Educating Peter

Over the next week or so I noticed that Peter's habits were becoming a lot less predictable: he'd often push his duvet away and start playing with his dick in the evening even if he'd already masturbated in the morning. Moreover, his visits to the pub no longer seemed to dampen his appetite: on the contrary, when he came in smelling of alcohol I noticed that his briefs tented upwards even while he was undressing and he seemed unable to get into bed fast enough to get things started.

We were obviously both aware that we were enjoying having a bit of company while we did our thing but, like I said before, not a word was ever spoken about it between us. We just both accepted that if we were together in the room and in bed, one of us would initiate things, and the other would invariably follow his lead.

One day around that time, in the kitchen, one of the other guys in the flat was talking about a couple of guys he knew from dentistry. They'd done something to piss him off - I wasn't really listening to him but the gist was that they were both in it together - and he started going on about them.

"They're a pair of complete fucking wankers," he was ranting. "That's why they're so friendly with each other. 'Cos they're both fucking wankers. Fucking wank-buddies."

Peter was in the middle of turning his toast over on the grill-pan but I saw his eyes glance over at me from the side. I was pouring milk into a cup of tea and I smirked without being able to stop myself. He got on with what he doing but I noticed that he was smirking too.

******

It turned out that, while I like to use my left hand to caress my balls and touch my arsehole while I wank, Peter was more excited by playing around with the dense fur of hair on his stomach and over his chest. He just loved running his left hand through it, stroking it and teasing it between his fingers, while his right went to work assaulting his cock. He didn't leave his balls out altogether, of course, but once he'd discovered how good it felt to run his fingers through his chest hair, he never showed them quite the same attention as he had on that first night.

I often found myself wondering, while I was at work or around Helen's waiting for her to get ready to go out, why he'd never before ventured to use his left hand on his body while he masturbated. Surely it was a perfectly natural thing to do: inevitable even. I surmised, from odd comments he'd made, that his family were pretty traditional, perhaps religious. This would explain why he had, in his shared bedroom with his brothers, become used to masturbating in a coldly functional rather than sensual way. Enjoying his release, but reticent about finding pleasure in his own body.

I loved to watch him making up for his lost time; discovering the pleasures he'd missed and exploring his body with his free hand while he masturbated. I loved to see his hand roam across his chest and around his nipples, to hear the coarse sounds of the thick wiry hair as he ran his fingers through it, and to watch his cock swell to its maximum, shiny-headed size in response.

I would approach orgasm as I looked over at him, my hand a blur on my cock, and then, as I felt it coming too close, welling up inside me, I'd stop altogether and remove my hand to let my breath catch up. At first Peter seemed intrigued by this - would look over at me as if wondering what the problem was - but after a few times he realised what I was doing and, within a day or so, started following my example. And within another couple of days, both of us were controlling our orgasms, postponing them three of four times on some occasions, to glean the maximum pleasure from our right hands.

******

I remember the first time I fingered my arse while he watched me wanking. It must have been in the last week of us sharing the room: I'd had to delay doing it, even though I'd really wanted to show Peter this last trick for about two weeks, until I could be sure that he wouldn't get freaked out by it. I'd had to wait until we were totally comfortable together; until we fully trusted each other as spectators of our most personal, most intimate moments.

I kept thinking, "What if he gets funny about it? What if he has a go at me?" Perhaps he'd think it was "going too far", or would regard it as something feminine and therefore unacceptable. He liked to play with his balls and chest hair, but maybe he considered those masculine, almost rugged, pursuits; natural and wholesome areas for a guy to mess around with while he was pleasuring himself. He'd never shown any sign of exploring his own arsehole, not even the slightest interest in it, so perhaps he regarded that area as being out of bounds for normal, healthy guys.

But then, during a couple of our sessions, I began to notice that whenever I pushed my left hand between my legs and ran my fingers along the hairy ridge between my balls and my arsehole, Peter would stare over at me, intrigued by what I was doing. His right hand would speed up on his cock and his bell-end would bulge and glisten. He didn't copy what I did - just as I didn't, couldn't, copy what he did with his chest hair - but he seemed fascinated to watch me do it.

So then, late one evening, while we were masturbating together and when I knew he was looking over at me, I licked the outstretched finger of my left hand, pushed it between my open legs, and penetrated my warm tight arsehole with it. Peter stared over at me, engrossed by what I was doing. I opened my legs further to allow myself better access, and pushed my middle finger further into my hot soft passage, gently moving my hand in and out so that it was obvious that my finger was inside.

Peter's reaction was abrupt and unexpected. He grunted loudly and immediately began shooting thick strings of semen across his stomach and chest, gasping and panting as his balls emptied themselves.

