Coming Together

He was naked under the gallibaya and of such a lithe, youthful figure that if Afram had not assured me he was of age, I would have taken him for a boy and forced myself to pull away from him. Instead, I palmed his round little buttocks cheeks, pulled him into me, and buried my face in his belly, my tongue pressing into his navel.

I heard him utter in a quiet voice, "Please, Mudarres Gordon, be good to me. Mudarres Afram said you would be gentle and kind, but that you would help me find paradise."

My lips moved lower and possessed his pert little cock. I deftly removed my clothes while I was sucking his cock. He was able to grow larger with the help of my inner cheeks and tongue, but he would never come close to rivaling me—or Afram, for that matter—in that department. And he was sighing and panting. I took my mouth off his cock and gently pushed him down on his knees between my spread thighs. He began to service me. Not expertly, but with determination. I found the innocence of him—purported or otherwise—exceedingly arousing. The men Afram sent to me in New York were accomplished and most were dominating. This was refreshing. Engorged and throbbing, I lifted him to his feet, turned him around, told him to grab his ankles, and began to open his channel entrance up with my mouth.

Across from me Afram had pulled his gallibaya over his head and both of the other serving young men were working on his cock and balls with their mouths and hands. He was slowly engorging, but I could tell that it was requiring effort. His torso and thighs were much as I remembered them, beefy, but muscled.

When I and Adjo were ready, I just gently pulled him down and back and onto my hard, jutting-up staff. He made quite an ordeal of sitting and sinking on my cock—breathing heavily, panting, sobbing quietly, writhing, and ineffectually pushing back at my torso with his hands. A great show of "burying the cock," all very virginal and arousing to me. He was very tight, and I had to pause for a few moments from time to time to permit his channel to open to me.

At no time did he ask me to stop, so I didn't even have to contemplate whether I would have. Afram was closely watching us from his couch and was making no move to either hold me off or slow me down. And Adjo was clearly a gift for Afram to bestow.

Once buried to the balls, I embraced Adjo with arms around his waist, and waiting, cock throbbing and slowly digging even deeper, for Adjo to settle down, begin breathing regularly, and stop his snuffling. In due course, he was quiet, but his writhing and groans and little cries recommenced when I started screwing him around on my lap with his legs arcing over in the air, the ankle of one resting on my left shoulder and the other bent around my waist, as I moved him to facing me.

I started, slowly, pulling him on and off my cock, and, with a shudder, his back arched away from me, giving me little time to bring my legs together to support his shoulder blades on the tops of my feet, and his arms dangled at his side on the patio stones. He was relaxed, almost, I thought, had fainted, but I was too lost in the fuck of his tight, sweet channel, to stop and check. On and off, on and off the cock. With a start, he tensed up, seemed to come alive, gave a little cry, and ejaculated.

I fucked on, to my own ejaculation several minutes later, with him just stretched out in front of me, collapsed and giving little mewing sounds. When I had come, he freed his raised leg, folding it behind me on top of his other leg, pulled himself up to my chest, and wrapped his arms around me. He buried his cheek in the hollow of my neck, and I felt tears on my pecs.

I was disconcerted when I heard him thank me in a faraway voice. But then, looking over at Afram, who was hard and stroking his own cock as he watched Adjo and me, the two other young men gone now, I realized that Adjo had done this for the favor of Afram. Just as I had done to stay in Afram's favor decades earlier, when I had let men of his choosing fuck me while he watched—often right here, sometimes in the men's rooms in the Nile Hilton.

I doubt I had been able to act as much the willing, but undone, virgin that Adjo had just accomplished. It had been a major arousal for me.

I realized that Adjo was whispering the same word over and over again. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he was murmuring.

"Why are you sorry, Adjo?" I asked. "You were all I could have ever hoped for. There is nothing for you to be sorry for. What is it?"

After several minutes of pressing him for a reason, the two of us whispering because Adjo obviously didn't want Afram to hear us, he said, "Mudarres Afram. He told me that coming together was something we should do. I could not wait—you were much, much longer."

I laughed, turned his face to mine, kissed him, and said, "That is not a worry to have. The coupling was almost perfect."

"Almost perfect," Adjo murmured. "Coming together would be perfect. Mudarres Afram says."

I almost laughed again, almost blurted out that Afram and I hadn't ever been able to come together, despite a year and a half of trying. I couldn't wait and he expected me to do all of the adjusting. But I was as afraid of Afram at that moment as Adjo was, I think. It did, though, bring to my memory the last stanzas of that poem Afram had written for me and that I had read piecemeal on the airplane en route to Cairo from Paris—all except for these concluding stanzas:

"Do not cry, little one," I whisper,

kissing the dew from your lips,

pausing to revel in the moonlight

glistening on the yielding treasure of you.

