Okay. So now what?

Mundane tasks -- such as eating and washing up -- done, I now don't quite know what to do with my time. All my reports are up-to-date, I have nothing whatsoever in my in-tray and, after having faced the same dilemma for the last five nights, the entire apartment is so clean that it's virtually sparkling. There's no ironing to be done, the plants have been watered, I've read the newspaper and -- if this doesn't denote extreme boredom then I don't know what does -- even completed the crossword.

Not caring to even contemplate lowering my standards to the point of actually *wanting* to turn the television on in order to join the ranks of the rating producing masses, I toy with the idea of reading a book but quickly realise I feel too wired to concentrate. This leaves me the option of retreating to the world of make-believe offered by the PS2, but, really, playing the thing solo is basically the equivalent of doing a jigsaw. It's *that* boring and futile. Competition against a machine isn't competition at all. At least not in my opinion.

Beating the machine, and keeping in mind stranger things *have* happened, is a hollow victory. Five seconds of puffed up importance later, the machine is turned off and you've got absolutely, numb backside and cramped hand aside, nothing to show for the six hours you've spent stagnating in front of it. Beating Chris however, the modern day equivalent of once in a blue moon, is something else entirely. With the victor comes the spoils. Ignoring the immediate text book reaction -- a quick sulk followed by a demand for a rematch -- I then get the joy of getting to bask in my momentary success. A thorough massage, to cure those tired muscles, followed by a physical of a different kind. Even if I lose, and the roles are reversed, I still -- let's face it -- win.

Alone, there's no point.

Just as, alone, there's not much point in anything. No one to talk to. No one to scratch that damn itch that, as time goes by, is slowly beginning to drive me crazy. It's been five days, hardly an eternity, but if I were to listen to my libido I'd be labouring under the belief that the last time I had sex was around the time dinosaurs roamed the earth. I don't even think I felt like this when I was a teenager. Constantly pursuing sex is one thing, being denied it because your partner, and love of your life, is elsewhere though is something else again.

If I just wanted sex it would be no big deal. Hell, not that I'm bragging or anything, I'm confident I could pick up at the first bar whose door I bothered to walk through. Failing that -- first time for everything -- I could even pay for it. Sex in itself is not the issue. If I wanted an anonymous fuck, I could have it. Not a problem.

But, and oh how things have changed, I don't want an anonymous fuck. I only want Chris. As always. And he's not here. He's in Glasgow, no doubt enthralled to the point of nearly being comatose with the fascinating weeklong seminar on modern day guerrilla warfare. If the, through clenched teeth, patently false smile he flashed at Malone upon learning of his *holiday* is any indication of his feelings on the subject then it's something of a wonder I haven't been called to Glasgow to bail him out for punching an instructor for going 'above and beyond the cause of boredom'.

I've been to seminars with Chris before and the experience is something else entirely. Until I met him I had no idea how embarrassing it could be being caught playing noughts and crosses in the middle of an important debate in respect to the effects incarceration has on juvenile offenders. Having my pen taken from me was something that hadn't even happened during my long years of schooling. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. Malone looked as though he was simply biding his time before blowing a fuse and what made it worse, just to seriously add insult to injury, was the fact that I'd just lost too.

That said, I'd rather be in Glasgow, risking death through boredom or the wrath of the instructors, with Chris than here on my own. Let's face it, not even the most tedious courses run for twenty-four hours straight and there's always time off for good behaviour. Or sleeping... Or, more to the point, not sleeping but being in bed anyway...

Fuck it. I'm horny. It may not be the most eloquent realisation I've ever had but it's succinct and it's true. Sure I miss Chris for lots of different reasons but, right now, I'd give just about anything to simply have him naked and in front of me. Oh, okay, even fully clothed and in front of me would do. Even after all this time (and my, how time *does* actually fly when you're having fun...) my heart can still flutter upon seeing Chris and, honestly, I doubt this will ever change. If anything he means even more to me as time passes. It's strange, from initially viewing the concept of a relationship with extreme suspicion I now wouldn't change a thing.

Except of course for this current separation. It shouldn't be allowed. People who are meant to be together are not meant to be apart. Simple. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it. Christ, I dare not go to the gym for fear of looking like a leery old pervert with one hand on a dumbbell and the other on his crotch. I can see it now and it disgusts me. As for the thought of the showers? Uh-uh. Let's not even go there.

