[art by me]
After a nap, Sören and I sixty-nined, then we rubbed to orgasm a couple more times before falling asleep again. In the morning I woke to a cold spot in the bed and I sat up, startled - hoping Sören hadn't decided to go back on his offer of showing me around Iceland for the next two weeks, even though he was within his rights to do so. But then I heard the toilet flush and the sink run, and breathed a sigh of relief as I sank back against the pillows.
Sören came out of the bathroom naked, and gave me a shy little smile and an awkward wave. "I hope I didn't wake you."
"You're fine," I said. Then I leered at his naked body. "Not exactly a bad way to wake up."
Sören's smile became a grin and he came right over and climbed on top of me. I pulled him down into a kiss, then gently rolled him onto his back - now I was the one on top. Sören kissed me back hungrily, hands sliding down my back to cup my arse, then up again. Sören looked into my eyes, tenderly stroked my cheek, and then kissed me with a fire that got me going again.
It wasn't long before we were rubbing together, Sören's nails raking my back and hips and sides as he begged for more. As sore as my cunt was from all the hot fucking last night, I couldn't get enough of him, feeling his cock on mine, how wet and sloppy we were marinating in our sex juices overnight. I had never been so horny for someone in my life, and he was the best sex I'd ever had. We fucked hard and came together quickly, moaning as we kissed, making another wet spot on the bed with our gushing cream. I hoped the hotel cleaning staff would forgive us.
We showered together - too spent to fool around, but I enjoyed him lathering me, and doing the same to him, and the two of us holding each other, leaning on each other under the hot spray. The only thing about the shower I didn't enjoy was...
"What's wrong?" Sören asked.
"Oh." I sniffed the air. "It smells like sulphur, a little."
"Jæja, that's normal. I suppose I'm used to it, though."
Once we were clean and toweled off, Sören opened up the leather messenger bag he'd brought to the club, where he'd packed a change of clothes and a strap-on, "in case I needed it," he explained, waving the dick at me as I cackled. Then Sören shrugged and said, "To be honest though, I haven't hooked up with anyone since before my transition."
"Have you encountered a lot of transphobia here? I was willing to test my luck at the club tonight because I had heard Iceland was pretty liberal."
"We are, but..." Sören rubbed his beard and pulled a face. "I have trauma issues. My uncle, um." He didn't need to finish that sentence; I felt a surge of protective rage even though we'd just met. "Then I had an abusive boyfriend."
"I'm sorry." I swallowed hard, wanting to give him a hug, but I held back, not sure if he'd think I was offering pity instead of compassion and solidarity. I thought of Steve, back in England, and the way I'd felt pressured into sex and that had been traumatic enough, never mind him forcing himself on me. I wanted to kill whoever did that to Sören.
"So jæja, I feel like I got struck by lightning, but in a good way, finding you at the club last night." Sören smiled, then he gave me a mock stern look as he shook the dick at me again. "But you better behave."
I winked. Sören laughed.
I put on a navy blue cashmere jumper and jeans, and Sören put on a blue Icelandic lopapeysa sweater with a geometric diamond pattern, and jeans. We matched without trying, which felt ridiculously twee but I found myself enjoying it just the same.
I packed up and we went down to the hotel restaurant for the free breakfast buffet that was one of the perks of my stay. Sören's eyes were big as he perused all the different selections of food, and it took him longer than me to decide. I got something as close to a full English as possible, with sausage and eggs and bacon, and Sören got a vegetable omelette and a bowl of porridge with skyr in it.
"I usually don't eat breakfast," Sören explained as we sat down. "I'm not a morning person."
"Do you go to work on an empty stomach? That's not good." I wanted to smack myself for nagging him like I was his father.
"My shift starts in the afternoon." Sören smirked. "Now comes the part where you're going to ask me what I do."
"What do you do?" I didn't want to be invasive but I was more and more curious about him, especially if he was going to be at my side for the next two weeks.
"I'm a museum curator."
"Which museum?" I asked, taking a sip of coffee, expecting it to be art or Viking history or something.
"The Reykjavik Phallological Museum."
I almost ended up wearing my coffee. I doubled over, sides heaving, eyes watering. "Oh my god."
Sören glanced around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers then he said, lowering his voice, "It's even funnier because I'm trans."
I owed him one from last night. "Hi Trans, I'm Anthony."
Sören kicked me under the table and giggled into his coffee.
