Sprout and Zach
Andrew Jackson High 5
by George Gauthier
- Zach
Wow! Anyone still skeptical about global warming should come down here to Haiti and feel the heat for themselves. "Sweltering" is how the weatherman describes the cooler days in these parts. And it is worse when you are out in the sun the whole day planting trees. Physical labor under a tropical sun can be brutal. You sweat so much, you become dehydrated fast, often unaware that it is creeping up on you. We keep an eye on each other, Sprout and me, for the warning signs of heat cramps, heat exhaustion, and worst of all, deadly heatstroke. And we are careful to hydrate regularly.
Sprout, that is William P. Tagliaferro IV, and I are on a summer internship with the UN sponsored reforestation program in Haiti. The bare slopes of its mountains have long been Haiti's environmental shame. From space you can see the border with the neighboring Dominican Republic, which occupies the eastern two thirds of the island of Hispaniola in the Greater Antilles. The Dominicans are much better stewards of the environment. The healthy forest to the east stops at the international border, replaced by cut-over and washed-out hills and mountain slopes. In time the newly replanted forest will control erosion and silting, replenish the watershed, and help this poor country assume a more dignified place in the family of nations.
I don't know how dignified the two of us look on the job, or off it for that matter, a couple of teenagers running around stark naked as we do and remaining nude 24/7. It seems to be a tradition going back to when internships were restricted to college kids. Upon arrival white boys were forcibly stripped and made to surrender any other clothing they had with them. We white interns have to stay naked the whole time in country.
Now the two of us, Sprout and I, certainly had no problems with an extended period of public nudity. For boys like us, both sexually submissive and exhibitionistic, that was one of the attractions of the program in the first place. The only clothes we brought to Haiti were those we traveled in and those we cheerfully tossed into a fire when so directed, knowing that from that point on, we would be publicly naked 24/7. The nearest clothing we could lay claim to was no closer than a thousand miles away. You can't get more naked than that. I clutched myself down there, shivering with the frisson of my own naughtiness.
I should explain that the intern program has now been extended to high school seniors. A couple of our biology teachers at Andrew Jackson High School in South Florida are alumni of the program, and put our names forward. Which is how we wound up plodding the mountains of Haiti in our birthday suits for nearly three months. Not that we are body shy, Sprout and me, as we have related in prior installments in this series that our friend Squirt has us writing for him.
Squirt is our good friend and sometimes lover Alex Conlon, a student journalist on the AJHS Intelligencer. He is also the towel boy on the swim team which his uncle coaches. For swim practice all the boys stay in the nude to prepare them used for putting their bodies on display in their oh-so skimpy racing briefs. Coach Conlon doesn't want his boys getting stage fright or culture shock on race day when all they have to cover their nakedness is a pair of racing briefs so exiguous that Squirt has quipped that they are more suggestion than garment. That is especially true of Squirt, the way he fills out his briefs with his extraordinary endowment.
Both Sprout and I are budding botanists. I am into forestry with an emphasis on IT support. My job here is testing the use in the field of small handheld devices, really modified cell phones, employed to track the work of reforestation and inventory the results. The hardest thing in IT is getting the software to do what is actually needed rather than what some specifications committee thought it ought to do when they commissioned the development project. Also workers often find shortcuts or ways to work around their software that skew results or make the system totally useless.
Sprout's work focusses on the planting process itself, comparing growth from different years when the planters worked to different standards of spacing, depth, and pattern of the planting: linear, staggered, even in an argyle pattern. These affect the rate of growth of the seedlings and how much they compete as they grow for sunlight.
Now you might think with all our hard work, we might not need regular exercise, but you would be wrong. Stoop labor does nothing to build cardiovascular fitness and stamina, so we do go for a run very early in the morning. We have no problem running the dirt roads unshod, our bare feet have thicker calluses than even the natives from the villages in the lowlands, and the soils in these parts have few stones that might inconvenience us. (As a kid I once got a bone bruise on my heel. Did that ever hurt!)
