Tales of 1911: Fitz and the Rival

I've reached the end of Fitz's letters to Oscar (nobody panic, I've got a bunch more from other correspondents, if you guys still care; looks like Oz liked his mates to send him action reports), and this is from the last one. Litton's Oscar's cousin, and it doesn't look like they'd done it before - probably because Fitz saw Litton as competition. Litton and Oscar were related on Oscar's mother's side; their grandmother was French.

There's a letter where Fitz writes that having sex with Litton would be "like fucking a mirror." And so it seems to have been: both were tall, athletic men, sportsmen, and wealthy. And most of us have looked deeply into our own eyes while jacking off at some point...

...being the polite sort I invited your cousin over for tea. A scratch tea, the only sort I ever have, but he didn't care. Your Litton is a bold sort, stared at me over the cups with those hot Mediterranean eyes of his. Displayed his packet in thin linen trousers. I'm sure this works on all manner of other chaps but I have a hose of my own that would set his to shrivelling, so I was none too impressed. I think he sees me as some sort of trophy cup, to complete his gameroom shelves. Guest knows Litton (twice a month, on average) and swears he's nonpareil, but after seeing L work himself in the changing rooms once or twice, I'm satisfied in myself that we are at least equals.

That said, I am only flesh and blood. Litton, bold bastard, put down his cup and said to me, Are we two going to fuck this afternoon, or not? Not, I said. Oh no, he said, but why not? I can think of no reason. He stood and stepped to me, my chairs are so damnably low, his fly buttons before my eyes, and pushed my face to the cloth. Is your answer still no, he said. I said, I would need to be persuaded. He raised me by my hair and marched me to my bedroom.

He closed the door and tripped me sprawling over my bed. Atop me he kissed me and ran his hands everywhere, undoing my shirts and my trousers, gripping my shaft. I felt his fingertip slide into my hole, his cock riding hard against my leg. A hard cock's a hard cock, Oscar. He gave most wonderful suck, working me inside with his fingers up to the knuckle, stopping to squeeze my shaft every now and then until I was half-sobbing with pleasure and frustration. He tied a shoelace around the base and balls and rubbed and moistened and rubbed again, licked the tip. Kissed and tongued my arsehole. He had all four fingers in there, I think. It was delicious. I came in his mouth. He swallowed. He drew away then, one hand still absently on me, and frigged himself. I took off my clothes. He removed his, removed the lace from me and applied it to himself.

I licked his chest and belly, took his cock as far into my mouth as I could. He gleamed with sweat. He lay down across my bed and I straddled him, his cock along my cleft, and brought myself off onto his chest. I licked up every drop. I sat on him then, slowly, agony every inch until the deepest pleasure, and rolled on him. He put me onto my back and pushed my legs up, and entered me then, massively, painfully, his hand on my cock, squeezing. He stroked deeply and slowly. I watched the muscles of his belly and flanks, the sweat beading on him, felt his buttocks roll against my arse. He hit the spot. I cried out, I couldn't help it.

We bent over my desk and he pumped, his hand frigging at my cock all the while until I came into his cupped palm. I felt him withdraw, then back in, harder and faster, his hands hard on my hips, pressing down as his tip travelled up into me. All the while he spoke, low and quick, filthy words that felt like fire, telling me what he was doing and asking me things I answered in moans. He rolled his cock into me for it seemed like hours, until we both dripped with sweat and my bed was stained with it and come. It couldn't have been hours but time went away. He bit my shoulder (today there is a bruise) and clawed my chest, left his prints on my hipbones. I came from his cock and his hand, wrung out. On the floor we went to our knees and I pushed back into his every thrust. He came in streams, hotly, inside me. Across my bed he jerked at my cock again, wiped himself clean with my shirt, and held my hair and fucked my mouth. I coughed and swallowed desperately. He scraped my teeth and came. Then brought me off the same way. Then up my arse he went again.

He left well after dark, leaving me wrung out and half-dead with fatigue and pleasure. This morning I woke with a stand and the first thing that came to mind when I took hold of it was his belly, taut and shining with sweat, and the salt smell of him. Guest is going to be insufferable about this, so don't tell him.