I thought, given my age, mental state and supposed stability, that being without Chris for a week was going to have no great impact on me. It wasn't like I had to worry about him, we could talk on the phone and I still had work to keep me occupied. Piece of cake.

Ha.

Sometimes it doesn't pay me to think.

Work is boring ('Oh! *More* paper shredding. Must be my lucky day'), Chris complains so much about his predicament on the phone that I hardly get a word in (not that I have anything much to tell him... 'Would you believe it, I jammed the shredder *again* today'...) and I'm slowly beginning to form the opinion that walking across the Great Wall of China in a pair of stilettos would be easy compared to keeping rein of my libido.

Tonight, I'm nearing breaking point. Walking in the door and casually catching sight of the columns that separate my dining room from the hall just did it. Images of Chris, bound to the column, his jeans around his ankles, his t-shirt ripped to shreds and his body completely at my mercy, flashed into my mind and, no shit, I stood there barely controlling the drool for a good ten minutes. As time killing while alone goes, I doubt it could be surpassed.

Now I'm almost afraid of walking past the column again. There's sad and pathetic... and then there's ending up masturbating at the sight of a plaster column. The mind boggles merely thinking about it.

I have no desire to sink that low.

I also have, horniness aside, no great inclination to wank. It may serve a purpose, but it's lonely and it's boring. At a push it's acceptable in the shower -- well I never, I didn't know soap had such erotic qualities and, well, can't let it go to waste -- but not, after the age of thirty, just for the sheer hell of it. In my esteemed opinion anyway. Okay, I'd sing a different tune if I didn't have anyone, and my right hand was my best friend, but *somehow* it's different when you're part of a pair. Well, it is to me. God alone knows how, or when, I came to this peculiar conclusion, but it's just how I feel.

Now, however... I'm wavering. Chris isn't due back for another three days and, weak willed though I admit it is, I don't think I can last that long. I need the release and I need it tonight. Having already had a shower, and ignoring the fact that I'm being decidedly irrational in my way of thinking (be a man, just flop it out and get it over with), I look for a different excuse and, like this is so original, end up deciding to watch a video.

Decision made, I'm immensely nonplussed to discover that, after a quick hunt, I don't have a single porno in the apartment.

Bugger. Somewhere along the line I must have swapped them for an all but live in partner who effortlessly null and voided my need for them. Not that I was ever particularly enamoured with them. Usually more on the tragic side of funny than seriously sexy, they occasionally served a purpose. Nothing more. It wasn't like I had a collection of them or anything. Just a couple that struck me as being better than the rest. But, somehow, they've gone.

Fine.

I'll just have to go out and get one then. It took long enough to make up my mind in respect to what I was going to do and there's no way I want to go through the dilemma again. Not only would it waste time but it wouldn't exactly help my current state either. I'm being silly, I know that, but I don't care. If nothing else, going out to get a video will waste time and, if I'm really lucky, the whole excursion might turn me off the whole concept and I'll be able to come home and just go to bed.

Grabbing my coat and keys, I steadfastly avoid looking at the offending column and leave the apartment. Although I haven't been there for years, I know of a sex shop that lends videos (why buy what I don't plan to make a habit of using) and make my way there. I'm so far off thinking at what passes for normal, let alone my best, that I almost begin to amuse myself. What a sordid little adventure. All I'd need is a dirty mackintosh and I'd be set.

Traffic is hardly heavy and as I drive I allow my mind to wander. Tired of dwelling on the bitchy state of my cock, I drift off in search of more relaxing thoughts and, almost as though all roads lead to Rome, end up simply thinking about Chris. In particular I end up thinking about Chris and how, a few months ago, he developed a thing for reading sex tales on the Internet.

Stumbling onto this discovery by accident, my first paranoid thought at the time was that I had to be boring him. Talk about a blow to the old self-esteem. I couldn't see any other reason why he'd be reading them. While some were, and begrudgingly I had to admit this, rather hot, on a whole they were badly written and monotonous. Yet Chris, although he only ever accessed them while I wasn't around, seemed transfixed by them. I didn't know what to do. Challenging him on the subject didn't seem the right path to take, as everything else was as perfect as it had always been. He wasn't disappearing on me and, well, there were no more than the usual amount of leather items appearing in his wardrobe.

So, after an anxious week of nearly driving myself crazy with worry, I decide to test him out. He didn't suspect a thing, falling for the lie that I was going to the gym and immediately settling himself in front of the computer. I had the upper hand from the moment I made my presence known. And...

