t stop either. He tasted so good, like the sea, like the smoky, savory salmon we had just eaten, like all the things I never realized I had wanted until that very moment. I wanted to crawl so deep inside I might never see the light of day again, but kissing wasn’t really enough, so I breathily bit his jaw, licked his neck, sucked at his collarbone until I heard a quite satisfying groan rumble from his chest.
“Wait!” the phrase must’ve been said several times before it penetrated my fog of need. Big hands had taken firm hold of my shoulders and gently put a little distance between us. “Wait, Gabe. Slow down a little!”
“Why?” The question came out sounding embarrassingly high and breathless.
He just studied me for a few seconds. I must’ve been quite a sight with my hair flopping down into my eyes, my lips all red and wet, and with my fair skin, I was probably an interesting shade of bright pink.
But a slow smile curved those marvelous, kiss-swollen lips. “Because I prefer seduction to ‘wham-bang-thank-you-sir’ sex, if that’s okay with you.”
It wasn’t okay with me, actually, but I didn’t want to say that out loud, so I equivocated. “I thought this was seduction,” I whispered breathlessly, once again latching onto his neck like it was my non-existent mother’s full and tasty breast.
Again, he gently pushed me away. “Gabriel, it’s nice to let things build slowly. Anticipation is half the enjoyment. Besides,” he nodded towards the kitchen, “my carefully planned dinner will be ruined, and we wouldn’t want that.”
I sat back with a slightly grumpy sigh. Fine for him. Four hundred years worth of sex under his belt, so he was probably a master of “anticipation”. I just wanted to do it. Here. Now. Anticipation could wait until the second or third session, assuming we did this more than once. But admitting my frustratingly virginal state was just not in the cards.
But hell, I’d waited this long, another half an hour wouldn’t kill me. At least I didn’t think it would. “Okay,” I sighed again with no grace at all. Manners had never been my strong suit, but then what had I ever needed manners for? “But dinner better be really good.”
He chuckled in a dark, rich voice, full of promise of things to come, and I barely managed to restrain myself from grabbing the front of his soft denim shirt and ripping it, imagining buttons flying, fabric tearing… I took a deep, calming breath and merely smiled tightly.
….to be continued