"Do you like your job?" Curiouser and curiouser, I thought to myself, getting the mental image of Alice falling down the rabbit hole.
"More or less, though foreign tourists are annoying. Ah, no offence."
"None taken." I grinned. "That explains your remark last night about the language."
Sören nodded. "Anyway, even though it's my job, I wouldn't mind showing you when it's open, though you probably should leave your stuff at my place and not haul it around the city all day."
It still felt surreal that I was going to this guy's home... and that I felt safe doing so, that the trauma-addled part of my brain didn't start whispering this was some sort of trap.
After I checked out of the hotel, we took the bus to his flat, which was in a very boxy, ugly grey building. His flat was even smaller than the studio I'd rented in Hell's Kitchen - a living room with a kitchen space attached, a bathroom and a closet. One corner of the living room had an easel set up and shelves of paints, brushes, and blank canvases, which made it feel even more cramped. A Lenovo laptop sat on a coffee table in front of the couch, and next to it was a portable TV about the same size. "Put your stuff down anywhere," Sören said. He walked over to the fridge. "You want some juice? Water? Soda?"
"Nothing right now, thanks." I gingerly put down my duffel bag and my camping kit, and looked around again, not sure if I should take the couch or the armchair.
We sat together on the couch for a few minutes while Sören had a glass of orange juice, and my eyes kept wandering back to his easel and art supplies. "You paint?"
"And I make pottery." Sören nodded. "But it doesn't pay the bills, which is why I work at the museum. Even that barely pays the bills, the cost of living in the city is astronomical."
"I bet. I was living in New York before I went on my European tour."
Sören tilted his head. "Was."
I nodded. "One of my housemates had a bipolar episode and they decided me living there was bad for the mental health." I didn't want to explain further than that, it still stung. "When I return to the States, I have some tough decisions to make about where I'm going to go, and what I'm going to do. I don't think I can return to civil rights law after what happened, there's too much of a target sign on my back with TERFs and Trump supporters."
Sören made a noise of disgust. "Did you know MAGA is Icelandic for ass cancer?"
I started laughing. "You're taking the piss." I liked him more and more.
"Jæja, but it was funny." Sören grinned, then he pulled a face. "Fuck Trump."
"Seriously."
"I take it returning to the UK wouldn't be better?"
I shook my head. "We have Margaret Thatcher's evil twin and Brexit, and my ex-husband is there."
"Right, the one who you said was toxic."
"Yeah."
Sören nodded with sympathy. Then he got up, put his glass in the sink, stretched, and made a "get up" gesture. "OK, I'm gonna give you the tour of the city and while we're out we'll stop at a rental place so we can get a camper van for tomorrow. We won't see everything in one day but towards the end of your trip I can show you more things."
I gave him a pointed look. Sören cackled and elbowed me. "You're terrible." He smiled. "I like it."
I liked that he liked it. I liked him and it was starting to scare me a little. Don't get attached. This is just a fling, I told myself as I followed him out of the apartment, watching his lovely arse with each step.
We started our day in Reykjavik at Hallgrímskirkja, or "Christ's penis" as Sören called it, making me crack up laughing. It did indeed look quite phallic, with its tall spire sitting on wings like balls. "It also reminds me of the mountains and glaciers of our country," Sören said, "and it's an impressive piece of architecture."
That it was, looking as if it had been carved out of basalt. It was just as impressive on the inside, with two giant pipe organs - "an organ in an organ, it's like Organception up in here," Sören snarked, making more penis jokes - and then after admiring the organs, the statuary, the stained glass windows, and the crystal-and-basalt baptismal, Sören and I went in the lift to the top of the bell tower, which gave us a 360° panoramic view of Reykjavik - all the buildings including the charming brightly coloured residential houses, the surrounding mountains, and the ocean.
It was windy up there, and we held onto each other. "Don't want you to get blown away now," I said, though really it was just an excuse for me to hug him.
Sören grinned. "No getting blown inside a giant dick, we can't have that."
I groaned, but felt myself shaking with silent laughter and my face hurt again. I gave him a little kiss; it felt so good to laugh.
Our next stop was the penis museum. I don't quite know what I was expecting, but I couldn't stop laughing as Sören showed me the preserved penises of different species - a blue whale, an elephant, a bull, a horse, reindeer, foxes, seals, and walruses. There were even alleged folkloric specimens, like an elf penis.
