Not a marrying man - part one
“Well, it’s time you were thinking of getting married: offer for her! I shall be much obliged to you.”
“Almost anything else for your sake, dear boy, but I ain’t a marrying man!” said Mr Wychbold firmly.
…
Late that night, coming home from a convivial card party, Cyprian looked in the mirror with shadowed eyes as he tugged his cravat loose. Not a marrying man! Indeed, and where should he look for the cause of that? He dropped his cravat to the floor and unbuttoned his collar, his mind drifting back to school and a young Charles Rivenhall.
He wasn’t sure at what stage of their friendship liking had turned into lust, but it had. He could remember various incidents - swimming in the river at Oxford had been a particularly memorable one - but not the essential moment. There was no point teasing himself over it anyway. Charles Rivenhall was strictly forbidden, and Cyprian had been denying himself for so long it was second nature now. He faced with equanimity Charles’s impending nuptials, even if they were to that tiresome Wraxton chit. In fact, with her encouraging him to be a disagreeable, mirthless tyrant, he was finding it easier by the day to resign himself to forget. Or he did, until the Charles he knew slipped out. Then he would find himself staring hungrily at Charles’s thighs and back as he laughed and splashed himself with water after a bout at Jackson’s Saloon, or captivated by his hands as he reined in his curricle.
…
Matters continued in this unsatisfactory vein for some weeks. Cyprian went about his business as he had done for years, enjoying the company of friends, flirting with all the prettiest girls, and only thinking of Charles in the privacy of his lodgings. Late at night, alone, he sipped brandy and indulged his heart in visions of Charles, sweaty from a round in Jackson’s saloon or laughing at a joke in Cribb’s Parlour.
This particular night, his hands strayed over his nipples, imagining Charles biting them. His hands ran over his chest, imagining Charles’s hands holding his shoulders while his tongue traced his throat, over his collarbones, down to his stomach. He trailed his fingers softly over his cock, imagining Charles stretched out in front of him, on display while Cyprian sampled flesh from various spots, listening to Charles whimper at one touch, gasp at the next. He imagined sucking slowly, langourously on Charles’s cock. He grasped his cock and thrust hard, thinking desperately of Charles bending over him, Charles rubbing their bodies together.
He slowed down and let the images wash over him. In his imagination, Charles had his legs over his shoulders and was stoking oil over Cyprian’s aching cock and down to his opening. He stretched Cyprian, a little roughly, barely preparing him before thrusting into Cyprian’s body. He thrust again and again, careless of Cyprian’s legs getting squashed, but Cyprian didn’t care. He fisted his cock in time with Charles’s thrusting, getting closer and closer to the edge before flying over, come spurting up his chest.
Cyprian drifted back to awareness, ruefully surveying his messy body. As he rubbed himself off with a cloth, he tried not to imagine Charles doing it for him and curling up against him when done.
“Almost anything else for your sake, dear boy, but I ain’t a marrying man!” said Mr Wychbold firmly.
…
Late that night, coming home from a convivial card party, Cyprian looked in the mirror with shadowed eyes as he tugged his cravat loose. Not a marrying man! Indeed, and where should he look for the cause of that? He dropped his cravat to the floor and unbuttoned his collar, his mind drifting back to school and a young Charles Rivenhall.
He wasn’t sure at what stage of their friendship liking had turned into lust, but it had. He could remember various incidents - swimming in the river at Oxford had been a particularly memorable one - but not the essential moment. There was no point teasing himself over it anyway. Charles Rivenhall was strictly forbidden, and Cyprian had been denying himself for so long it was second nature now. He faced with equanimity Charles’s impending nuptials, even if they were to that tiresome Wraxton chit. In fact, with her encouraging him to be a disagreeable, mirthless tyrant, he was finding it easier by the day to resign himself to forget. Or he did, until the Charles he knew slipped out. Then he would find himself staring hungrily at Charles’s thighs and back as he laughed and splashed himself with water after a bout at Jackson’s Saloon, or captivated by his hands as he reined in his curricle.
…
Matters continued in this unsatisfactory vein for some weeks. Cyprian went about his business as he had done for years, enjoying the company of friends, flirting with all the prettiest girls, and only thinking of Charles in the privacy of his lodgings. Late at night, alone, he sipped brandy and indulged his heart in visions of Charles, sweaty from a round in Jackson’s saloon or laughing at a joke in Cribb’s Parlour.
This particular night, his hands strayed over his nipples, imagining Charles biting them. His hands ran over his chest, imagining Charles’s hands holding his shoulders while his tongue traced his throat, over his collarbones, down to his stomach. He trailed his fingers softly over his cock, imagining Charles stretched out in front of him, on display while Cyprian sampled flesh from various spots, listening to Charles whimper at one touch, gasp at the next. He imagined sucking slowly, langourously on Charles’s cock. He grasped his cock and thrust hard, thinking desperately of Charles bending over him, Charles rubbing their bodies together.
He slowed down and let the images wash over him. In his imagination, Charles had his legs over his shoulders and was stoking oil over Cyprian’s aching cock and down to his opening. He stretched Cyprian, a little roughly, barely preparing him before thrusting into Cyprian’s body. He thrust again and again, careless of Cyprian’s legs getting squashed, but Cyprian didn’t care. He fisted his cock in time with Charles’s thrusting, getting closer and closer to the edge before flying over, come spurting up his chest.
Cyprian drifted back to awareness, ruefully surveying his messy body. As he rubbed himself off with a cloth, he tried not to imagine Charles doing it for him and curling up against him when done.