Leaving The Strap-Ons Behind

The prosthetic dicks we wore when we fucked both had a hallow circle that looked like a flesh colored suction cup on the back side. After screaming each other’s names for a couple hours, we washed our cocks side-by-side, stroking them up and down and letting the soapy bubbles cover every inch before we rinsed them again. Even after having come several times, the site of the lather and the sound our lubed-up closed palms made against the prosthetic material got me half-hard. I thought about slipping his hand in my boxer’s so he would touch my pulsating two inches, telling him how aroused I was already, but decided against it- unsure if I could take more. If I had known it was the last time I would ever feel him near me, I would have tried harder. I would have taken everything he would give me.

As I searched for a place to hang my dick up to dry he grabbed it from my hands, and smiling, stuck both our junk to the wall by the suction cup with light force. We stood in silence for a moment. Seeing them just sitting there, not attached to our bodies was a strange and sudden juxtaposition. Only moments before, they had been against lips and tongues. They had induced pleasure, pressed against our biological parts as we pushed our hips into each other, glided in and out of wherever we moved them as quickly or slowly as was begged for. Now they hung still, motionless yet erect, and dripping with small beads of warm water to a white semi-gloss surface. It was strange art.

Seeing those manufactured extensions of ourselves that way for the first time, we began to examine the differences between them. Mine curved towards the sky with a small head, vein and textured, with an average girth. I was longer than he was, but not by much. His head was large and tinted pink, straight and thick. He told me with a thoughtful deepness in his voice, “This is how Italian dicks look. This is almost exactly how mine would be.” And again, I was stiff and wanting him more with every word that exited his sweet Sicilian lips.

He examined my cock ready and at attention stuck on the wall. Pushing the tip down with a single finger and watching it spring back into its naturally curved state, he smiled, “I wouldn’t have imagined your dick any other way.” Then he bit his thick bottom lip and blinked slowly as if recalling what it felt like to have me inside him.

He slowly ran his hand down the shaft and examined the base and balls of my cock. Even unattached, I felt every motion, every movement of his fingers, the final firm grasp before he released it and left it to hang on the white plaster wall next to his own dick. I should have jumped on him right then and there. Taken him while I had the chance, but I thought, “There’s plenty of time for this,” and asked instead if he was hungry.

We left our dicks behind in the bedroom, the sad poetry of the moment only entering my mind for a brief second.