"This is a prime example of what I mean by annoying foreigners," Sören said, gesturing to the elf penis on display. "In our folklore, there's not much difference between the huldufólk and us, except that the huldufólk are extremely beautiful. Foreigners confuse our elves with fairies and pixies, so there was an obligation to meet their expectations." Sören shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Sorry, I'm getting worked up over elf dick."
In hindsight, that was almost prophetic.
"No need to apologize," I said. "You're cute when you nerd out."
Sören blushed and smiled slightly, and bit his lower lip before he gestured for me to follow.
There was a gift shop at the museum. "You can use my employee discount," Sören said.
I looked around, and while a few things caught my eye, I hesitated. I thought about my dwindling bank account and that I was essentially betting on finding both an apartment and a job quickly in Boston, and luck might not be on my side. Absolute worst case scenario, I knew my uncle Nigel would be willing to give me some money to tide me over, but he and his partner were elderly pensioners and I felt guilty about that being a possibility. Ditto with my mum. So I needed to be careful with expenditures right now. Even though sleeping in a camper van for most of the next two weeks would save me money compared to staying in hostels, I was still cautious.
Sören caught me frowning and taking a step back from the mugs with penis-shaped handles. He took out his wallet. "You know, I could buy one of those for you."
"Oh god." Sören probably had even less money than I did, judging from the size of his flat and talking about the cost of living in Reykjavik. "That really isn't necessary -"
"No, I want to. Consider it a gift." Our eyes met. "OK?"
I wasn't going to argue with him. Sören let me pick out a mug, then he went to the T-shirts and grabbed one that looked like it fit me, and threw in a pink plush penis wearing underwear on its balls. I cackled as Sören brought it to the register. While it was harder for me to cry on testosterone, I found myself getting a little choked up at Sören's generosity, and I gave him a hug once everything was paid for.
"You're very kind," I said.
"I don't know about that," Sören said, "but you deserve nice things." Sören made me hug the plush penis. "If that could be called a nice thing."
We laughed together, then we stopped in the museum's cafe and had coffee and phallic-shaped waffles topped with strawberries. Sören spent a few minutes chatting with one of his co-workers in Icelandic, and I started swooning again at the melodic sound of the language.
After the penis museum, Sören took me to the Reykjavik Punk Museum, which was a former underground public toilet and had all sorts of memorabilia including from the Sugarcubes, Björk's old band, and photos of Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols inaugurating the museum in 2016, less than a year before. "I was there for that," Sören said, and took out his phone to show me pictures of himself with Johnny Rotten, both of them giving the camera the V and making rude faces.
I liked Sören. I liked him a lot.
Then Sören showed me the Black Cone, a monument to civil disobedience during Icelandic's financial crisis between 2009 and 2011. "Even I came down to Reykjavik to protest a few times and I was only a teenager," Sören said. "It was that bad. But I get even more worked up over that bullshit than I do over misrepresenting elf dick..." Then he trailed off and had a gigglefit. "God, listen to me. Misrepresenting elf dick. Jesus Christ."
I laughed too. "It's like I said. You're cute."
Sören blushed, and leaned in to kiss the tip of my nose.
It was a weird, out-of-the-way thing to show a tourist, but I was also glad he did. It felt more authentic getting the "inside scoop" of the city's history and culture from someone who lived here. Sören took my hand and I felt a thrill go through me.
Next, we saw Laugavegur and spent time winding in and out of different niche shops - many of which were of artisan crafts - and I got a closer look at the colourful houses I'd admired from a distance at the top of the bell tower at Hallgrímskirkja.
There was street art on a number of buildings, which Sören pointed out was often commissioned or otherwise granted permission by the owner - and Sören himself was responsible for a few of those works, including and especially a mural of Snoop Dogg in Van Gogh's "Starry Night" with weed in the landscape that he called his "magnum opus".
[art by me]
I almost died laughing when Sören began doing the dance from the "Drop It Like It's Hot" video in front of the mural.
"Wow," I said. "You're like Iceland's Banksy."
"...Who?"
I suddenly felt very, very old, and very, very painfully English. "Graffiti artist in the UK. He's kind of famous. You ever listen to Massive Attack? A lot of people think Banksy is 3d from the band." I looked down, my face on fire. "Er, now I'm the one infodumping."
"You're cute. And yes, I like Massive Attack and no I've never heard of Banksy but you learn something new every day." Sören touched my cheek.
Our next stop was Tjörnin, a park with a picturesque lake. I was delighted to see swans. "I love swans," I told Sören. Then I felt like an idiot being overly enthusiastic. But Sören just smiled and booped my nose.
