Finished by Hand

FINISHED BY HAND

A collection of five erotic stories

Edited by Lucas Steele

Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2012

ISBN 9781909335677

These stories also appear in Boys in Bed

Copyright © Xcite Books Ltd 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors' imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

Finished By Hand
by William Anthony

It had been a typically slow Monday afternoon down Porthmerry Lane, when a customer walked into Marquis & Delaney – Gentleman's Outfitters. Young Mr Grisham had wasted no time in giving him the once-over with his experienced menswear eye. It had been easy to tell from tall black gentleman's bespoke houndstooth jacket, white shirt with an autumn brown silk tie, gabardine slacks, and well-polished brown leather brogues, that he obviously possessed good taste and a timeless fashion sense – and he certainly wasn't afraid to spend a pound or two on clothing. The style was quite clearly classic Continental French, accentuating the gentleman's broad shoulders and chest, while at the same time cut to compliment his flat stomach and 34-and-three-quarter-inch waist.

Predatorily, Mr Grisham waited just long enough for the shop door to start closing before he glided around a rack of Hugo Boss cashmere and wools, well ahead of his other two colleagues, and made first contact with the commission – er,
customer
.

‘Excuse me, but would sir be looking for anything in particular? We pride ourselves on carrying most of the classic, as well as the modern, designer names. So I am sure we could find something to sir's liking.'

The gentleman had regarded the shop assistant silently for several seconds. His large, warm brown eyes were set in an exotically dark face, which young Mr Grisham thought was Moroccan, or possibly North African. Then the gentleman had smiled broadly, a hint of gold flashing for a moment. ‘I was just passing, saw some of the window displays, and decided to come in. I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for – probably something casual yet adventurous in trousers. Oh, and a jacket would be nice as well.'

Mr Grisham had smiled warmly back at the thought of increasing his sales figures, and told the gentleman he thought he knew exactly what he was after, little realising just how true his words would turn out to be.

With the Moroccan gentleman in tow, Mr Grisham had headed toward the back of the shop where the more casual, rather than business, styles were located. He had also been more than pleasantly surprised when – on stopping short in front of a rack of Gerrals & Fletcher trousers – the gentleman had, seemingly accidentally, bumped into him from behind. It had not been the bumping which had been the surprising part, but the exhilarating feel of the Moroccan's strong hands gripping his waist as the gentleman steadied himself – apologising profusely as he did so.

‘I'm terribly sorry, I was preoccupied for a moment and forgot where I was.'

Young Mr Grisham had turned around and, in light of the incident, had taken a more appraising look at the gentleman. He was slightly taller, around 6 feet 2, with a lean, almost athletic build to him. With his broad shoulders and inverse waist he appeared masculine, but not brutish. His hair had been neatly barbered, framing his handsome facial features, and he gave the appearance of being in his mid to late 30s, as best Mr Grisham could tell under the warm shop lighting.

Making eye contact, the assistant had asked, ‘I don't suppose sir happens to know any of his measurements?'

He shook his head. ‘I've lost a little weight recently since attending a club gym, hence the need for something new in my wardrobe.'

Without thinking, Mr Grisham had eyed the gentleman up and down several times, and, before he had been able to stop himself, said, ‘Sir certainly appears to be in very fit shape to me,' then he had felt his face flush a little with embarrassment.

Instead of taking offence, the Moroccan had just tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Thank you. It seems rare to be given an honest compliment these days.'

‘Now, sir,' said Mr Grisham, hurriedly trying to move things along, ‘If you would care to follow me, we shall get you measured up. Then we can see what we can offer.'

They moved further back into the shop, stopping in the middle of a small space surrounded by various mirrors, and several wooden doors which led off to the fitting and changing rooms.

Picking up a measuring tape from a rack, young Mr Grisham asked, ‘If you would care to raise your arms up?' As he did so, the assistant had moved closer, slipping the tape around the gentleman's waist – and almost laying his head on the gentleman's chest in the process. At such close range he could smell the warm, inviting musk the Moroccan was wearing.