...Oh God... Given my current predicament, thinking about that night *really* isn't helping things...

To this day Chris can't explain what it was he saw (past tense, although I've surreptitiously checked, he hasn't been back to sites once) in the stories. He can though, if pushed on the subject, admit to loving the odd sense of freedom, along with the rush, that came with giving himself over wholly to me. Me, I loved it all. I'm not into bondage, having tried it at an early age and finding that it wasn't exactly to my taste, but for the images alone it was spectacular. I knew, from following the types of stories that Chris had read, that he wasn't into anything extreme and simply prayed that I was doing the right thing. If he'd said no, it would have been the end of it. Simple.

But he didn't say no. And I just made it up as I went along. It wasn't about pain; it was about trust and control. It was also something new and a little different. We haven't tried it again, but we know it's there if we want it. Again though, right now, I'd take anything I could get.

Sighing, I catch sight of my destination and, slamming on the brakes, pull into the kerb. Although it's been six or so years since I was last here the Black Satin Adult Emporium looks exactly the same. Shabby, sordid, and completely and utterly lurid. Hot pink, so bright that they almost don't need the floodlights to illuminate them, walls, coupled with a neon lit window display of truly high-class red lace crotchless knickers, making for a façade that you simply cannot miss. It's the sort of thing that imprints itself on your retinas to such an extent that you can close your eyes and still see it. The fact that it's called Black Satin, yet paints its walls hot pink, is something I long ago gave up trying to work out. It's not so much ironic as it is just truly strange.

Getting out of the car, and again feeling as though I should be wearing a dirty old trench coat, I'm suddenly overwhelmed with the irrational belief that I'm being watched and immediately go on alert. Straightening up, I peer closely around me but can't locate anything out of the ordinary. A man, resplendent in a pale green parachute silk tracksuit that's failing to rein in his beer gut wanders out of the shop and, when he finds me staring at him, clutches his brown paper bag to his ample chest and scurries off. Other than him, I can't see any sign of life. Shaking my head, I tell myself firmly that I'm just being silly because my blood flow is being directed to places other than my brain and begin to stride towards the door. I'm here for a reason and, Goddamn it, I'm going to see it through.

Squaring my shoulders, I enter the Black Satin Emporium and, expecting the interior to have remained as unchanged as the exterior, no shit, find myself in the equivalent of a Safeway that sells nothing but marital aids. Bright fluorescent lighting bathes the shop in a blinding glow and four aisles stretch out before me. The only thing missing is shopping trolleys. Hand baskets do the job, but they're just not the same as trolleys. You can't lean on them for starters. Whatever. I don't belong here. In fact, I begin to feel as though I'm on a different planet.

A different planet that feels compelled to brag about latex sex dolls that boast not one, not two, but *three* vibrating orifices. Apparently, if I were to believe the writing on the box, they're just like the real thing... Interesting. While I admit that I haven't been with a woman for quite a while I never would have said they *vibrated*. But hey, what do I know. A man, who looks as though he's come from the latest meeting of 'Doctor Who Fans Who Trainspot In Their Spare Time', peers through his Coke bottle glasses and reads the box with obvious intent.

He alone is almost enough to cure me of my horniness. Looking at him, not to mention not being able to stop the mental image of him and Dolly, with her three vibrating orifices and 'life-like' hair, indulging in carnal relations, nearly makes me think my original fear of ending up masturbating at the sight of the column seem positively normal. Not to mention mundane. When he picks up the box, opens it, and feels the texture of the thing, I rapidly decide the time has come to put as much distance between us as is possible given the confined space. I doubt I'd be able to keep a straight face if he happened to ask my opinion and, spying the racks of videos, set off for them at a fast pace.

Videos, like the interior of the shop, have changed since I last had need for their services. By the looks of things, and this is even without looking at them in any detail, next to nothing is taboo. Covers show everything and leave nothing to the imagination. Some even proclaim cock sizes. The choice is endless and I swiftly come to the conclusion that choosing one is going to make buying Malone a birthday present seem laughingly simple. European, American, uniforms, barely legal, bondage, spanking, 'cum-shots-a-plenty', bears, groups. Not to mention the more extreme ones that are enough to make me view the life of a monk favourably.

Help.