I was impressed by his response. Most of his cum covered the black carpet of his chest hair, white and viscous on the thick fur, but some had splashed over his neck and a few spurts had even hit his face. Drips of it were on his cheeks and nose and made beads around his mouth.

He looked over at me when his breathing had subsided, and grinned broadly. Like his orgasm had been a deliberate joke.

I grinned back, continuing to finger my arse as I masturbated.

Then Peter did something which was even more unexpected. Instead of picking up his briefs and wiping himself as he would normally, he looked down at his chest and then started rubbing his cum into his chest, matting it in the dense forest of hair. The sounds it made were exquisite - rough and wiry, coarse yet unmistakably wet. The smell of it, thick and mildly cloying, wafted over me, as I watched him rubbing his sticky mess into his black body hair.

Then my own orgasm hit in. My own semen leapt out of my cock, reaching as far as my neck but not my face as Peter's had. Peter looked over at me as I pumped myself dry, watching my cock empty itself over my almost hairless chest and stomach. And when I'd finished, as I just lay there panting in the haze of my climax, he got up and walked over to the foot of my bed to stare between my legs. My finger was still inside me and Peter made no excuse that he was looking at it, perhaps wanting to make certain that I really had penetrated my arse.

I looked up at him, standing there with his chest hair matted by thick white gobs of his own cum, looking down between my legs. I withdrew my finger, with a slippery sound, and he licked his lips involuntarily.

Then he looked back up at my face and grinned, his teeth white and perfect. He said, "Does the water heat up in the evenings? I'm gonna need to take a shower."

I nodded, still recovering my breath.

******

I moved out on a Sunday afternoon. My work in the hospital was through; I couldn't wait to get back to my own room on the other side of the city and back to normal hours and normal life.

That last morning with Peter was kind of special, though.

I'd been out the night before, celebrating my "release" with some friends, and hadn't got in until three or four in the morning. Peter had been asleep when I got in. Our boxes and suitcases were stacked up at one end of the room: the following evening another couple of guys would be filling our places.

In the morning, Peter woke me with a couple of mugs of coffee for the two of us. His hair was still wet from having a shower, his face slightly pink from his razor.

We sat on the edge of our beds and drank our coffee, Peter in his robe, me in my briefs. We chatted about where we'd been the night before, surprised that our groups hadn't run into one another in a few of the clubs we'd been in, and about how good it felt to have got this part of our training over.

Then, as the conversation was ebbing, Peter stood up and pulled his robe off. It fell to the floor, revealing his hairy body, his thick but mainly flaccid cock and large balls.

He looked at me looking at him and, instead of reaching for a clean pair of briefs as I expected him to, he smiled and rubbed his left hand around his chest, rustling his fingers through his hair.

I smiled back and he glanced down at the front of my briefs, grinning more broadly with satisfaction at the response I was showing to his display. He kept working his hands around his chest, gripping his abs and seeming to revel in the coarse wiry noises he was making with his hair. His cock began to thicken and rise up from the paired mounds of his heavy balls.

I stood up and pulled my briefs down, revealing my own rapidly hardening cock.

Then Peter squeezed his with his right hand and began gently jerking his foreskin backwards and forwards. Not long uniform strokes as he had in that first week, but short irregular tugs, changing his rhythm and squeezing the head between his fingers and thumb to bring himself to maximum size.

I grabbed my own and followed his lead, slowly and sensually stimulating my bell-end which was easing itself out of my retracting foreskin as my cock thickened and expanded.

We stood like that for half a minute or so, facing each other in the space between our beds, our hands speeding up on our cocks as we began masturbating in earnest.

Then Peter to a couple of steps towards me and, still wanking his cock, grabbed my left hand and raised it to his chest. My fingers pressed into the coarse hair of his chest, nestling in the thick fur.

Peter's eyes were hard on my face, searching it possibly for signs of disgust or horror. I didn't show either of these, but I dare say my expression initially betrayed some of the surprise I felt.

I stared into his eyes. He gave a small sheepish grin, like he was saying, "This is okay, isn't it?"

In reply, I began gently caressing his chest, running my fingers through the wiry black hair, feeling the hard muscular skin beneath it. It was an odd sensation - a feeling that, since most of my previous sexual encounters had been with a girls, I'd never experienced. The coarseness of the hair, the tightness of the muscle beneath it, were intensely masculine and unexpectedly exciting.

Peter's enjoyment was immediate. Closing his eyes and lifting his head upwards, he released my hand, allowing it to roam across his abs and around his nipples. His right hand began attacking his cock in a frenzy, jerking it faster than I'd ever seen, and he opened his mouth, gasping gently at the feel of my fingers on his chest, combing through his wonderful carpet of hair.

I looked down at his cock, his fist tight around it and his foreskin rolling and unrolling across his red bell-end in a blur of motion. I worked my left hand down to his stomach, feeling the muscles contracting and relaxing as he pushed his hips in and out to meet his hand. The hair down here seemed longer and less dense, softer and smoother except for a thick belt of coarse curly growth around his belly button, leading from his chest to his pubes.

