Page 9 of Suddenly Beck

In the end, Nat and Pia had slowly disappeared. These days we rarely see each other except at social functions, and even then the conversation is stilted and awkward as if we’ve run out of things to say to each other. I still miss her though; the Pia I’d once loved. She’s the only thing I regret losing.

Shaking off my bleak mood, I find myself once again swamped with exhaustion, and dragging my t-shirt over my head, I toss it over the chair and climb into the bed pulling the covers over me as I sink down into sleep.

When I open my eyes again, the room is dark, I try to pinpoint what had woken me, but as my hand is inside my shorts and wrapped around my cock, which is as hard as granite, I have a pretty good idea what it was. My mind is still wrapped in layers of sleep, still partly immersed in the vivid dream I’d been lost in. I’d been back on the beach with him, the beautiful blonde stranger with the hazel eyes and abs like an accordion beneath his soaked white t-shirt.

In my dream, he’d had me pinned to the sand like before, my hands wrapped tightly around his biceps as he lay intimately between my spread legs, his weight braced on his hands either side of my head, but this time, instead of pushing him away, I’d drawn him closer. I’d felt the hard press of his dick pressing against my own, felt the dizzying friction as he’d rocked between my legs. I’d reached up and pulled him down to me, the weight of his firmly muscled body pinning me as his lips had pressed to mine.

I’d opened my mouth, feeling the heated slide of his tongue as he tasted me, groaning as we sank deeper into the kiss, his spit in my mouth and his tongue tangling with mine as my hands gripped his hair. My hips rocked up into his desperately, and I felt his hand slide down my body, tugging open the buttons on the fly of my jeans. He shoved his hand in roughly, sliding down into my boxers and fisting my cock tightly in his large, calloused grip.

Christ, I breath sharply in the silence of the room, and giving into the fully formed fantasy in my mind, I reach down and shoved my sleeping shorts over my hips, kicking them off along with the covers until I’m splayed out naked in the darkness, breathing hard. My neck and spine arch helplessly as my fingers tighten around my dick. I’m so hard, my dick is throbbing and aching unbearably, my balls drawn up high and tight. I run my fist up the length, rubbing my thumb over the head and feeling the bead of moisture seeping from my slit. I glide up and down my length slowly a few times before lifting my hand to my mouth and licking the length of my palm, tasting the saltiness of my precum, and making my hand nice and slick. I fist my prick again, stroking my length firmly as I close my eyes and surrender to the fantasy.

The thought of him, rough and male, the heavy, unfamiliar weight of him rocking against my body fills me with heat as I imagine his fist pumping my cock, wanking me roughly, his tongue in my mouth and my lips swollen from his kiss.

I’m pumping my own cock furiously now, picturing him touching me desperately, taking exactly what he wants from my body and overwhelming my senses. I can still smell the salty tang of the ocean on my skin, and it only serves to add another sensory layer to my fantasy.

I reach down and cup my balls in my other hand, tugging them gently as I grip my dick harder. I can see it now, see him pulling back from our kiss, his eyes burning into mine as my cock erupts in his grip, spurting hot slick spunk over his fingers. He pulls his hand out of my boxers and licks my cum from his fingers before taking my mouth once again, and I taste myself on his tongue.

I gasp out as ropes of semen paint my stomach, and I pant heavily. As the pulsing in my cock slowly subsides, I fall back against the pillow, breathing hard and heart pounding in my chest.

Fuck, I huff quietly. This really is a new low point for me, reduced to banging one out over the man who was kind enough to save my life. When my heart rate gradually subsides into a more sedate pace, I draw in a breath and roll off the bed padding comfortably naked across the floor to the small windowless bathroom and clicking on the dim light.

I turn the tap on and wash my cock and stomach, patting my skin dry with the soft fluffy hand towel. For a moment, I stand staring at my reflection in the large, framed mirror in front of me. The line of my dark pubes is just about visible as my gaze tracks up the ‘V’ shape of my pelvis, across my flat stomach and up my lean torso. I may not have the firmly muscled build of my spank bank hero, but I have a tough disciplined body.

I like to run. Yes, I know, make of that what you will Dr Freud. I would often pound the pavement across London, anything to get out of the headspace I so often found myself trapped in. On the plus side, it has left me with the lean athletic frame of a runner.

I study my face, scratching absently at the dark five o’clock shadow at my jaw. My skin is olive, and my hair is dark, thanks to the fact my mother is Italian, but I get my startling blue eyes from my father, although his are lot colder and less self-deprecating than mine.

I scrub my hand through my hair thoughtfully, thanks to the fact it got soaked and windswept earlier it’s now a mad tumble of thick, loose wavy curls on top. Back in London, I would always be immaculately dressed in an expensive tailored suit, clean shaven, with a short back and sides, and the top of my hair neatly parted and combed. That was the Nathan Elliott everyone knew.

The man standing naked in front of the mirror now is as different to my former self as night is to day. My cheeks are flushed from my orgasm, my hair wild and the beginnings of a beard rippling along my jaw.

Maybe this is Nat, maybe this is who that happy carefree boy would’ve grown up to be if his choices hadn’t been made for him.

I think back to moments ago to when I’d pleasured myself to thoughts of the gorgeous stranger on the beach, and I pause, waiting for the familiar rush of shame to materialise… but strangely enough, this time it doesn’t.

Huh... I think with a little huff of surprise.

I’m not a virgin by any means, I’ve slept with a few women, admittedly more from expectation than any real desire to do so, but I’ve never, believe it or not, had any kind of sexual experience with a man.

I’ve always known I was gay from the moment I realised that my morning glory was down to the thought of one of the boys from my science class naked in the shower after P.E, and it only got worse with time. In fact, the truth is that I wasn’t interested in girls at all.

In my defence, I did try to broach the subject with my dad when I was fifteen, which had taken some serious balls I might add. I was, at the time, still desperately hoping that my father was a semi decent human being, until that conversation disabused me of the notion. I can still hear him now, very clearly expressing his views about ‘faggots.’

Needless to say, I did not come out to my dad that day. I’d ended up trying to convince myself that I was Bi, but to my eternal shame, the only way I could get hard enough to actually have sex with a woman was to think about guys.

I scrub a hand over my face wearily. I’ve done a lot of things in my life I’m not proud of, and front and center is sleeping with those women just to appease my dad and keep him from finding out the truth about me. I never even experimented with boys because I was so terrified of word getting back to him. I can’t even begin to explain the pressure and expectation he put on me.

Even in my most private moments, when I was trying to give myself a little relief, I would feel the shame as if fantasising about men was somehow dirty or wrong.

Straightening my spine, my jaw tightens unconsciously with a steady resolution. I’m done listening to his voice in my head, and from this moment on, there will be no more excuses, no evasions, no more living under the weight of someone else's expectations, it’s all on me now. Whatever decisions and mistakes I make from this point on are on me, and I’m going to own them all. I don’t want to be Nathan Elliott anymore.

I smile slowly at my reflection; I’m going to be Nat again.

Chapter Four

Nat

‘If you don’t know what the hell you’re doing, fake it ‘til you make it.’