There's too many. Not wanting to stand here all night, I wonder idly whether I should ask the multi-pierced creature behind the counter for recommendations. I then stare at him long enough to count the pieces of metal sticking out of his face and decide against it. Six earrings in his right ear, four in his left, hoops in his upper lip, nose and both eyebrows and, just for the hell of it, a spike of sorts protruding from his bottom lip. Obviously dyed black, spiky hair, eyeliner and a perma-sneer completes the picture and I can't help but think his tastes and mine would differ somewhat.

Suddenly feeling decidedly out of place, and not liking the appreciative look the old man, as he makes the possibly life changing decision between 'Powertool' and 'Powertool 2', to my left is giving me, I decide that I've got to get out of here. Quickly scanning the videos, my hand reaches out and grabs 'Going Down (The True Story Of Titanic)' before I can stop it. I'm about to read the blurb on the back cover when my admirer sidles closer to me. He looks as though he's raised the courage to speak to me and, not in the slightest bit interested in what he could possibly say, I decide that 'Going Down' could hardly be any worse than the Hollywood 'Titanic' and that it will have to do.

Choice made, I spin on my heels and walk over to the counter. The old man sighs in heartfelt disappointment but I ignore him. All I want is to get out of here. Reaching the counter, I wait impatiently as the clerk carefully, in words of as few syllables as possible, explains to the Doctor Who fan that while there is a no refund policy (thank God for small mercies) on blow-up dolls, they *do* stock puncture repair kits and that cleaning them out after use is recommended.

Again I begin to go more off the idea of sex. Yuk. I mean, here I am looking for something to wank to because I have a mental block on just doing it, and here he is buying a plastic doll to have sex with. Honestly, it takes all sorts. It's the sort of thing I'd love to tell Chris about as he'd be both mortified and transfixed by the tale. Telling him would also be far more amusing than living it. Seeing as I plan to have the video returned before he comes home, I won't be able to though. He doesn't need to know about this particular escapade.

After he's finally finished giving the hard sell to the geek, the clerk turns to me as Dolly's prospective paramour ums and aahs. I'm not surprised to note he has a stud in his tongue and, wanting to be far away from here before the geek asks more questions, I answer all his questions brusquely, giving him the bare minimum to reactivate my account. Eventually, just as I'm beginning to wonder whether he'd like to fingerprint me, he accepts my details and my payment and, finally, I'm back outside again. The cool night air feels wonderfully refreshing as I hurry back to the car. Strangely, I again get the impression that I'm being watched but, just like last time, I can't see anyone. Shrugging to myself, I get in the car, throw my video on the passenger seat and start the ignition.

Safe from the peculiar realm of Black Satin, my earlier feelings return and I almost begin to look forward to... watching... the video. If nothing else I haven't done anything like it for a long time and, in an odd way, it's curiously thrilling. Furtive even. Of course, I can't deny that this is a sad indication of how far backwards I've crawled simply through being without Chris for five days. But beggars can't be choosers, or, to put it another way, I've made my bed and I have every intention of lying in it.

Reaching home, I park the car and walk inside. Swiftly deactivating the alarm, I detour by the phone to check for any messages before taking my coat off and dropping the video on the sofa. To my dismay there's no messages and I wonder why Chris hasn't rung. I'm not worried by his silence though and wouldn't be surprised, given how tetchy he sounded last night, if he's gone out to get plastered. Not particularly wanting to be interrupted, I leave the answering machine on and divert the mobile to voice mail.

Nearly prepared, I pass through the bathroom in order to grab a towel before returning to the living room and dimming the lights. Throwing the towel casually onto the sofa, I retrieve the video and, after taking it out of its brown paper bag, shove it in the VCR. All set, I make sure all the remote controls are in reach and settle on the sofa. Three remotes later, VCR, TV and stereo, the video copyright starts to roll across the screen.

It's at this point that it suddenly dawns on me what I'm in for. The last time I watched a porno was not only long before I met Chris, but it was also on my old, perfectly acceptable to me, television. Unfortunately however said television wasn't acceptable to Chris -- "What? No Teletext? And it's *so* small... How on earth are you able to watch it?" -- and, thanks to his 'water on stone' technique, I now have sixty-eight centimetres of ultra-modern flat screen Sony technology. And, seeing as there was apparently no point, according to Chris anyway, in spending all that much money without going for the full experience, I also have a Dolby pro-logic home theatre system attached to it.

Pornography in surround sound. Grunting and groaning from every angle. The mind literally boggles.

