Only A Man

C. J. Labrousse
16 mins read
Published over 1 year ago

“You don’t really think,” says Mike, “that a woman can know how to play with a cock like a man, do you? I mean, come on …”

“What? Of course I do,” I reply spluttering through another sip of my Manhattan. “You’re basically telling me that no woman, no matter many times she’s brought someone off; no matter how many dicks she’s played with—and I’m talking high-class hooker level dick playing—that any guy, that Paul from accounts would be better at playing with my cock? Mike, you’re so full of shit.”

“Come on! That’s not comparing apples with apples … Paul from accounts? I have no idea who Paul from accounts is but what the fuck. No, I’m talking about a guy who plays with dicks; his own dick, other guy’s dicks, knows what he likes, knows what a man likes. That guy would be better than any woman, no matter how many dicks she’s had.” He pauses, looks me full in the face and very seriously says: “Me, just for instance, I would be better.”

I can’t tell if he’s serious or just fucking with me. He does that, or has in the past, and I know he likes me, because he told me once, high as a kite, that he’d like to get his hands on my cock.

“It’s gotta be a pussy,” I say. “The feeling of it tight and hot and slippery around your cock; a beautiful woman; the body, the face, the smell, the hair.”

“Who said anything about sex?” he replies. “I’m just saying that no one can play with your dick, understand it, like another man.”

I shrug.

“Mike, I don’t think I’m ever going to find out, but cheers to men playing with dicks,” I say, and have another sip of my drink which finishes it, but the waiter at The Coburg Bar here at The Connaught has already taken our order and the replacement drinks arrive with seamless timing. Mike takes them both, passes mine to me.

“I’ll drink to that. Cheers to men playing with dicks. You have no idea what you’re missing.” And he winks as he says it, clinking the crystal rim of his martini glass off mine and I do wonder for just a moment, a fleeting tug of wonder, what it might be like to have him, have any man, touch my cock; play with it the way only a man can.


After years of trying, Mike has finally ‘broken through’, getting picked up to play a pretty important role in an American TV remake of some old British show. It’s on one of the streaming services, has a huge budget, loads of A-List actors and he’s justifiably thrilled. Right now, he’s in town for the U.K. Premiere, and the showrunner or the producer has given them all the night off. Most of the cast are staying here at The Connaught and I catch occasional glimpses of big name actors and am utterly starstruck. 

It’s all so exotic—this place, these people, these drinks; decadent and heady, and I wonder at his new life as the evening passes by, about how we’ll see each other less and less now that he’s becoming what he always wanted to be: a star. But if I’m wondering about it, Mike doesn’t seem to be. Instead, he’s just enjoying the night, being lewd and rude and sexy and funny; running up a huge bar bill that he assures me the Studio will take care of. It’s just how he rolls now. I take another sip of my drink; a boulevardier. I’ve never had one before and it’s rich and slightly sweet and very strong. I can feel the alcohol beginning to affect me and Mike sees it too. He asks me if I want to do anything else—something to sober me up a bit and keep me going. But I shake my head, and the room tilts and spins a little and I realise that if I don’t do something, I’m going to have call it a night and I don’t want to.

“Let’s leave these here,” he says, waves towards the drinks. “I’ll get room service to bring up some champagne and food.” He stands and pulls me to my feet and I have to lean into him, a strong arm around my shoulders. The journey to his room passes in a blur of fast elevator and shaky, sliding corridors, until we’re at the door and falling through it laughing, the walk alone getting me literally back on my feet. He makes a couple of strong coffees. 

I’m standing at the window looking down Mount Street sipping espresso, breathing in the chill night air, as he begins to rub my shoulders, strong hands pushing into me and I forget myself for just a moment. I push back against his fingers, moaning softly, feeling his breath closer and closer to my neck … The doorbell rings quietly and a low voice tells us that it’s room service.

“Leave it there, please,” Mike shouts. “I’ll come and get it.”

“Yes, sir.” The faint reply.

He goes to collect the trolley, leaving me alone for a moment to marvel at the restrained opulence of the decor. I walk around the suite, soaking it all in, heading into the bedroom and sitting on the side of his bed, lying back across silk covers…

I close my eyes for just a moment, letting the expensive light-headedness of the cocktails take me, sinking into the softness of silk sheets on this perfect bed, and maybe it is only for a moment but at some point—and I can’t tell if I feel it or hear it first—there are fingers on my zipper and my belt is being undone and the button of my trousers; my shirt is undone and opened and slid to my sides leaving my torso naked and exposed. I make some sort of noise, perhaps in protest, perhaps not.

"Hey," I murmur. "What..."

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks, voice soft and genuine.

I pause for just a moment. “No,” I say. "No, don't stop. I want to know..."

