Father, do you have a bucket list - you know, a list of things you want to do, experiences you want to have, places you want to go ... ?The year I turned 40 was a transformative year for me. I didn't have a bucket list as such, but a lot of things - good things - happened for the first time, for me. I began to learn to play the classical guitar. I did some travel and I lost my virginity for the second time - I fucked a man.
It didn't begin as a New Year's resolution, rather, a few days after, I realised that this was the year I wanted/needed to make things happen. I was essentially alone in the world. My parents were dead, and my brother had no part of my life. I had friends, and, after taking stock, I realised that what I needed to do was to put together a family of my own choosing and allowing other to choose me.
I decided I would like to learn to play music, and it seemed to me that the least horrible sounds in those awkward learning stages come from a guitar. Dear God, imagine learning the bagpipes! Even at 40 I still had this fantasy about being a rock star guitarist. A faint, wispy fantasy, not a real fantasy.
I placed a card in the newsagents and at the supermarket for a guitar tutor. A number of people replied ranging from a Rod Stewart clone (complete with tartan and straw-man hair), an earnest woman in a porridge cardigan, and a West Indian gentleman who'd inhaled a great deal of sacred incense. I'd all but given up when I got a call from Viktor, a Russian émigré, and retired solicitor.
Viktor agreed to take me on as a new pupil. I liked him from our first meeting at a local café. He helped me pick out a guitar, and we scheduled the first lessons.
Viktor's teaching method was something like ta'i chi. Very slow, methodical, accurate - then repeat until the speed came effortlessly and naturally. My fingers learned to find the strings, the fretboard; my hands learned to synchronise - best of all, the focus was just learning on how to do it right, rather than unlearn something wrong. I made a commitment to practising. Even secretly at work, "playing" the edge of the boardroom table during the endless, boring meetings. I overheard one of my assistants commenting that she could tell when a meeting had gone on too long because 'instead of drumming his fingers on the table when he's pissed off he drums them under the table...'
In a few months my efforts began to pay off. I moved from random notes and chords pulled out of the ether into recognisable tunes, and music followed. An expert would be repulsed, of course, but to me having music flow from my very own fingers was such a joy. I could see how far I'd progressed, and, happily, the road just continued onwards. Every time I mastered some tiny technique Viktor would beam, and I'd feel so proud. I could get better and better at this forever, and it'd still not be enough for me.
By the time winter rolled around my skills had improved enormously, and Viktor and I had become good friends. One of the things that took a while to dawn on me was that Viktor had only the barest trace of an accent. His accent was so good I simply didn't notice. His mother had been an English language teacher, his parents were Anglophiles, and he'd been raised on a steady diet of 'The Goon Show' and 'Hancock's Half Hour' radio shows broadcast by the BBC. He could do a terrific impersonation of Neddy Seagoon.
I turned up for my usual lesson early on Saturday afternoon. The weather was ugly, the weatherman was promising snow. I played my practise piece for Viktor, but his heart wasn't really in it. We talked and played and laughed. He was fun to be around, and the hours slipped past.
"Why don't you stay and have some dinner with me? It's very humble - beef casserole with cranberries. Should be reindeer with lingonberries, but, it's a price we have to pay for living here."
I looked out the window at the worsening weather and said, "Thank you, that'd be great."
"Good, good! Now I will get us some zakuskis and we can have a drink. I'm glad, I don't like to drink alone."
"Zakuskies?"
"Finger foods with drinks. Means you can drink more. Excuse me for a moment."
Viktor turned on his rather expensive looking stereo and the room filled guitar music.
"This is Russian guitars - they have seven strings."
He saw my arched eyebrow.
"No, really, traditional guitars had seven strings."
He lit some candles and placed them on the coffee table, smiled, and left me to get the drinks and snacks. I felt slightly anxious about what the extent of the drinking might be. It's one thing to have a pint or two, but vodka? Now that's another story entirely. An uncomfortable story from my student days and lessons learned from excessive vodka consumption.
I relaxed on the leather sofa and realised that I kind of missed Viktor when he wasn't around. I felt a bit stupid about that, he was only in the kitchen, and, what was this about anyway? Missing him. Ridiculous. I fell to musing about the nature and cause of the bulge in his pants - I'd been staring at his crotch while Viktor demonstrated playing techniques.
The door opened and Viktor returned with vodka, ice, and glasses jingling on a silver tray. He set the glasses down, and was gone again, and promptly returned with a large tray of interesting looking food.
Viktor poured the vodka and handed me a glass. I stood, and we touched glasses.
He looked me in the eye. "Good health!"
He downed the ice cold vodka, and I followed suit.
He passed me a little silver plate with slices of lemon. "Take a couple and suck the juice out."
I was thinking about tequila drinking games, and how ...
"Some pickled cucumbers..."
"Thank you," I found the contrast bite of the alcohol, acid juice, and then salty tang quite stimulating. "Is this part of the ritual?"
"Absolutely," he said, "And now salmon on the dark rye."
I nodded and smiled. It turned out zakuskis was a very delicious way to spend the afternoon.
Without delay Viktor poured a second glass, and, looking me in the eye, "To beautiful music!"
"Beautiful music indeed!"
I drained my glass, and reached for the lemon. This approach to drinking with deliberate food servings felt rather more civilised than my teenage binges. The room began to feel quite warm, and a cozy feeling was washing over me.
