The Byzantine Empire ended with the Turkish conquest. I’m not saying that I was ever an empire, although my influence has stretched far and wide and there are always forces that wish to dominate me. However, this is not a history lesson; this is just about one afternoon in my life. 

I had just finished a set of preliminary sketches for a new project, something else to do with robots battling to the death, when the Turkish army decided to ring my doorbell. Not that Dex is Turkish, although his black hair is nice and gives his long face a slightly foreign flair. And not that Dex is an army, but he’s a determined one, and evidently I had too many riches, my Attarouthi Treasure, my gold chalices was something he wanted to sanctify his spirit with.  Besides, he just wanted to get his lips on me. 

When I opened the door, he stood there smiling, slightly sweaty from the walk uphill from his house to mine. I suddenly didn’t want to drink wine and be part of the liturgy; I just wanted to drink of him. And maybe that’s too weird and quick to say, but you don’t know me. I’m a fan of beauty, whether it’s outside, more importantly inside.  

The heat of a kiss determined by how much beauty that person shines on me. When I opened, my red door, and he peered over his sunglasses in that piercing, “Well?” stare,ha-ha, I knew that I would be drinking deep. It wasn’t uncommon; days like this. Dex walking up the hill to my house from his and us fucking the afternoon away. We weren’t lovers, we just were, and sometimes that’s everything and all you need. 

Today, this afternoon… he was needing. Before I could get out “Hey”, his mouth was “Hey” on my mouth, and his tongue was “Howdy” around mine, his hand was “Come here” on my hip—pulling me closer and into his “That’s where you belong” his hard-on making a dent in the small of my hip. We made it inside just barely and I was a golden chalice—he was drinking wine and taking my mouth like an offering. His hands held my head still and sure, and he was whispering in between breaths.  All I could do was hold on to his arms and drink with him. 

The stuff you do just before you fuck. But Dex was never a forgotten kisser and he treated a tongue just like a dick. Stroke, swirl, squeeze, and pull. His kisses are stroke, swirl, squeeze, pull, and you wonder how the hell you ended up with your butt hitting the back of your couch—your shirt fucking gone, and where his hands had been hot and pressed onto your cheeks holding your head where he wanted it—they were hot and around your waist holding you where he wanted you. 

For every stroke, swirl, squeeze, and pull with his tongue, with the heat and moistness of his mouth, I gave with my hands, my hip rubbing his hardness just right so my dick would be so close, on the inside of his thigh, but far enough away to keep him pushing for more. 

We were stroke, swirl, squeeze, and pull. Our shirts went with the stroke and pull, and pants went with the swirl and squeeze, because I am a treasure you see, I am a golden chalice to be supped from, but I’m on my knees, going for another golden thing. 

A tongue piercing is a magnificent thing on a cock. A tongue piercing is a cock’s best friend, and by God, I love the look on his face when the steel ball of my tongue piercing meets his best