We spent awhile sitting on a bench, watching the swans glide on the water. Sören took his tablet out of his messenger bag and began to sketch, and I found myself glancing over, curious. Then I thought about the cramped art corner of his flat. "Will you show me some of your paintings tonight?" I asked.
Sören nodded.
The sight of Sören sketching was as lovely as the swans on the lake, if not moreso. I kept going back and forth between looking at the swans and looking at Sören, beautiful in his intense concentration with his brow furrowed and his tongue poking out slightly - I could practically see the gears turning in his brain, the fire in his mind's eye. It also felt a little warmer, like Sören was throwing off more body heat than usual, but I told myself I was probably all flustered by a cute boy.
Not even Evan or Xavier made me all gooey like this. And especially not Steve.
About a half-hour later, Sören put his tablet away, got up to stretch, and we were off again. Our last stop while there was some daylight left was walking along the harbour and stopping at the Sun Voyager. It was golden hour, and we took in the sunset. The colours seemed especially vibrant, turning the sky fiery red and orange and magenta, but then the whole world seemed brighter with Sören present.
We stopped at the camper van rental and I paid for the van and Sören made arrangements to pick up the van in the morning, rather than have it take up one of the guest parking stalls at his apartment building and get yelled at for hogging space. On the way back to Sören's flat we discussed trip itinerary - it was between five to six hours' drive from Reykjavik to Akureyri, which was achievable in a single day, but Sören suggested we see Þingvellir, a national park to the east of Reykjavik, and that would take up a few hours at least, and on the way to Akureyri he wanted to stop and show me the Ásbyrgi canyon, east of Húsavík, "so six hours becomes more like a couple days," he explained. I told him that was more than fine - I was here to see Iceland and I once again felt extremely lucky to have encountered a local who was willing to show me around.
Back at his flat, I sat down, Sören gave me an Appelsín and put on his portable television and pulled out a box of DVDs from under the coffee table, before he went over to the kitchen area to start dinner. "I don't have company often, sorry. I'm really bad at this," he said.
I didn't think he was, but I decided humour was probably a better approach to put him at ease. "Hi Really Bad At This, I'm Anthony."
Sören shot me a look over his shoulder, then he grinned. I saw he was rolling nuggets of cod around in a breadcrumb mixture. "If I had cats they would be all over this," Sören said. His shoulders heaved with a deep sigh. "I can't have cats on the lease here, and I can barely feed myself, never mind an animal."
"I love cats, but I didn't live anyplace that allowed them," I said, glad he was a cat person, then asking myself why it mattered.
"Someday." Sören scowled and shook the bag of breading harder, like the fish nuggets had personally offended him.
I worried that maybe I'd said something wrong and hit a nerve, but Sören smiled when he took a seat next to me. I was pleased that even though he hadn't heard of The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air, he had heard of Bob Ross and owned DVDs of Joy Of Painting. We watched an episode and it ended just in time for Sören to get dinner served.
With the breaded cod nuggets, there was a side dish: he'd steamed frozen broccoli, carrots and cauliflower and put it in a garlic-herb sauce over rice. "I'm sorry it's not fancy," he apologized.
"It's delicious," I assured him a few bites later. "And in any case, you went to a lot of trouble for me, thank you."
I'd been living on what I could get at hostels - if they served meals at all, and almost all of the hostels that offered meals had really simple fare like sandwiches and pastries - and what I could cook myself at a campsite. I had to be the only bloke in the world who could answer "What did you eat while you were in France?" with "Tinned beans." [Which was also unbearably British of me. Ahem.] Sören's cooking was not bad by any means, but after two months of extremely simple food I felt like I was eating at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
And then I got choked up again. When my friendship with Michelle and Kim was new, Kim was enthusiastic about cooking for me. After I'd been living with them for a few weeks after the attack I could tell Kim resented it - one more form of labour to do for a man - so I tried to feed myself and spare her that work, though in the fog of my depression I relied on takeaway much of the time. It had been months since I'd had a proper home-cooked meal, and that Sören had insisted on cooking for me himself instead of taking me up on my offer to spring for takeaway - when I knew Sören was struggling financially - was like a gut punch to my feelings. Enough so that by the time I was done eating, the tears had broken through the wall of ice that testosterone put up around some of my emotional responses, and I felt myself about to break.
"Let me do dishes, since you cooked," I said.
"Oh no. You're a guest -"
I waved my hand. "Please?"