Viktor refilled the glasses.
"To sweet love!"
As I followed his lead I realised, admitted, call it what you will, I had fallen in love with him. I coughed and spluttered a little at the dawning realisation. The vodka burned in my mouth. Viktor looked concerned - I waved him away.
"Sorry, I was distracted. I'm fine."
I slurped lemon juice and reflected on the new world presented to me. I was helping myself to a salmon morsel when Viktor began to play a piece on his guitar. I'd never heard the piece before. It drew me in like a bee to honey. I looked at Viktor and I was suddenly moved when I really noticed his age for the first time. He seemed to be slumping - sagging - as he played, as though the weight of the guitar was too much. He finished the song, and he put the guitar aside hastily. He coughed and stood up, swaying a little as he did so.
I stood up too, reaching towards him. I noticed his eyes were brimming with tears.
"Viktor, what is it - what's wrong?"
He choked slightly.
"It's nothing." He sniffled. "It is a sad old song about a lost lover. We Russians are all about the tragedy. You people are all about the comedy. We have lost so much, great sadness comes naturally to us."
A delinquent tear edged away from the corner of his eye and glistened down his cheek.
I reached over to Viktor and hugged him. He hesitated and then hugged me back hard. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my shoulder, feel the whisk of his stubble on my skin, and smell his cologne.
I don't know what came over me, but when we released, I grabbed him again, and kissed him, on the lips.
"I'm, I'm sorry," I stuttered.
Viktor looked surprised, and then kissed me back. Slowly, deliberately.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm a foolish old man, it's been a very long time since anyone has touched me - held me, and I have been feeling lost today - this weather - it's enough to make a saint feel - " His voice tapered off into silence.
We pulled apart and I could see the obvious swelling in his crotch. He followed my glance, and without warning he looked down, awkward and embarrassed. I took his hand, and squeezed it. He held my grip. He looked up, sniffed, and swallowed.
I knew we'd somehow crossed a line. I - we - could either take a subtle but bold step on a new path or - I don't know - maybe we could pretend it never happened and there'd be an unfinished business with us forever. I opted for the new path. I put my hand on Viktor's chest and gently moved him backwards, and downwards into his seat.
He opened his mouth to say something, but I pressed my finger against his lips. I knelt between his knees and I loosened his belt with a tug. Viktor took a deep breath and sighed it out slowly. I opened his pants and stroked his cock through the soft white fabric. His cock twitched, attentive to my delicate touches. Viktor's eyes were shut, I could hear him breathing through his open mouth. His lips were struck together in the corner and he licked his tongue over the dried skin.
I grabbed his belt and the top of his pants, and pulled them down. Viktor lifted up his weight so I could peel his clothes off, and I pulled his underpants down to release his fine cock and balls.
An involuntary moan fled from Viktor as I wrapped my fingers around his cock, and I took a tentative lick. I'd never held another man's cock before, and so any expertise in terms of giving a man pleasure was going to based on improvisation and guess work ... I was the 40 year old virgin but there was no going back now, and I might never get another opportunity.
I licked his cock head slowly and thoroughly. I could feel Viktor's cock throbbing and swelling each time my tongue charged the sensitive skin. He'd hold his breath whenever I licked the tip and underside edges, and I enjoyed making him squirm with pleasure. He began stroking my hair and breathing heavier.
I wrapped my fingers around his balls and stretched the skin tight, and began to lick them slowly. Viktor thrust his cock towards me, and his pre-cum jewelled up on his cock tip. I became intoxicated his fragrance - his personal signature of musky ... what was that ... vanilla, pipe tobacco, cinnamon? And something else, something almost animal that I couldn't define, but I wanted more of. I licked his balls over and over, releasing and luxuriating in the heady fragrances. He shivered when I blew on his balls, murmuring noises from deep inside him.
Viktor's legs pressed hard against my shoulders, his breathing was increasingly ragged. I took his cock head in my mouth, stroking the top along the roof, while working my tongue along the underside. I felt him begin to twitch and spasm as tried to hold back from cumming. I stretched his balls tighter and while he moaned quietly in protest, he kept thrusting into my mouth. I imagined having him trussed up and at my mercy - I'd tease him to the edge for hours, keeping him on the boil until - well - maybe, maybe not.
I pressed my thumb to separate his balls and pulled them down even more, while working my tongue faster on his cock, sucking his cock in with a grip as hard as I could mange. Viktor suddenly stiffened and I felt his cock pump, and I tasted the first flood of salty sweetness as his cum began to spill into my mouth.
Viktor flopped back on the sofa and surrendered to me. I sucked every last drop from his quivering cock as he lay back, gasping. I kissed his cock, licking him clean, holding his cock tightly to prolong his hardness.
Viktor's eyes flickered open.
"That - that was wonderful, thank you," he whispered.
We sat for a few moments, the silence only broken by the howling of the wind outside.
Viktor leaned forward and stood up, and unsteadily pulled his pants up. I caught a last glimpse of his cock before it vanished, tucked away again. He helped me on to the sofa, and, never taking his eyes off me, poured and offered me a drink.
|| >>> Viktor's story - part 2 >>>
curation: daddies-en-marcel.tumblr.com
curation: xseniorbrasil.tumblr.com
No comments:
Post a Comment