I don’t open my eyes but I do move my hips ever so slightly, a reflex, nothing more, and strong fingers hook below the waistband of my trunks and slide them down to mid-thigh. I hear a murmur, perhaps a low whistle, I feel air move steadily across my stomach and my cock I know that it has started to stiffen. I think again about protesting, that I don’t want him playing with my cock, but before the sentence is out I know that I do, that I’m desperate to find out, and the realisation and excitement of this… this new sensation causes my cock to rise and lengthen. 

I keep my eyes closed, my body alive with anticipation at what I think will happen—is happening. Fingertips brush lightly down my chest, across my nipples which are instantly hard, down either side of my abs, inexorably towards my cock, but they pass it by, moving down the tops of my legs, my inner thighs before circling back upwards. This time they meet around my cock. They push down towards my pubic bone and hard against the top of my dick, now solid and fully erect, as I push back into those strong fingers. 

One hand is at my balls, massaging and rolling and pulling them, just hard enough that I feel everything stretched and tight, while the other hand clasps around the base of my cock and squeezes until I feel every vein pop and the head of my cock is hard, throbbing, beating in time to my heart. And they stay like that; the one hand around my balls, the other a constricting fist around my cock, swelling it, until I can’t bear the inactivity any longer and I open my eyes and look at what’s going on.

“Keep them closed if you prefer,” says Mike, and he’s whispering. “Pretend I’m someone else.” 

But I shake my head and prop myself up on my elbows to get a better look at what’s going on.

“Compliments on taking care of yourself,” he says, still squeezing my dick which is all bulging skin and a purple, distended head. “But then you always did like to keep fit.” He tells me that he’d just like me to enjoy it; that what we were talking about earlier is true and he intends to prove it. And I don’t know; maybe it’s the cocktails or The Connaught, but I slide back onto the sheets and tell him that I don’t believe it at all and he should try to prove me wrong.

“Challenge accepted,” he mutters and renews his grip on my dick.

I’m lying now, legs hanging over the side of the bed, arms spread cruciform, shirt wide open, and Mike pulls my trunks and trousers and shoes and socks off, my stomach is tight and stretched, my cock rising from me, and there is nothing I want more in the world than Mike playing with my dick. 

He begins again by running his hands across my chest, slowly, firmly. Strong fingers push into the muscles of my upper pecs, trace along my collar bones, my nipples, lingering there, twisting them, pulling them, squeezing them; focusing on them in a way I have never known, so I am suddenly very aware of them and their connection to the rest of me. And while one hand plays and rolls over my nipples, the other is now tracing a line down my sternum, across my stomach to my cock. He grips it in time to his pinching my nipples so that at some point I can’t tell them apart; touching either is touching both. He finishes with my nipples, hard, tender, inflamed, and moves both hands to my cock, one around the base, the other brushing a flat palm hard and repetitively across the now wet underside of my cock head. It feels amazing and I moan and move my hips as his hands continue to play. He stops suddenly and I look up and can’t see him. I’m about to say something but then he’s back with a length of thin rope coiled in his hand.

“I can’t remember,” he says, “if it was India or China or Japan—which is shocking; they’re nothing alike—but in one of them, a man tied up my cock and it was just the best.”

He spools out the cord, thin woven silk and begins to tie it around my cock, first looping around my dick and under my balls, pulling at the knot, lifting them up from between my thighs. He loops the rope around my cock, the shaft, and it’s suddenly super hard and throbbing. He circles the silk around my balls, first one then the other, somehow spreading them wide and making me focus on them as they strain against tight skin; he winds the cord around my cock again, under my balls before pulling it tight and knotting it. I raise my head and look at my cock in bondage; painfully hard, precum beading at the tip. Mike is nowhere to be seen. He returns with a bottle of lube and begins to slide slick fingers up and down and around my cock; circling and squeezing my balls which strain tightly against their restraints. He runs his hand up and down, slowly from the tip to the base, lingering over both and I feel every bump and vein sliding through his tight fist. Soon I’m gasping and shaking with every purposeful stroke and I don’t know what kind of knots he’s done but every time I move or my dick contracts under his touch, everything gets tighter and tighter and my groaning dick harder and harder.

He stops suddenly and I raise my head, staring wild-eyed down the length of my sweating torso to my bulging, shining cock; bigger than I’ve ever seen it. He’s sitting on a chair next to the foot of the bed smiling at me.

“What’s going on?” I say, and my voice is trembling. “Why have you stopped?”

“I need to set a couple of ground rules,” he replies with a wink. “Rule number one: if you feel like cumming, you must tell me. And right away, at the beginning, not when you can feel it squirting down your dick; before that.” And he pauses to run a hand slowly down my cock again, just once, making me shake at the return of his touch. “Number two: only I’m allowed to touch your cock. You think right now that that won’t be a problem, but trust me, you’ll want to. And rule three: don’t beg. It won’t help.”

I don’t know what to think: don’t beg, don’t touch myself, tell him if I’m close to cumming? He runs his hand quickly for a couple of strokes up and down my lubricated cock and stops again, leaving it twitching and desperate and me gasping. 

