“Courtesy is always welcome,” murmured da Silva, and took him in his lips.
Curtis gazed down, watching his thick member sliding in and out of da Silva’s mouth as if it belonged to someone else. Da Silva’s tongue and throat worked around him, and his hands came up to cup Curtis’s rear, and even through cloth that was extraordinary, to be touched so. He began to move a little, in time with da Silva’s movements, and felt the fingers tighten, and then one hand moved inside his drawers and da Silva was cupping his balls, and then—oh dear God—there was a finger sliding over his backside, along the crease.
“No,” said Curtis hoarsely, because the sensation was too much, too intimate, but as da Silva snatched his touch away, he wished he hadn’t spoken.
Da Silva pulled his head back and off, so that Curtis could see the full length of his own engorged cock, glistening with saliva. “I beg your pardon. Why don’t you fuck my mouth, then?”
He gripped the head of Curtis’s cock again, between his lips, and Curtis did it, he thrust hard, into da Silva’s throat, taking hold of his head, pushing in. He heard the noises the man made, high-pitched whimpers, as both hands grabbed his straining buttocks, and he wondered vaguely if da Silva was going to come too, but there was no space in his mind for anything other than the ecstasy of Daniel da Silva’s mouth around him now, and he thrust and thrust again, and came without warning or mercy in jets of hot pleasure down the poet’s throat.
He let go of da Silva’s hair after a few seconds, feeling his legs weak under him. Da Silva sat back on his heels, head down, the black locks tumbled.
Hands shaking, Curtis tucked himself away. His now-limp cock was almost agonisingly sensitive.
Da Silva knelt on the floor. He didn’t move, or speak, or look at Curtis.
Curtis wanted to say something. Thank him. Touch him, even, because he remembered the school phrase, turnabout is fair play, and that was twice in twelve hours that da Silva had taken him to heaven. He wondered if da Silva was the same olive tint all over, and what exactly it was they cut off circumcised men.
Da Silva, still and silent, did not look receptive to being touched. Curtis extended a tentative hand, as if to an unfamiliar dog that might bite. There was no response.
“Da Silva? What about you?”
“What about me?” The vicious edge was back in his tone, and Curtis’s warm pleasure at the contact drained away. He let his extended hand drop.
“Why did you do that?”
“You did it.” Da Silva’s head was still down. “Don’t pretend that was all me.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Did the fellow think he was some sort of hypocrite? “I meant— Are you all right?”
Da Silva did look up then.
“Absolutely. Marvellous. There is nothing I like more than a good fuck with someone who despises me.”
That plunged Curtis into waters so uncharted that he wasn’t sure which way was the surface and which the seabed. “What? I don’t despise you.”
“Don’t you.” Da Silva got up, brushing his trouser legs.
“I don’t. That’s nonsense.”
“You called me a prancing pansy shortly before you shoved your cock in my mouth.” He ran careful fingers along the side of his jaw. “You should be careful with that thing, you could do damage.”
Curtis felt a stab of guilt. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No. It scarcely matters.”
“Of course it matters. Wait, for God’s sake.” He seized da Silva’s arm as he moved to take his coat. “Wait. Please. That was damned rude of me. I apologise. I—well, I resent not being the man I was.”
“I gathered as much. Did we not just try to alleviate that?”
“I didn’t mean that. Look, you’re clearly a brave man, and you’ve put yourself in considerable danger to catch up with a blackmailer. But I’ve been in far worse situations than this, and I’m still better equipped to deal with devilry than you. The plain fact is, I’m a soldier, and you’re a—”
“Queer?” sniped da Silva.
“Poet,” said Curtis. “And that means I will take the physical risks here. I am not leaving you to face danger while I scurry off back to London. I don’t appreciate the suggestion that I’m incapable, and I can’t say I liked your manner of expressing yourself earlier. But I shouldn’t have been so offensive in return, and I beg your pardon.”
Curtis might as well have been speaking Swahili, for all the comprehension on da Silva’s face. He looked bewildered. Curtis had no idea why, it seemed plain enough. He set his shoulders and went on, because it had to be said: “And I wish you’d tell me if I’ve done something wrong with—” He made a vague gesture, intended to encompass his groin and da Silva’s mouth. “I may not have behaved as one should in these matters. I don’t quite understand this sort of thing.”
Da Silva opened his mouth, shut it again, and at last said, “No. You don’t, and apparently, nor do I.”