Oh well, nothing ventured nothing gained. After all the fun and games I've had reaching this point, I simply *have* to continue with my pathetic little plan. Besides, as I've been telling myself all along, if nothing else it's a somewhat different way to kill time. *Normal* people don't feel the urge to go to this much trouble to simply wank, but, really, who wants to be perceived as normal. To be classified as normal is to be at the epicentre of a demographic that my work alone will never allow me to be part of. It may sound blasé, but I honestly don't think a census of so-called 'normal' people would include a question wishing to ascertain how many people they'd killed in the last twelve months. While I mightn't go so far as to say I'm happy with my current lot, I'm at least quaintly amused.

Making myself comfortable on the sofa, I deliberately empty my mind of all thoughts that could in any way be construed as relevant and settle back to watch the tale unfold on screen. Titanic is barely out of Southampton before the lead... actor... is out of his clothes. Well I never. It appears strip poker was as popular back then as it is now. The actor, who, if you can ignore the completely blank expression in his eyes, is blandly attractive but, given his other asset, it's not his face I find myself drawn to. Fuck me. No. On second thoughts, don't. Call me faint hearted, but I rather enjoy being able to sit down. Or, as the case may be, squirm in my seat.

Soon, as Titanic steams towards a date with an iceberg, the action heats up. Naked, gym perfect bodies set about acquainting themselves with each other with fervour. My own body reacts accordingly and, inevitably, I find that I just have to unzip my trousers. The cool air that immediately teases my member causes it to further thicken and, wriggling, I push both my boxers and my trousers down to my knees. Slightly spreading my legs, I then do what I almost feel as though I've been waiting forever to do and lightly stroke my cock. Sparks of desire course through my body and, concentrating on both the images on the screen and the heavy panting of the soundtrack, I set about bringing myself release.

Before long I'm so intent on what I'm doing that I close my eyes to the larger-than-life action and simply drift away on the waves of pleasure I'm bringing myself. I don't hurry. After going to this much effort to justify my actions I feel I've earned the right to draw it out. My own breathing begins to emulate that which is coming out of the speakers.

Then, just as a voice cries out that they've spotted the iceberg, I feel pieces of something small and round rain over my head. My eyes fly open, my hand stills and I find myself staring dully at pieces of popcorn as they continue to rain down over me. Pieces settle in my lap and, beyond astounded, I can't think of a thing to say. Perhaps I'm dreaming. That has to be it. I fell asleep during the video and, for reasons known only to my subconscious, I'm dreaming about popcorn landing in my pubic hair...

"Can't watch a video without popcorn," a familiar voice declares cheerfully from behind me.

Chris!

Bastard!

I grunt, searching desperately for a way to explain myself and coming up short. What do I do? Do I pull up my trousers or what? My erection shows no signs of wilting and I can feel myself blushing. From having wanted Chris here, I now wish he was just about anywhere but.

Chris, oblivious to my inner turmoil, strolls around the sofa and grins at me. He looks, as usual, exquisite. Tight black v-neck sweater, black jeans and a positively blinding grin. His eyes, even in the dull light, twinkle with obvious amusement and he laughs as he looks at me. Personally I don't see anything at all amusing in the situation. My hand feels as though it's frozen to my cock and I don't know what I could possibly do to retrieve at least an iota of dignity.

"Well, I'd wanted to surprise you," Chris smirks, "and I think I've succeeded."

"What... ah... uh... what are you doing back?" I stutter, surreptitiously removing my hand from my cock and slowly reaching for my trousers.

"That's for me to know and for you to find out," Chris replies, quickly stepping closer and smacking my hand away from my trousers. "Uh-uh," he adds, his grin broadening, "No more moving unless I say so."

"Huh?" I snort, feeling even more disconcerted than I did at Black Satin. First Chris arrives out of the blue, and now he's telling me I can't move? What next?

"Obviously having no willpower," he murmurs, staring into my eyes as, one by one, he picks up my hands and places them by my side on the sofa, "You've started without me and I'm at a loss as to what to do."

"Then give me a hand," I offer hopefully, lifting my hands and, in order to really push home the point, indicating to what he really can't miss.

Chris shakes his head, nearly causing me to howl in frustration. "Not yet. First I have to catch up," he mutters, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a small metal ring. "Now, you can either do it my way or, and I don't really want to have to do this to you, you can do it the hard way," he continues, placing the cock ring on the arm of the sofa and, from another pocket, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. My eyes widen as he places them alongside the cock ring.