Sören put his feet up while I took care of rinsing the utensils ad plates and pots and pans and loading the dishwasher... and I cried silently. I guess Sören must have seen my shoulders heaving because just before I turned off the faucet, Sören called over, "You OK?"
"Um... yeah!"
Except I wasn't, and when I turned around, Sören got up off the couch and went to me, took my chin in his hand and tilted my face up to meet his eyes. I looked away and started sobbing, embarrassed of crying in front of someone I didn't know well.
Sören put his arms around me. "Oh god. The food wasn't that terrible, was it?"
"No! The food was good. That's just it." I tried to smile through my tears. "I'm going to sound like an idiot, but it's been a really long time since anyone cooked for me." I looked Sören in the eye again. "It's been a really long time since..." I couldn't finish the sentence, and I didn't even know what I was going to say. Since what?
Sören pulled me close and gave me a squeeze. "Oh, elskan," he said softly. It was the first time he called me that word, and it wouldn't be the last. "It's OK. I understand. Nobody cooks for me either. And I'm alone here just about every night, and lonely a lot of the time. So I get it."
I still owed him one for last night. "Hi Alone Here Just About Every Night And Lonely A Lot Of The Time So I Get It -"
Sören gave me a look, then he cracked up laughing, and so did I. Which made me start crying again, because it felt so good to laugh with someone again, after the slow crumbling death of my friendship with Michelle. We laughed and hugged and then Sören kissed my tears, rubbed noses with me, and kissed the tip of my nose.
"I have an idea," Sören said. "I have some weed. You want to go up to the rooftop and smoke a spliff with me?"
"It's not legal here, is it?"
"No," Sören laughed.
"How likely are we to get caught?" I'd enjoyed smoking weed in the Netherlands and Christiania, but I didn't enjoy it so much that I was willing to risk jail time for it.
"Not very. Especially not on the roof."
I followed him up to the apartment complex rooftop, where there was a picnic table and some individual folding chairs and a bench. There was an excellent view of Reykjavik from here - not quite as impressive as what we'd seen from the bell tower - but I could still see a lot of the city lit up at night.
We sat on the bench; Sören lit a prerolled joint and we took turns puffing on it. Sören coughed after the first hit and I had a coughing fit after the third hit. When the joint was done we leaned on each other and looked up at the night sky.
"I came here hoping to see an aurora," I said, hearing the mellow buzz in my voice.
"You might. We have them in September."
When we went back down to Sören's flat, he put on the episode of Joy Of Painting where Bob Ross paints an aurora, and I was stoned enough to burst out into laughter every time Bob Ross called something "happy little". As the end credits rolled, I told Sören, "Time for a happy little kiss," and leaned in to kiss him. One kiss became another, and another, and we were having a full makeout session by the time the DVD was back on the main menu.
Sören's couch folded out into a bed, and he went to the closet to get out bedding. He put on a couple more top sheets than I usually did and I got curious. "If the extra sheets are for me, I don't need you to do extra laundry to make me comfortable -"
Sören put up a hand. "You'll see in a minute. Get naked."
I smirked. "It's cute you think you're the one in charge."
Sören's eyebrows shot up, then he giggled, pulled off his jumper and threw it at me.
Once I was naked and Sören was down to his boxers, Sören walked into the kitchen and I climbed onto the bed, enjoying the crisp cotton sheets on my bare skin. I watched Sören put some coconut oil in a bowl, then put the bowl in the microwave. After thirty seconds the solidified oil was liquid and Sören brought it over, set the bowl down on an endtable that doubled as a nightstand, and took off his boxers. Then he climbed on the bed, grabbed the bowl of oil, and he said, "I want to take care of you tonight. Would you like a massage?"
I swallowed hard, my cunt twinging. "Yes, please."
I lay on my stomach with a pillow underneath me to prop up my hips. The weed had relaxed me, but Sören's touch was even more relaxing, rolling and kneading away the tension in my shoulders and back and arse and calves. I melted underneath his hands, finding each knot and rubbing it away... soothing, and sending frissons of pleasure through me.
I realised as Sören worked on my back and arse that I was deeply, deeply touch-starved. I hadn't had sex in over a year, and Evan had been the first oasis in a long drought after leaving Steve. No other lover I'd had before was so attentive to my needs, so unselfish. I felt a tight ache in my chest but I didn't start crying again, even as the sheer relief that flooded me at Sören's touch kept threatening to wreck me.