He stopped masturbating abruptly and we both stared at his cock, visibly throbbing in mid-air with the same rhythm that he was panting. His body was tense, like he was fighting off the climax that was threatening to explode.

As we watched, a bead of shiny precum formed on his piss slit, growing to the size of a small pearl. I took my hand off his stomach and reached down to it, intending to rub it into the taut shiny skin of his cock head, but Peter stopped me. Perhaps touching each other's cocks was a step too far for him, or perhaps he was too close to the edge of his orgasm to have anything risk pushing him over.

When he'd recovered he looked up at me and grinned again.

I was still masturbating myself, enormously turned on by seeing him so close to his orgasm and by seeing his cock up-close oozing its juices.

Peter grabbed his cock again and continued his work, more slowly. I put my hand back on his chest and his face once again fell into an expression of pleasure, his breathing rapidly speeding up.

He reached up and grabbed my shoulder. I wasn't sure what he was doing but then realised he was trying to push me down. My first thought was that he wanted me to suck him, even though that would have been ridiculously out-of-character for the guy, but when I buckled my knees and dropped down, he followed me so that we were both crouching in front of each other.

Then he raised his left hand to his mouth and licked his middle finger, and I understood his intentions. He pushed his hand downwards between my legs, and clumsily felt around my most private, most intimate areas, groping between my arse-cheeks, fiddling around to find my hole.

When he pressed his finger into me, pushing it an inch or so inside my passage, I gasped from both the pain and pleasure of it. My right hand speeded up on my cock and my balls started jumping around, bobbing up and down and smacking against his wrist which was reaching underneath me. The sound of them, of my scrotum slapping against his skin like a single rhythmic applause, seemed loud in the silence of the room.

He pushed his finger into my arse up to the knuckle, and then slowly withdrew it. Then pushed it in again, maybe a little deeper, and withdrew it again. Then again, getting a little faster and a little deeper, then again. Until we were both panting like dogs, both wanking our cocks in a frenzy.

My left hand dropped away from his chest and he fell against me, his rough wiry hair rubbing into my smoother skin. He rubbed his chest against mine, our nipples coming together like they were kissing, almost grinding our torsos together.

Our hands kept working at our cocks and, for a short time, our knuckles kept jarring painfully against each other until we managed to coincide our rhythms.

I knew we were both extremely close to cumming and so I didn't hold back. The sensation was too powerful: too intense. The feel of his finger inside my arse was amazing, slamming into me then out, in then out, and the sensation of his thick fur of chest hair rubbing into my own chest even more exciting.

After all I'd taught Peter about the art of self-pleasure during those couple of months, it turned out on that last morning that he made a pretty good teacher himself.

I think the best part was when he came. The feel of it erupting into the narrow space between us, splashing upwards between our chests and stomachs, hot and wet, was fantastic. The feel of it lubricating our chests as we kept thrusting against each other, the smell of it, thick and seedy in the air.

My own orgasm was seconds behind it. His finger was still pummelling my arsehole, still sliding in and out of me, and it enhanced and intensified the power of my climax. I sprayed my own cum, thinner and less viscous, to add to the wetness between us; my own white fountain combining with his.

After we'd calmed down, still panting but more recovering, we pulled apart. Peter's finger was still inside me: he seemed fascinated to leave it there, maybe wanting to feel my excitement diminish, to feel my pulse slow down. Our chests and stomachs were covered with our semen, his seeming more thickly coated than mine because it clung to his hair. Our cocks, only gradually softening, pressed into each other like a couple of lovers, his looking thicker and mine slightly longer.

Then Peter pulled his finger out of me and we stood up.

He reached for his briefs and started wiping himself down. He said, "We'll have to look each other up sometime. I'll give you my number... maybe a drink sometime..."

I agreed.

But then, things moved on, we got back to our own lives, and we never did.

I often wonder what would have happened if we'd been together another week or so after that Sunday morning. How it would have progressed if it had continued, what other stuff we could have learned together.

Even now, I wonder whether, one evening or morning, shattered by the intensity of the work and the long hours, we'd have taken it a bit further. Whether he'd have replaced his finger with something more substantial; replaced the squeezing of his right hand with my tighter muscles. Whether I'd have enjoyed having him on top of me, his chest hair rubbing against my hairless stomach as he fucked me. How it would have felt.

But it didn't happen. Once I'd got back into the routine of normal life, back around my own things and together with my old friends, Peter seemed unreal; the whole of those three months remembered like something from a bizarre dream. So I never called him.

And I guess he felt the same because, even though I gave him my number, he never called me.

Maybe we'd both learned enough.
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