“Sure,” I say. “I can do that, just, please …”

“What did I say about begging?”

“Sorry. Fine. Yes to all of it. Christ, Mike …” 

I’m still propped on my elbows staring by turns at Mike and my throbbing phallus and the more he waits the more I want to grab it myself and finish the job. He rocks back and forth on the chair staring into my eyes, judging the truth of what I’ve said. Finally, after an unspeakable age, an age in which my dick has got, if anything, even harder, he relents.

“Good,” he says. “Then we can begin.”

He lubricates his hands again and begins to run them one after the other, seamlessly from the swollen head of my cock down to the engorged base, over and over so it feels as though my dick is perpetually entering something that it cannot leave. I last about two minutes before I’m clenching the sheets in white knuckled fingers and I can feel that I’m so close …

“Fuck,” I gasp. “Mike …” And he stops immediately staring at my cock and I stare too. I feel an uncontrollable movement of cum up my shaft and begin to move my hand to finish the job if he won’t, but he sees what I’m doing and grabs it. All I get is the cum beading at the tip of my cock and a thin trickle running down the shaft.

“I told you,” he says, “I told you you’d want to touch yourself. Don’t try that again or it’s over. Okay?”

“Yes, Mike,” I gasp. “I promise.”

“Good,” he says. And he begins again: the same thing, making a ring with his thumb and fingers and drawing it down my cock, again and again, this time my cum the lubricant, helping his hands slide down my cock. He pauses and with one hand begins to play with my balls, tight and hypersensitive, rubbing and rolling and twisting and squeezing, all with increasing pressure and intensity, while his other just gyrates around the head of my dick, never pausing and never moving to the shaft. Before long I can feel my balls contracting and the urge to cum building and building until …

“Mike,” I croak, “I’m …” But his hands have already stopped and I feel again the bulge of that single contraction force the cum up my groaning cock. Again, just enough to form a fat pearl at the tip before dripping slowly down the shaft. I’ve basically watched myself cum twice but haven’t cum at all and I’m confused at what’s happening to me, at what he’s doing to me, and he can see it in my face and in the sweat dripping from my brow into my eyes.

“Fun times,” he says. “You ready for more? I promise I’ll let you cum before dawn… that’s if you want to by then.” He laughs and takes my cock gently in one hand, drawing it up and down and up and down before pausing at the base and squeezing hard until I feel like my cock might burst, while his little finger and runs back and forth across my slit, red and leaking. 

His hand is like gossamer; his touch so light now that I can barely feel it. Again, after only a couple of minutes, I have to tell him to stop, that I’m going to cum again and we both watch as my cock strains against the thin ropes, me gasping and pleading for him to carry on, and once again a pearl of cum gathers excruciatingly at the tip and that is all.

“I told you not to beg,” he says. “It’s beneath you.”

“Sorry,” I gasp. “But come on; this is killing me.”

He smiles, takes a champagne flute from the table, takes a long sip.

“I’ll let you cool down for a minute,” he says.

I lie there, mind in turmoil, staring either up at the ornate ceiling or down along my body to my pulsating dick. I am desperate to touch it, to finish myself off; I am desperate for Mike to touch me again, to run his hands like only a man can up and down and round and round my cock, but I bite my tongue and let him resume in his own time. All the while my heart is pounding in my chest and pulsing through my cock.

He looks at my face, deep into my eyes and sees the desperation in them. His face softens a little and he smiles. “The first time’s always the hardest,” he says. “This time you can cum.” He puts down his champagne and slides cool fingers around my burning shaft, and I gasp and shudder at the blessed relief of having him touching me again. Up and down his hands travel, then lingering at the tip, rolling his thumb against the underside of my glans while his other hand is at the root stretching my cock tight, until I’m crying out and shaking. He pauses again, takes his hands off me and looks deep into my eyes laughing. I told you so. A hand is back on me before I can scream, this time a simple fast up and down, building in speed until I’m writhing against the sheets, my sweating palms clenched, every muscle in my body taut and vibrating and finally my balls contract against their silken ties and cum floods my cock, fountaining from me in endless ecstasy.

I lie on ruined silk sheets, struggling to control my breathing, chest rising and falling and I am delirious from Mike’s hands. He’s standing by the door now sipping champagne—his cock big and hard and clearly visible in outline against his trousers.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says. “You should come and join me.”

And I push myself up onto my elbows, look down my cum soaked torso, my softening cock, still bound with Mike’s silk rope, looking at what he’s done to me, what only a man can.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be right behind you.”

CL
Written by
C.J. Labrousse

C.J. Labrousse was introduced to the heady world of erotic fiction through the stories of Anaïs Nin and Playboy. C.J.'s short stories are sexy vignettes that capture the anticipation inherent in all good sex: gay, straight and everything in between.