Written by Jonniespunk
16 Mar 2018
- 2 Comments
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12 minute read
In one way or another most of us have a misspent youth. Some go TWOCing, getting into fights on Friday nights after a skinful or spend all hours of the day or night ‘gaming’. Others, like me, wasted their days on the French postmodernists, arguing over the finer points of Foucault or Derrida. The irony is that Books with titles like Positions or Discipline and Punish, which you imagine might pique the interest of the Swinging Heaven community, will on examination turn out to be choc-full of turgid prose. Be warned: they will not give you a hard-on. However, it’s not that I have nothing to be grateful to them for. I do. As you will see.
King’s Manor is one of the most stunning and complete examples of medieval architecture anywhere. Stone mullioned windows with leaded lights, arched entrances with heavy oak doors and dark wood panelled rooms ooze a deep sense of history. In it’s time it’s been an Abbots house, served as a seat of government for the Tudors and the Stuarts, and for a while in the 19th century, functioned as a school. Part of a university since the 1960s, it housed, appropriately, Archaeology, Medieval Studies and Eighteenth-Century Studies departments. There was also a very pleasant café and, pertinent to my tale, a peaceful reading room.
During my final year at University I’d often go to King’s Manor to study in the evening. The reading room was conducive to concentration, not like the ugly modern library where you’d get distracted by mates. With a dissertation to complete and exams to cram for, you’d find me there two or perhaps even three evenings a week. I’d often be juggling half a dozen different texts, so the large tables were great for spreading out the books, face down and open at the pages with the relevant passages for quotation. Better by far than being shoe-horned into a study carrel.
Harry was the ‘Porter’ at Kings Manor, which is one of those condescending university titles, which meant he was really a mixture of receptionist, security, keyholder, general fixer and solver of problems that inevitably arise in a medieval building occupied by hormone fuelled young people. Slim, clean shaven, steely blue eyes, grey short back and sides. I’d have put him at late 50s, early 60s maximum and he was a good-looking fella for his age. He was also very personable and always pleasant and kind. I felt he enjoyed it when we chatted, even though our conversations were often on pedestrian topics or centred around how my work was coming on. Eventually though, we were on first name terms.
King’s Manor closed at 10 in the evening and I’d often stay right up to the end. On many evenings I’d be the last person by a long chalk, and it wasn’t uncommon for me to be there alone after about 8pm. Harry took to checking on me if I was alone and he’d bring hot chocolate from a flask. He’d never intrude too much, just bring the drink, have a bit of a chin-wag and then off. He also took to letting me stay after hours, since his shift didn’t end until 11pm.
One night when he brought the hot chocolate he almost caught me having a crafty wank. I would usually cycle in, so I’d wear Lycra Ron Hill’s for comfort. He entered just as I was putting my dick away and I wasn’t sure if he realised I’d just been wanking. (I hope it’s not news to you that young men wank everywhere.) Anyhow, that night he did spend longer than usual talking and rested his bum on a corner of the table half-seated, half-standing right over me. When he left I noticed there was cum on my Ron Hill’s, but decided that if Harry had seen it, he didn’t mind. He’d put it down to hormones or youthful exuberance, I thought, but I also liked the idea that I’d been caught. Harry became a sort of wank fantasy! I also vaguely suspected he might have a sexual interest in me.
I went into King’s Manor, early the next day with these thoughts running through my head. Harry and I exchanged the usual pleasantries and then I headed for the loo. I pulled down the front of my Ron Hill’s and my underpants and as I was peeing the door opened and in walked Harry. He stood only a couple of urinals away and we started talking. I deliberately spent an age shaking off the drops, I knew he’d be able to get sight of my cock, balls and black pubic hair. I watched him finish his piss without any of the usual furtive embarrassment that you find in public toilets.
I went into the reading room completely unable to put pen to paper, my mind was alive and racing with thoughts of sex. I tried to knuckle down but after a couple of hours with a hard on I felt compelled to do something about it. There were too many people around to deal with it then and there. I trotted off past Harry’s station and down to the loo. I went into a stall and, leaving the door open, I pulled my Ron Hill’s and pants down low enough to expose my arse. My cock sprang out with anticipation already glistening with wetness. It was risky, but just the idea of someone seeing even my arse was exciting. As I stood there I heard the door open and someone went straight to the urinal almost opposite the stall I was in. I looked around and there was Harry. “Hello Harry”, I said with my back to him. “I thought I saw you come in.” he replied. I stood there until I could hear that he’d finished his piss and was zipping up. “Are you getting much work done?” He asked. “Not much,” I said, turning around and pulling up my pants and Ron Hill’s in one movement and adjusting myself. Harry was facing me, so he’d seen my bare arse and he could see the outline of my rock-solid cock through the Lycra. We washed our hands and still chatting harry went back to his office and I went back to the reading room.
He brought me hot chocolate as usual that evening and told me I could stay after lock-up, only this time he asked me where I lived, so I told him. “That’s on my way home,” he said, “Do you want to walk up the road together afterwards?” My mind was racing, “Er… yes, that’d be nice. You could come in for a night cap,” I quickly added.” “I’ll come and tell you when I’m ready leave.” He left whistling.
Eleven arrived and I went with Harry to collect his bike, one of those heavy old iron bone-shaker affairs. We walked up the road and reached the end of my cul-de-sac after about 15 minutes,
“Are you coming into my little bed-sit for that night-cap?”
“I don’t really drink” he replied.