Then as I lay on my back, I stopped being able to think at all. The massage was more of a sensual caress now, Sören's hands stroking, fingers brushing and teasing, learning my body and its erogenous zones. Once Sören had given me a once-over with his hands, I watched him pour oil on his cunt and then he began to rub himself against my chest in slow circles. I almost came untouched at the sight of his hard t-dick on my nipple, and started playing with myself when he rubbed on the other. "God, you're so fucking hot," I moaned.
"And you are delicious." Sören gave me a sultry look. "I want to worship you."
My breath hitched. I kept watching him, this gorgeous Viking stud who was so turned on by me that he was rubbing himself on me like an animal in heat. It was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen in my life, and it felt like his cunt lips were kissing me all over, which made it even hotter.
By the time he was grinding on my thighs we were both panting and shaking. I expected him to straddle me and ride my cunt - I might have been more of a top but I was so far gone I would have let him fuck me - but instead he climbed off and licked my nipples - they had almost no sensation there after my top surgery but it was still hot to look at him tonguing them - and then he licked his way down my chest and stomach. A long, slow deliberate trail with his tongue, all the way down to my mound. He knelt on the floor by the edge of the bed and his eyes locked with mine as his head went between my legs, and he drew my aching, throbbing cock between his luscious lips.
I cried out, arching to him, my breath in shuddery gasps as he sucked on me, making filthy slurping sounds. I was so worked up that it didn't take long for me to hit that edge, about to climax, trembling, thighs quivering, moaning. Sören lapped at me, teasing, making me howl and grunt with frustration, and then after a few deliciously agonizing moments my cock was in his mouth again and he sucked it hard. I heard myself panting, giving a few shameless whimpers as he got me closer, closer, closer, and then rightthererightthererightthere -
"Oh god, don't stop," I yelled. "I'm gonna come..."
Sören stopped and smiled at me. "Hi Gonna Come, I'm Sören."
OK, he was probably even, and still... "Jesus Fucking Christ you braaaaa -" I couldn't finish the word as my cock went back in his mouth and he tugged at it with his lips, suctioning even harder. "AAAAAAAAAA, SHIT, FUCK!" I lost control, thrashing about, cunt pulsing hard, euphoria like fireworks and bells in my mind, electricity through my entire body. The weed made the orgasm even stronger, both the contractions and the feeling of release. I felt like I was flying, the room spinning and rocking.
Sören came up and I tasted myself as he kissed me. For a few minutes I rested in his arms, feeling absolute peace. Then I felt his arm moving and quickly figured out he was touching himself. "I can get you off," I said.
"I said I would take care of you tonight, so only if it gets you off too."
That definitely sounded like he was a submissive. I put that information on mental file, kissed him, and gently rolled him onto his back.
We looked into each other's eyes as we rubbed our cunts together, slowly. I felt so connected to him, even though we'd known each other barely twenty-four hours. I took what Sören gave, my cock making love to his cock, cunts kissing, our mouths kissing again and again, tongues licking like our cocks were. We went deeper and deeper into sensation, losing ourselves in languid, decadent pleasure, savoring, until the tension wound higher and higher and we were rutting together frantically, panting as our oiled cunts made sloppy squishing, smacking noises. I gave Sören one last deep kiss and then I rose up and rode him hard, fucking him, conquering him, and he rocked his hips back at me, begging "more, more, fuck me, more..."
Just as I felt myself at that point of no return, my body tensing up to come again, and I tried to hold back for Sören's sake, Sören's cunt spasmed against mine and he screamed, his body shuddering, heaving. I gave in to my own climax with a broken cry, and sank down. We kissed, moaning as our cunts pulsed and gushed together, then I rubbed my nose in Sören's beard and against his neck.
"You are amazing," I said.
Sören laughed. "Þú fokk mér vel." Then he laughed harder, blushing. "Sorry. Words."
"Your language is beautiful." I touched his cheek. "You're beautiful."
We kissed again, and after a few minutes of snuggling together Sören dozed off. I watched him sleep, admiring him - those curls, his long lashes, the full lips in a slight smile. I thought about how earlier at Tjörnin I asked to see his art, and I still wanted to see it, but I didn't want to disturb his peace. We had time.
Not enough time, I thought to myself and then I sighed, annoyed with myself for thinking that. Two weeks was... well, it was what it was. This is just a fling. Don't get attached, I scolded myself.
chapter 16 | return to A Place Called Home | return to Original Works | return to index