Over you, around you, inside you. Again.

"Another oasis arises, where we seek the fountain together again."

There cannot be too many oases, too many fountains,

too much of over you, around you, inside you.

Sighing, riding to paradise, enjoying even the journey.

Seeking the shared fountain, again and again.

If not now, the next journey from the desert . . . or the next.

It does not matter much. The journey has its own rewards.

I didn't recite the stanzas aloud. Instead I kissed his mouth and eyes again and murmured, "Do you want to try for it again? Can you take the cock now again?"

"Yes, oh, yes, Mudarres Gordon. I want to come with you."

I turned him, laying him on his back on the couch, head at one end. Then I turned myself, went up on my knees, pushed them under his buttocks to elevate his now-open channel to me, and slowly reentered him. He groaned and arched his back and screwed his face up in a grimace as I regained the saddle, but he held with me, and there wasn't a hint that he wanted me to stop.

I don't think I'd ever seen a young man so beautiful in a postcoital state, even with the tear stains on his cheeks. I leaned my torso down to him, took his lips in mine, and slowly, but with steadily increasing speed, began to pump him again. For a while he stayed with me, clutching my shoulder blades with his hands, wrapping his legs tightly around my waist. But after a short while, he loosened his hold and slipped backwards, one hand going to his cock, the other dangling off the side of the couch, his head flopped back over the end of the couch, his mouth hanging open and making little gurgling sounds.

I could tell he was close to coming again. And I wasn't anywhere close.

I brushed his hand away from his cock, grabbed his wrists in my fists, and held completely still, whispering that he needed to hold the sensation of coming, to let it subside before we could precede—that I wasn't ready to come.

Twice more I held him off like this. But what needed to be done to hold him off, cooled me off as well. I didn't think we'd be able to manage it. Nothing bad in that. I had managed it frequently in the last twenty years. But when I was young as he was and with Afram, I never had been able to hold it for Afram to join me.

The third time, I let him come. And it was my turn to be a good actor, pretending that I had come as well, pulling right out of him, embracing him to me, and kissing him all over. Thanking him for being able to wait for me.

Adjo left us then, happy with what he had thought he had achieved, turning to Afram for the affirmation he sought, and, I'm happy to say, receiving it.

When he was gone, Afram motioned to me. "Come to me, over here. I cannot quite do this myself."

I went to him, sat close beside him, and reached for his cock.

"Thank you for Adjo," he said. "You did not come with him that second time either, I could see. But no matter; that is yet to be. What is important is that you have initiated my son in a way that makes him welcome coupling with a man."

"Your son?" I said, shocked. I pulled my hand away from Afram's cock, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled the hand back to him. As much the senior to me as ever; I did not fight him, but went back to stroking his cock, coaxing as much of an erection out of him as I could.

"Yes, Adjo is my son. Not by a wife, of course. But I have had several accommodating women in my day. He was conceived a few years after you left me. I have long known that Adjo wanted to make love with men. I'm afraid he paid too much attention to my teaching that a poet needs all of the senses and coupling opportunities to be pursued to truly be able to be a poet. He is a student of mine; he just also happens to be a son of mine. I wanted the right man for his initiation."

"This was his first time? He was a virgin for me?"

"Yes. But he wanted it so bad that he agreed to bear whatever it was. But I knew you'd be gentle with him."

"But surely you didn't know it would be me."

"Yes, I did. I arranged for it to be you. I arranged for this symposium and for your invitation."

I let that sink in for a few minutes before picking up the conversation. "You told him it was important to come together."

"Ah, yes. From the poem. I didn't suggest that had to be done. That is his idea of a perfect coupling. He's an impetuous youth; he always wants everything right now. I blame American television and movies. He is obsessed with the poem I wrote for you. I always regretted the poem ended that way, that you and I—"

"Come, lay with me. We are older now. And I am much more experienced," I whispered.

"I cannot fuck a man anymore. The weaknesses of my body—"

"There are many ways," I whispered. "Come, lay with me."

I already was gently pushing on him, starting to rearrange our bodies. He understood, and, with a sigh, he laid full length on the couch, on his side. I moved onto my side against him to a position where our heads were toward each other's feet.

Our mouths went over the other's cock almost in unison, and we worked each other. I could have come before he did—more than once—but I held with him, with all the effort I could apply, and with a long, harmonious sigh, we came—at last—together.

When I went into the house, to my room, Adjo was in my bed. He was asleep. I gave him four hours of rest before I pushed him onto his belly, wound an arm under his waist and brought him up on all fours, mounted his hips, and began to fuck him. The symposium lasted for five more days. By the fourth night Adjo and I came together—twice.