“I don’t have any drink Harry. I meant a cup of tea or coffee.” People didn’t seem to baulk at coffee in the evenings back then!
“OK. But I mustn’t stay long. I have to get back, because my mum won’t go to bed until I’m in.”
I was a bit taken aback by that. Harry hadn’t said too much about his personal circumstances, but we chatted, and his story unfolded over coffee made with milk. Never married, he stayed at home and was now caring for his elderly mother who was dependent on him being around. It seemed rather sad, and I felt a bit of a heel, young and dumb and full of cum, when all he wanted was someone to talk to.
I thought we might have exhausted the conversation when Harry suddenly announced, “I saw you on the CCTV the other night in the reading room just before I brought your drink.” I knew instantly he was talking about my wank emergency. “Oh right, I’m really sorry Harry, I didn’t know there was a camera, it won’t happen again…” “Don’t worry,” he interrupted my abject apology, “I couldn’t see everything, but I knew from the way you were moving and your expressions what you were doing. I enjoyed watching, it would’ve been better if the desk wasn’t in the way.” We had a laugh about it, but still he didn’t make a move on me, “I’ll just use your loo and then I’ll be on my way”.
Christ, it was now or never. I decided to take a risk and while he was peeing, I stripped and lay back on the bed with a full hard-on. When he came back, he stood at the door for what seemed like an age, and I thought anxiously I’d misread everything. Then he came over to the bed and sat beside me and just gently took my cock in his fist and slowly and deliberately wanked me pulling my foreskin right up covering my bell end and then pulling it back to it’s limit. “You look so lovely”, he said running his free hand over my body. As he wanked me I stroked and pinched my nipples, and he got the message and he started to do it to me. “Do it with your mouth Harry,” He gently nibbled my nipples, stopping only to ask me, “I’m not hurting you am I?”
I tried to lift his sweater but he resisted a bit. I went for his belt. Again, he hesitated.
“What’s up Harry? Don’t be shy.”
“I’m 58 years old and I’m not in such good nick as you.”
“I don’t expect you compare to Charles Atlas but then neither do I!” I joked.
He undressed slowly, almost shyly with his back to me. He had a very fine physique, V-shaped back, nicely rounded buttocks, well-developed thighs and triceps. I could see what a good-sized pair of bollocks were hanging between his legs. He turned to face me. “Wow,” I exclaimed. Blushing from his neck up, he denied he did any sort of work out but kept fit by cycling a walking. He had a small amount of chest hair that was partially white, a flat abdomen with a line of dark hair from his naval to his pubes. His cock made a big impression, it was very thick and longer than average, I’d say a good seven inches. It stood out at a ninety-degree angle. His balls were heavy and hung low and unshaven.
I got up and knelt in front of him and gently pulled back his foreskin as I licked at his balls. I pushed his legs apart taking my tongue right up to the edge of crack of his arse. I was holding his left buttock firmly with one hand and working my fingers down his cleft. He was clenching to resist. He stroked my hair and I looked up, his eyes were closed, “Is that nice Harry?” He sighed, “It’s lovely.” I stood up and tried to kiss him. He tried to avoid it.
“Harry, you don’t seem very relaxed. Is something wrong?”
“I haven’t really done very much in the past.”
“With other men, you mean?”
“With anyone, " he said.
So here I was 20 years old and having sex with a 58 year-old novice. At that point in my life I hadn’t really got into my stride with novices. These days, especially with all you bi-guys on here, being mentor is something I enjoy. When you’re younger the priority is to cum, to get your end away. Another person’s pleasure is largely secondary. I’ll tell you something for nothing, the 50 year-old me, probably wouldn’t have thought much of sex with the 20 year-old me!
Returning to the bed, we lay down side by side. For a while we wanked each other, had some nipple play and stroked each other’s balls. I could tell he was getting very conscious of the time, so I straddled his legs, and, on my knees, I sucked his cock while wanking myself. It didn’t take long before his breath quickened, got heavier and he cried out withdrawing from my mouth as thick spurts of spunk shot up his belly as his face contorted. I quickened my pace and came over his belly, chest and neck. It was a huge load of cum from all the anticipation.
I gave him a towel and he mopped up every drop of jizz meticulously. I knew he would. He dressed and seemed a bit quiet and pensive. I said, “Harry, what we just did is something I’ve been thinking about for a while.” To my surprise he replied, “Me too, pretty much from the first day you came into King’s Manor.” “How was it for you?” I half-laughed, amused by the cliché. “I’m worried I’ve disappointed you.” He said, “I’m just not used anything but going solo. I don’t know if I’m homo or hetero or anything in between.” “It’s not something you have to decide” I said gently, and for a twenty year-old, wisely, it seems in retrospect, “Just go with the flow, go with what you feel and find out what you like. You can practice on me if you like.” He laughed a little bit, “I haven’t blown it then?” “Aww, you haven’t blown it at all and I could’ve done with it blown!” It took a while for the penny to drop, but it lightened the atmosphere. “No damage done then?” “No Harry, nothing ventured nothing gained, no damage done,” I said.
I put on my dressing gown and showed him to the door. He extended his hand to me. “Harry I’ve just made you cum and covered you in spunk, can’t we stretch to a hug.” He hugged me tightly and surprised me by slipping his hand into my dressing gown and squeezing my balls. “How did I get on your radar Harry?” “I saw all those books you had spread out with titles that were homosexuality this and homosexuality that.” He took his bicycle and cycled off with a wave. French postmodernists are good for something after all.