The Gentle Degenerates by Marco Vassi Read Free Book Online Page A

alter course on the spot, but not making any major navigational changes because of fear.
    I drew her to me and we lay down on the couch, fully dressed, in one another’s arms. It was like teen-ager days, and a flash of Regina and her young man went through my mind. At that moment, with Isabel breathing on my face, pressing her delicious young body against me, there was no jealousy toward Regina for anything she had done. It amazed me that so long as I felt I was being wanted and loved, I had no fear about anything Regina did. Was jealousy then a fear of loss, a sense of being left out?
    We kissed, and it was one of those long, involved kisses like a dance. We lay in perfect attention, fully aware of what our lips and tongues were doing, aware of the taste of saliva and the promise of opening. I bit at her gently, and she took my tongue between her teeth and squeezed it. Yet, for all the concentration at our mouths, we remained aware of the rest of the room, and of the fact that Harry might walk in at any minute. We were abyss-slumming again, litterbugging in the void.
    We seemed to have matched rhythms perfectly for the evening, probably because both of us were completely up for pleasing one another. After the long kiss, we pulled back and spent another long time looking into each other’s eyes. It was that exquisite time when inner consciousness and outer reality are felt as one and the same thing.
    There was no difference between me and her, merely distinctions. Her thoughts flowed as mine did, but we were unconcerned with content, only with structure. Our heads merged and we merged with everything around us, and slowly our bodies found their own movement, an easy pumping ride of pelvis rocking into pelvis.
    Never had the moment been so right for fucking. The thought hit both of us simultaneously, and as one, our minds reached for the space outside the door where Harry might burst in at any moment. Ambivalence reached the level of pain. And then in a blinding flash of insight, I had the solution. It was, to be sure, a cop-out, since true bravery—or stupidity—would have involved taking the scene to whatever conclusion it dictated. But since turning thirty I am sometimes content with a symbolic victory over circumstances, bringing matters to a rational conclusion. “A blow job would meet the situation perfectly,” I said.
    She looked at me for a long time, and then a smile began playing at the corner of her mouth. “We would both be dressed,” I continued. “And if Harry didn’t come, we could go right on with it, and if he did, we could pull it together fast enough so it would seem that we were just sitting together on the couch.” It was preposterous, of course. As jealous as he would be at the moment if he came in, he would know immediately what had been going on. But it was a clever enough rationalization to allow us to do what we wanted to do anyway.
    I closed my eyes and felt her hands begin to roam over my chest. She was really good. Her tongue found my face and then moved to my ear. She came close to driving me mad with lust, working delicately and consciously, varying her breath and the movement of her lips, tantalizing, drawing me out, and then plunging her tongue home. I cried out and felt my pelvis moving involuntarily. She whispered to me, “Everything we do from now on is a prelude to me sucking you off.” This was her way of telling me to let go and relax, that she was in control. I gladly relinquished all power into her hands.
    She moved down, tonguing my nipples and belly, and then taking a long time to rim my belly button, working into it hard. I pushed my belly out into her face, opening the symbolic cunt to her mouth. She bit into the soft flesh and brought a mouthful of skin into her mouth, nibbling and tearing, licking, sucking. I grabbed her hair and forced her face deeper into my soft center. She moaned and began to move her head up and down, covering the entire area with long flat