Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"Sorry I'm late. I had to stop at the store for a couple of things." If Damont was feeling guilty, Aaron didn't tune into that—not even when he saw that Damont was carrying a large bouquet of flowers and something in a small plastic bag.

"Flowers. You brought me flowers," Aaron said, pleased, but also a bit apprehensive. "No problem with being late. There's a lasagna in the oven, but it will keep."

"Good, because I don't think we'll get to it for a while." Damont's voice was gravelly. Aaron recognized the sign of that and he began to pant lightly and felt himself going hard. At sixty-five, Aaron could still go hard for Damont.

"Here. Give me the flowers. The stems should be cut and I need them to get into water."

"Just a minute for that," Damont said, crossing to the kitchen counter, sweeping Aaron into his arms, and giving him a deep kiss. In the process, he knocked Aaron's cane onto the floor from where it had been hanging from its handle on the edge of the kitchen island counter. Aaron had needed to use a cane since the automobile accident five years earlier. The leg was more numb now than painful, but it had caused Aaron to stop his years-long rigorous exercise regime in an attempt to keep himself desirable for Damont. He'd never become comfortable with being able to keep up with what Damont wanted from him.

Aaron was putting on a few pounds now, although he had exchanged hard exercise for hard dieting, but a little thickish around the middle now, he was still looking better than a sixty-five-year-old had the right to look. His catering business had done real well. He'd helped Damont buy the gym. Aaron suspected that Damont stayed with him because of that, although Damont continually denied that and declared that he still found Aaron fascinating sexually after all of these years.

"You give the absolute best blow jobs," Damont would say at this time, to which Aaron would answer, "You have a lot of experience with that to do the comparison, I'm sure. I know from personal experience what happens at that gym of yours." This would make Damont clam right up.

And when Aaron pointed out that he now was sixty-five and, with the added disability of the bum leg, "We can't fuck on the trapeze anymore, and I know how you like that," Damont would counter with "Don't forget that I'm fifty-two now myself. Trapezes are out of my life too."

But when they had this standard exchange tonight, Damont's thoughts guilty went back to the young blond on the rings earlier that evening—how good he smelled, how well his slim waist fit between Damont's beefy hands, how hard he'd made Damont. How much the sweet young thing had wanted his butt cheeks split by the cock. How much he wanted to swing with Damont on the rings, the cock finding new depth with each upswing of the arc.

"Here, let me do that," he said, reaching over for the flowers. He just managed to stop himself from saying that Aaron was hacking the stems mercilessly by not being able to hold his hand steady. The essential tremors that had set in in the last two years, making Aaron's hands tremble almost uncontrollably when he was nervous, were doing a real number now.

Aaron obviously was very nervous about something. Was it because Damont was late in getting home? Was it because Aaron thought the flowers reflected something Damont felt guilty for this evening?

"You know why I brought the flowers, don't you?" he abruptly said.

"No, no I don't," Aaron said, his eyes downcast. "But you don't have to tell me why. It doesn't matter. You're here. That's all that matters. You've stuck with me. I don't care what you have to do to keep yourself satisfied."

"For thirty years," Damont said. It was almost a whisper. His voice was husky. "We've been stuck with each other for thirty years, Aaron. That's what the flowers are for. It's our anniversary. It was thirty years ago today when we first fucked that evening in the gym—and then in my apartment, with me moving in with you the next day. It's our anniversary. That's the why of the flowers. In appreciation for thirty great years. And you haven't asked what's in the bag."

"What's in the bag?" Aaron asked in a choked voice.

Damont pulled the box out of the bag—a box of Trojan Magnum condoms. "It took me a while, standing at the counter, to decide how big a box we'd need for tonight."

They stood in the center of the living room, pulling at each other's clothes and kissing before Aaron managed to get on his knees in front of Damont and show that he still could give the best blow job Damont had ever had.

And then Damont showed he still had remarkable recovery powers at fifty-two and both showed that age and infirmity had not stolen their ability to do a standing fuck in the middle of the living room. And later, the lasagna already cold in the oven, Aaron showed that a bum leg was fine running up Damont's meaty torso, ankle hooked on Damont's shoulder. And that his other leg was still flexible enough to just sit straight out and up from his hip as Damont held it wide at the ankle to widen access in Aaron's ass to a cock that hadn't lost a millimeter in length or girth, as Damont drilled him hard and deep. Damont was putting all of the desire into the pumping that he had fantasized to do with the young blond on the rings earlier in the evening.

He was dreaming, yes, of fucking an athletic young man in taxing positions. He could do nothing about his fetish for this but to resist it and, successfully, to put Aaron's face on all of the bodies of the men he fucked in his dreams—as he strongly resisted doing earlier in the evening or he might have given in and given the young blond the cocking he do obviously had wanted.

The truth of it, though, was that there had never been another man since that night thirty years ago with Aaron. Whenever there had been the temptation, Damont had done the comparisons, and Aaron had always come up the winner—with so much going for him beyond the sex.

Damont lowered his face to Aaron's as he drove his dick hard inside the older man. Putting his forehead against Aaron's, he watched the expressions of ecstasy that his pumping, long, hard, wide, inside Aaron's channel was bringing to the older man's face. It was all worth it—all of the other denial of desires so hard to control—to be rewarded with those expressions.

The two men could still bring gushes of cum out of each other, and as long as that was the case . . . well, for an eternity after that as well.

"One thing about the Trojan Magnums, though," Damont whispered when they were done and after Damont had told Aaron what the next fuck position was. "It's our last box. If the only way I can prove to you that there's no one else and won't be is to go natural, that's what we'll do. It will be more enjoyable anyway."

Aaron sighed. That was the best anniversary present. At last he believed.