He smiles beatifically as I continue to stare at him with mounting disbelief. "I... I... You..." I stutter, again not knowing what to do. The game's obviously just picked up in tempo and, by the looks of things, all I can do is go along for the ride. God alone knows what Chris originally had in mind. I somehow doubt this pictured in whatever his grand scheme was but, never one to miss an opportunity, he's going to make the most of it.

"Cat got your tongue dear?" Chris queries blithely, stepping away from the sofa and standing in my direct line of the sight to the television. To the left and right of him I can just make out the continuing orgy as Titanic begins to take on water. When I don't answer, he adds, "Now, be a good boy and sit on your hands. I don't want to have to use the, shall we say, equipment but will if I have to."

Not really having any choice in the matter, I nod. Slapping a cock ring on Chris was one thing, but I have no particular desire to find out for myself how effective they are. "Where'd you get it?" I ask, tilting my head towards the offending item.

"Black Satin," Chris replies, dividing his time between looking at me and the television. "The same delightful shop you got this wonderful piece of cinematography from."

"Oh..."

"Mmm... About three minutes after you'd left clutching your video in fact," he continues with a laugh. "Truly charming place. The very pierced clerk even asked me whether I wanted a personal demonstration on how to use it."

"He did?" I grind out, a flash of green tingeing my vision.

"Not that I contemplated for a second taking him up on his offer," Chris murmurs soothingly, his attention now fully back on me. I squirm under his intense gaze. "Glad to hear it," I reply before seeking out clarification as to why he was at Black Satin in the first place. "So, are you going to tell me what you were doing there?"

"Following you, of course," Chris responds triumphantly. "There I was driving down the street, when you drove off and, curious, I followed you."

"Ha!" I exclaim. "I was right then, someone was watching me." Wonderful. It makes sense now. Not to mention it's nice to know I wasn't losing it.

"Yep. I waited until you came out and, as I could see you had what had to be a video, knew that you'd be going back home before venturing in myself. Around this stage I had half an idea what I'd be coming in to, so that's why I bought the... insurance," he mutters, pointing cursorily at the small ring of metal.

"Forward thinking," I murmur, smirking, "How unlike you."

"First time for everything," Chris replies lightly, seemingly unconsciously swaying to the soundtrack of heavy breathing coming off the video. "First time a seminar has been cut short because the instructor's grandmother had a heart attack, first time I've seen you alone with your trousers around your knees, first time I've encountered porn in surround sound and now it's going to be the first time you just sit there like a good boy and let me play."

Did it suddenly just get hot in here or is it just me? My cock, which had been feeling left out of proceedings, perks up at the promise barely hidden in Chris' words and I nod. "I think I can be a good boy," I whisper, placing my hands on the sofa alongside my thighs, scattering pieces of popcorn in the process, and staring directly at Chris.

"Good," he murmurs, abruptly pulling his sweater over his head and throwing it casually onto the floor. "Now, shhh... let me play." Stretching, feline-like, the muscles in his torso ripple as the air in the room perceptively electrifies. My fingers twitch reflexively at the sight of his pale, perfectly formed chest. Longing to touch him, I suddenly realise that this is going to be harder than I would have thought. It's not that I fear being restrained, as I don't, it's more that I now know I'm a slave to my own levels of control.

Chris, who appears to be in no hurry whatsoever, slowly kicks off his shoes and glances at the television screen. "Look," he comments facetiously, "They even appear to have had a fetish for leaving their socks on back in the time of Titanic." Pausing, he looks down at his feet and smirks. "Would you like me to leave mine on?"

I shake my head. "Nah. Black socks just aren't the same as white athletic ones," I reply blithely, attempting to concentrate on anything but my throbbing cock.

"Fair enough," Chris mutters, swiftly tugging his socks off and throwing them haphazardly around the room. One lands on the coffee table while the other disappears behind the television, where I suspect it will remain. Feet bare, Chris again positions himself directly in my line of sight and swiftly removes his jeans. Being heavier than the socks, he doesn't succeed in throwing the jeans very far and they land with a dull thud near the base of the sofa. There's nothing overtly sensual about Chris' movements. If anything he takes his clothes off rather matter of factly. He doesn't undulate, tease, or make a performance out of it. He doesn't need to. Effortlessly though, he's still sexy as fuck and my mouth hangs limply open as he, clad only in a pair of tight fitting, black briefs, walks over to me.

