For the next little bit, I sat in his bed as he stroked both his cock and mine. His technique was too foreign to really enjoy it, but I found myself reacting strongly to his touch because it felt both taboo and "wrong".I don't know if I was fueled by arousal or by a sense of "fairness", but I lifted my hand closest to him. As it moved, he correctly anticipated my intent and silently let me know it was ok by withdrawing his hand from his cock. I watched the implied invitation and I knew this was something he wanted....he wanted to feel my hand around him, jerking him off.My hand wrapped around him, tighter than he'd gripped me initially, and I couldn't help but notice how different it felt. First of all, I was feeling a cock in my hand, but what I felt and how my hand moved didn't correspond with the stimulation radiating from my own cock. Beyond that, I noticed that his cock wasn't as long as mine, but it made up for it by having more girth. The veins on his cock stuck out more like. Well, here’s the beginning of that story, drenched in the grief of a man who has lost his wife, who wakes up every morning wondering how to go on and then, one day, wakes up on a private island in the South Pacific. He’s comfortable enough. There is a beautiful beach house fitted out with every known amenity (and some that are still unknown). But the grief stays with him. And then, on the first anniversary of her death, things begin to change. ———————– December 23 It rained. It’s never happened before. I don’t really know what to make of it. The sky just wept for hours. I sat on the front porch of the beach house, under the tin roof, and listened to it beat down. Eventually I got up to pour a glass of red wine, and to light some candles. By late afternoon it looked like a little shrine around me–candles flickering, a half-finished bottle of wine on the table, and me–staring straight ahead into the gloom, watching the lightning flash its anguish across the grieving sky and listening.
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