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His father's girlfriend shows him how it's done.

"Ah, Mr Forte. A windy day, isn't it?" Andrew greeted him. "And three months gone already? My how time flies. And you are keeping well?"

"Yes, fine. And you?"

"Very well, sir. Very well."

"And how's the tobacco business?" Mike asked with a small smile.

"Ah," Andrew sighed, spreading his hands and looking heavenward in resignation. "We manage. But not what it used to be. Not what it was when you and Mr Jameson first came in, sir. Why then we had . . ."

"Eight assistants." Mike put in, smiling. "Including old Mr Grey, who started with Alfred Dunhill just after the Second World War."

"Ah, yes. Old Mr Grey. Dead for--five years now. But you're here for Mr Jameson's cigar, sir, and here I am chatting away," Andrew said, suddenly busy.

"Yes. The usual," Mike said, "Two years, exactly," he added, wanting to make a statement, and Andrew shook his head sadly.

Back home Mike put the package aside and poured himself a whiskey from the Johnnie Walker bottle in the drinks cabinet. Then he sat down in his big easy chair by the fire and placed the bag in his lap and sighed. He took a sip of whiskey and set the glass down on the small polished side table before his thick old fingers gently opened the bag and then set that down on the table beside his glass.

He gently held the metal tube he had unwrapped and held it between his hands, seeing the shine on the metal, reading the familiar printing on it, feeling the weight of it, the length. A small smile teased around the corners of his mouth, and he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the anticipation.

Then he lifted the tube to his face and pulled the cap off and held the mouth of the tube to his nose, and as the first burst of rich tobacco aroma escaped, he breathed it in, long and deep, filling his lungs with it. And he closed his eyes, and it all came back to him.

Richard, mature and graying, but still solid and strong. Laughing, his cigar ready, waiting for later. Unwrapped then set aside on the small side table and the room smelling of it. That rich aroma of really good tobacco. And kissing, the two of them kissing on the sofa, then taking the short walk to the bedroom and slowly undressing each other, taking off each other's pants as they smooched like a pair of young lovers.

Him going down and sucking that familiar tool that he knew a dozen ways to make harder and longer, as Richard groaned and pawed at his head, even when he had lost his hair. His own dick filling at the taste and feel of his lover's. Then being pulled up suddenly and kissed hard. Feeling a firm hand encircling him, pumping and rubbing, teasing in his slit so he burbled and drove his tongue into the cigar taste of Richard's mouth.

Then fucking. Richard liking it long and slow, but deep. Richard grabbing at things, at life, strongly and deeply. Mike always wanting it to be a symphony, a melody of high notes and low notes long and slow, wanting to be played like some musical instrument. And Richard, big and definite, but always doing that when he fucked. Being gentle yet hard, understating how to work his ass so he cried out and moaned for it. And often coming together, knowing each other and working at it. No it hadn't just happened, but they made it happen, most of the time. For twenty-two years.

Mike had unzipped himself, and his dick was filling rapidly under his stroking hand, his fingers playing over his slit the way Richard's used to his eyes closed, the cigar to his nose. Then he set the cigar aside, and his lungs full of the rich aroma of memories, he leant back and stroked himself as he ran a hand over his chest, pinching his nipples through his shirt and feeling the movement of a hand on his belly as he stroked himself to completion.

Then he sat there, spent, his dick hanging out, cupped in his hand and slowly going tumescent.

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