Reaching me, and still not giving away any hints in respect to what he's planning, he doesn't say a word and clambers slowly onto the sofa until he's straddling my thighs. I gasp as, stretching, a very tempting pale pink nipple hovers in front of my mouth. As if reading my mind, Chris whispers, "Remember, don't touch me," as he settles himself, effectively trapping me. His warning reluctantly accepted, I clamp my mouth shut, nod, and try to relax. Not that, seeing as I've got my near naked lover sitting on me and taunting me with his irresistible skin, it's what I'd exactly call possible. Even through the soundtrack of the video, still puffing and panting around us, all I can sense is Chris. He's all I can see, all I smell and all I can feel. Not even his weight pressing against my cock can deflate it.

Not being able to touch him, I rapidly decide, is like a brand new form of torture.

This feeling merely intensifies as, placing his arms over my shoulders and bracing himself on the back of the sofa, Chris lowers his head and captures my mouth with his. My lips part reflexively as my fingers dig into the sofa. His kiss is equal parts demanding and gentle. Our tongues dance together as Chris' bare chest rubs against my still clothed one. The friction, skin against linen, results in his nipples hardening and, although I can't see them I can definitely feel them. I groan into his mouth, the true meaning of willpower now hideously clear to me. I want to run my hands all over his smooth back and chest but can't. Soon my own nipples feel as though they're mirror images of Chris' and, as they strain against my shirt, I begin to feel as though I'm becoming delirious with desire.

Shifting slightly, Chris lets go of the sofa and grabs my face in his hands; pressing our mouths even closer together. Gradually, just as a need for air is becoming apparent, he breaks the kiss and, moving his hands to my shoulders and shuffling a little back, moves his lips moistly down my chin and onto my neck. The ability to breathe without sounding as though I've just ran a marathon remains out of reach as Chris sucks and nibbles his way down my throat. His mouth remains suctioned to me as, slowly, his hands again move and reach for the buttons of my shirt. All I can do is slump back on the sofa and moan, my body alive with pleasure.

Chris, clearly content with my taste, takes his time unbuttoning my shirt. As each button is undone his mouth dips lower, his tongue familiarising itself with my freshly exposed skin. Occasionally, as he wriggles, my erection comes in brief contact with his own, now pushing against its cotton barrier, but he makes no move to either touch himself or remove his underwear. Somehow, so intent on what he's doing, I doubt he even feels it. Although it takes, in my mind anyway, an inordinately long period of time, my shirt is finally completely undone and, gliding his hands up my chest, Chris propels it off my shoulders. Leaving the sleeves trapped around my elbows, he purrs and attaches himself to my right nipple. Sharp teeth worry my sensitive nub and I buck off the sofa with such force that I nearly dislodge Chris. Obviously fully prepared for this reaction, he settles himself down more heavily on my thighs and continues to suck at my nipple.

Sparks of extreme pleasure course through my veins. The scent of arousal wafts through the air and Chris' skin begins to glow under a thin sheen of sweat. Eventually Chris becomes bored with my right nipple and swaps to my left. There's literally nothing I can do other than let myself be swept away on the crashing waves of pleasure. His hands, as his tongue laps at my nipple, roam across my arms and sides, stroking, tickling and caressing. Suddenly, with one final nip, his mouth jumps back to mine and, again, we're kissing as though our lives depended on it. Our bare chests press together, the sensation this causes in my painfully erect nipples is like no other. The heat of our bodies warms the air and, in a brief moment of clarity, I wonder where Chris is getting his control from. I can feel his erection, pushing insistently at my hipbone, but he makes no move to free it. It's just a shame that I'm not allowed to move because, really, I'd rather like to help him out.

We kiss, this time for minutes, trying to squash a week of being apart into as short a time as possible. Reality takes a back seat. So lost in Chris, even the sound of the movie seems to quieten. I doubt I have the strength, even if I could, to move. My limbs feel weighted and I feel as though I'm good for little more than taking up space. My cock strains against Chris' weight and, as though he's just become aware of it, he pulls back from the kiss and blinks at me. His face flushed, his lips swollen and his eyes a brilliant blue, Chris' beauty is staggering. Even after all this time I can hardly believe he's mine.

Lowering his gaze from my face, Chris' looks down at my erection and slowly licks his lips. I'm so entranced by the sight of his pink tongue that I'm totally unprepared for his next move. Pushing his hands flat against my chest, he propels himself off the sofa and, in a fluid movement, kneels on the floor. Yet again my mouth drops open in surprise as, with his hands gliding down my chest and resting on my thighs, he wriggles between my legs, a growl of contentment coming from deep within his throat.