It had been an intoxicating scent which brought back recent memories of holidays full of illicit adventures. Quiet, sandy coves under a hot Algerian sun – the taste of olive oil and herbs, licked off a dark brown hip, then his tongue travelling across a seductive stomach to the glistening base of the thick-veined tower …

Blinking several times to help dispel the images, young Mr Grisham quickly wrote down the measurement in his little top pocket notepad. Thirty-four-and-three-quarter-inches. It had been gratifying to know he hadn't lost his touch. Turning back to the gentleman at hand, he had pursed his lips, smiled, then knelt down in front of him. Placing one end of the tape measure against the right shoe, Mr Grisham had slowly moved up the gentleman's inside leg seam. The tape unravelling as he went, it seemed as though he had been greeted with the faintest of gasps when it – along with the back of his hand – had brushed up against the inside of the gentleman's crotch.

Looking back on it, as young Mr Grisham would recount later, the sound had taken him by surprise and he couldn't for the life of him be sure who it had come from.

However, try as he might to focus on the tape measure, Mr Grisham's eyes were repeatedly drawn to what had become a rather large and prominent bulge – unmissable by dint of its size and the position of Mr Grisham's eyeline. For a moment he had remembered Algiers again – the lithe and oiled African body underneath him, the firm feel of muscular buttocks, the way his hands had felt as he ran them along the supple back, and the incredible feeling as muscular resistance had melted away and he had slipped into the realms of physical ecstasy.

Looking upward, young Mr Grisham had seen the Moroccan gentleman looking down at him, a knowing grin raising the corners of his sensuous lips. A pink tongue had darted out and back momentarily, leaving them moist and glistening, and young Mr Grisham had felt his heartbeat speed up, which had led to an increase in his blood pressure which, in turn, had led to a painfully similar bulging of his own.

Mr Grisham stood and added the gentleman's inside leg measurement to the notebook. ‘A respectable 31 inch should hang well, provided the cut isn't too restrictive. Seeing as though sir obviously dresses to the right, may I suggest you consider this rack over here?' He had guided the Moroccan to the racks nearest the changing rooms, and waited while the gentleman picked out three pairs of trousers.

Looking at Mr Grisham with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, the gentleman said, ‘I believe the changing rooms are this way?' And with that he proceeded to head toward the back of the shop once more. Over his shoulder, he added, ‘I take it you will be able to give me assistance if I encounter any problems?'

Young Mr Grisham had nodded reassuringly. ‘I shall be right outside the door, sir. All you need do is call.'

A few minutes later, while Mr Grisham had been idly rearranging some sports jackets which, in all honesty, didn't need rearranging, he heard the gentleman's soft voice call out for him.

‘Could you please come in for a moment? I seem to have a problem and I could do with some advice.'

Young Mr Grisham had discreetly opened the changing room door and, after a hurried glance to check on the other staff, he had backed into the changing room. Without hesitation, Mr Grisham had turned round, expecting to find the customer close by. To his surprise, the Moroccan gentleman was standing on the narrow wooden bench against the far wall of the changing room. Naked from the waist down and only wearing his white shirt and tie, his impressively sized black cock had been protruding between the front tails of his shirt, pointing directly at the bemused sales assistant. Over his warm smile – and Mr Grisham's happy amazement – the Moroccan gentleman explained his predicament in regard to putting the trousers on.

‘The problem is this erection I have.' He pointed to it, possibly on the off-chance that Mr Grisham had somehow failed to see such a prominent member poking through two pieces of brightly laundered material. ‘It keeps getting in the way and makes it particularly uncomfortable whenever I try and do these trousers up. Is there anything you might be able to think of which could help alleviate the problem?'

Young Mr Grisham's knees went momentarily weak and he had felt another rush of blood flow to his groin. As best he could remember, he'd never seen a bigger, or blacker, member in all his cottaging life, and to his expertly trained eye he had estimated it to have been at least nine and a half inches long. It had been straight and true, with a beautifully classic upward curve to its profile. The foreskin had naturally rolled back part way to reveal the tip of the exotically dark head, bobbing slightly in time to the gentleman's heart rate, and as seductively black as a length of old-fashioned liquorice! Without taking his eyes from it, Mr Grisham had stumbled into the changing room, barely remembering to shut and securely latch the door before anyone else could catch an eyeful.

The gentleman had remained standing on the wooden bench. Looking directly toward Mr Grisham, he had continued to stroke his incredible schlong, seemingly hypnotising the shop assistant with his slow forward and backward movements.