I suck in such a deep breath of air as his mouth first comes in contact with the tip of my cock that I nearly make myself choke. Within seconds the majority of the length of my cock is engulfed in the warm, moist cavity of Chris' mouth. I think I'm in nirvana. No longer kidding myself about control, I start to make noises that give the video a run for its money. Looking down, I find Chris glancing up at me and the desirous look in his eyes is almost enough to push me over the edge then and there. Somehow I manage to stave off the inevitable though and even raise the motor neuron control required to smile back at him.

The video continues to screen but I have no need to watch the images on my television. Its purpose is long gone. Although I'd like for this to carry on indefinitely, as Chris' hands snake around my thighs, pushing them further apart, his fingertips brushing against my balls, I can feel the beginnings of my orgasm making its demanding presence known in my bloodstream. With his mouth still slowly working my cock, Chris can sense it too and, surpassing my expectations, he deep throats me. It's too much. My mind shuts down as I feel the tip of my cock brush against the back of his throat. My orgasm rushing through my body, I howl. Pulling slightly back, Chris clamps his lips gently around the base of my cock and, his hands holding onto my thighs, rides it out. Only when I've finally finished does he slowly remove his mouth. God alone knows how he managed to keep it all in as I feel drained to the point of being completely empty. My hands still clenched into the cushions, I slump limply against the sofa and whimper incoherently. Chris licks and nuzzles my sated member until, slowly, I can feel an iota of strength return. He doesn't move from his position between my legs though and, with the return of my body co-ordination, I remember that he's yet to be touched.

Pushing myself up into more of a sitting position and fully removing my shirt, I smile at Chris and glance towards my hands. "Can I touch you now?" I query betweens gasps of breath.

He smiles back and uses my knees to help him up into a standing position. "*Please*," he replies softly, swaying unsteadily. "I think I... *we've* earned it."

"Indeed," I purr, my desire to finally touch Chris giving me all the incentive I need to drag myself upright. Quickly removing my shoes, trousers and socks, I clamber inelegantly off the sofa, scattering popcorn everywhere as I move, and immediately pull Chris towards me. He accepts my embrace without hesitation and, sliding his arms around my back, relaxes fully against my body. Having regained a degree of control, this time it's me who instigates the kiss. Never tiring of each other, our lips again settle moistly together. Chris' cock presses into me and, without breaking the kiss, I slid my hands over his hips and into the waistband of his briefs. Instinctively, he pushes even closer to me as I tug his briefs down, fully exposing his hard member.

Leaving his underwear around his thighs, my hands swiftly comes in contact with his engorged shaft and, squeezing it gently, I can tell that it's not going to take much to bring him to release. He feels as hard as I was and this leads me to believe that while he might not have resorted to a video we were both nonetheless in the same predicament.

Chris, his hands slowly stroking my back and his tongue welcoming mine, gives no signs of wanting anything more so, for now at least, I set about using my hand alone to get him off. Pre-come coats his cock and I use it to lubricate my hand. Without even having to change our position, I gently stroke and squeeze his cock and balls and, as I'd thought, it doesn't take long for Chris to climax. Shivering, he groans into my mouth and digs his nails into my back as the inescapable proof of his orgasm spills over my hand. I only release my grip when I sense he's finished.

Spent, Chris breaks the kiss and haltingly whispers in my ear, "It's good to be home."

"Couldn't have put it better myself," I reply, kissing him lightly on the nose before, both sticky, we reluctantly separate. Chris fully removes his briefs and I watch this, a lazy smile playing over my face, before, as though on autopilot, we both turn towards the television. Titanic finally having sunk, we watch in bemusement as our well-hung heroes are rescued by a ship carrying a crew of no doubt equally as well-hung men. Smiling lewdly, while rubbing their crotches, at our naked, shivering heroes, they lead them down into cabins and set about... ah... warming them.

"Bed looks good," Chris comments, looking over at me and blinking in a way that has nothing innocent about it.

Not needing telling twice, I nod as I frantically grab the numerous remotes and kill the video. "Again," I murmur, dropping the remotes and reaching for Chris, "I couldn't have put it better myself."

Chris purrs happily, allowing himself to again be drawn into my embrace. Entwined, the memory of our separation needing to be laid to rest once and for all, we slowly shuffle towards the bedroom.

It's with extreme confidence that I can say that the video is soon to be nothing more than a preview to the main event.

God it's good to have him back.