‘No matter what I seem to do with it,' the gentleman had said in a half whisper, ‘I don't seem to be able to appease it at all.'

Young Mr Grisham had eyed the thick length of meat like a mongoose preparing to tackle a large cobra. He had sucked on a lot of dicks in his time, but none quite this long and certainly none as gloriously black as was being presented to him at that moment in time. Still, he knew he was more than up for the unexpected challenge.

‘I am pretty sure, sir, there are many ways of dealing with such a problem. In fact, at the moment, I can think of several immediately. So it will just be a case of trying to find the right method which works best.'

He had moved in closer, still fascinated by the slow movements of the Moroccan gentleman's hand. Without looking up, he asked, ‘May I?'

‘Please, feel free.'

The gentleman had released his cock from his hand, watching intently as Mr Grisham carefully wrapped his supple fingers around the dark shaft. It had been hot and twitching to the touch. The velvet smooth softness of the outer sheath moved gloriously over the iron-hard centre, and in one slow movement he had drawn the dark foreskin back, completely exposing the glistening head. Mr Grisham had leant forward and, as he gently blew on the tip, his thumb came up to massage and rub at the base of the fully exposed head.

Above him, he had heard the gentleman groan softly, pushing his hips forward, toward Mr Grisham. Continuing to position his head closer, Mr Grisham had moved down so that his lips were barely an inch away from the smooth and inviting glans. Seconds later, he had started to tease the slit and the swollen head with the firm, wet tip of his outstretched tongue.

The gentleman had stifled another collection of sounds as he arched his back and pushed his shoulders against the wall of the changing room. With hurried hands he had loosened his tie, unbuttoned his white shirt, and pulled the loose ends around his back, holding them there with his hands. It had exposed a glorious mat of pubic hair, and above it, the flat, slightly muscular stomach and smooth black chest. As he looked back down again, below his fingers young Mr Grisham had seen the slightly parted legs, and between them the pendulous, dark scrotum – its contents clearly outlined as they hung down and bounced against the gentleman's inner thighs.

Breathing heavily himself, the shop assistant had moved his hand down so that it was wrapped around the base of the wonderful shaft, then he proceeded to tongue-whip the head – teasing the sensitive underside, slapping his tongue across the top and sides before licking the shaft up and down in long, hard, wet strokes. Reaching down with his free hand he had carefully cupped the beautifully dark sack from below, taking the weight into the palm of his hand and rolling the contents gently with his fingers.

The Moroccan gentleman had brought one of his hands back around in front of him and pushed his fingers into Mr Grisham's hair, urging his head further into the gentleman's exposed groin. As he thrust his hips forward, he bit at his bottom lip, then whispered, ‘Perhaps if you were to suck on it …'

Without pausing, the young sales assistant had opened his mouth slightly and guided the swollen top to his lips. Slowly and deliberately he had popped the bulbous head in and out of his mouth until its rich blackness gleamed with saliva under the muted changing room lights.

In response, the gentleman again ran his fingers through Mr Grisham's hair, his voice cracking as he strained to keep it to a whisper. ‘Yes. Ah, yes!'

Spurred on, young Mr Grisham had slowly worked more and more of the shaft into his eager mouth, his other hand now gently tugging on the Moroccan's scrotum, feeling it contract and its contents draw upward as he worked on it. As he repeatedly brought his head down he found the air around him becoming heavy with the smell of musky maleness. The sensation had made him work his jaw and lips all the more, his tongue sliding up and down the shaft as he started to take more and more of the glorious meat into his mouth with each head-bob. Then Mr Grisham had removed it completely, stroked it rapidly half a dozen times with his hand, then pushed it up so that it pressed firmly against the Moroccan gentleman's belly.

Bending further down, the sales assistant then started to lick and suck on the tightening sack – lapping at his heavy pouch and bouncing the contents around on the tip of his tongue, before sucking first one and then the other into his hot mouth. They had seemed so large that he felt he could only manage one in his mouth at a time! For a fleeting moment he had moved even further down, licking underneath, then digging his tongue in between the gentleman's legs. The sensation set the Moroccan gasping and moaning all the more, and he had spread himself wider, which allowed Mr Grisham to run his fingertips over and up the exposed flesh. Glancing up, he saw the gentleman's face and his expression of shocked ecstasy, his eyes half closed and his tongue flicking repeatedly over his lips.