We lope along, the pair of us clad only in a sheen of sweat, at a pace that really eats up the kilometers. We go at an easy pace, so sometimes we chat as we run. Other times we just let ourselves sink into the zone, that half hypnotic state of consciousness and well-being induced by the release of brain chemicals during prolonged exercise, the runners' high. The high we get from our long runs helps us maintain our mental equilibrium. A wise man once said that endorphins were the drug of choice of the physically fit. We heartily agree.
We don't compete, the two of us, we are just boys who love to run. It was so intensely physical, it makes us feel strong and alive, and gives us a chance to to exult in our youth, our strength, and our stamina. We love the feel of the gentle warmth of the early morning sun on our skin, the wind in our hair and in our faces, to listen to the metronomic crunch of our feet on a dirt road or the slaps our bare feet make on the packed earth nearer to camp. Even the sweat that pours off us is an expression of life and vitality, making our nude bodies gleam with good health.
We usually have an audience by the time we approach camp. The youths and young men working at the camp like to watch us run. We are poetry in motion. Not to mention two of the sexiest youngsters anywhere around and the only white boys.
We trot over to the outdoor shower stand and let the rush of water wash the sweat and dust off our lean, evenly tanned frames. My raven locks and Sprout's short blond hair flatten to our heads as rivulets run down and off our small bodies. At five nine, I am taller than Sprout by seven inches. Both of us have wiry physiques with mine a bit rangier from my greater height.
Sprout is a little guy, a sprout that stopped growing too soon at five foot two (158 cm). Only six extra pounds keep him from being that proverbial 98 pound weakling who gets sand kicked in his face. Except my little friend is neither weak nor soft, more like a "hard body". Sprout has a wiry physique from all the running and swimming he does. Like me, his body fat is two percent.
He is athletic with a slight build and an impossibly cute face, blessed with delicate features including a chiseled jaw line and killer cheekbones. Sprout or Will, to give him his real name, is a real green-eyed beauty, with lashes too long to have ever have been meant for a boy. On top, he can boast a head of close-cropped blond hair the color of corn silk. A person less long-winded than myself would describe him as "an earthly vision of youthful male pulchritude". Think Richie Stringini at seventeen.
Then there is his boyfriend Zach, Zachary Taylor, which would be me. I am your basic boy next door with the name of a president: medium height, 69 inches, medium weight, 128 (OK that is on the light side), hair so black it looks blue, cut medium length, of course, and hazel eyes. Much as it pains me to admit, I have just ordinary good looks. I am a nice enough looking boy with a pleasant face but not one to turn heads contantly. Perhaps in compensation, my body is a gift of nature. Slender, smoothly muscled, with the shoulders and arms and tapering torso of the swimmer that I am. I also have the most smarts of anyone at AJHS. I am both a biological scientist and an IT whiz. Only Squirt is close to me in smarts, and that boy's talents lean toward the verbal and the artistic.
After a shower it is time for stretching exercises. We always start with ham-string stretches which need it the most of all our muscle groups. With a foot propped on a rail, we bend forward bringing our faces almost in contact with our shins. The staff has taken video of us, our tanned torsos glistening with water droplets highlighting the sensuous curve of the youthful male body from shoulders, to back, to waist and narrow hips. Like all distance runners we are lean and taut, the tracery of veins on arms and legs testifying that our frames carry no excess flesh. And all this physical fitness is complemented by fine-boned faces and pretty-boy good looks.
More than once while we were bent over and concentrating on how good that stretch felt in the groin and thigh, one of us would be surprised by a friendly slap on his ass landed by a tall dark skinned Haitian some years older than we are. François LeClerc was our Haitian boss and later a bed partner.
"You tempt me my young American friends, such beautiful butts on both of you, but we have much work to do this day. Go put some food in your bellies; we start in one half hour."
We conversed in the French that all educated Haitians know. The more demotic Creole is the country's other official language, and we have picked up some of that.
At seventeen going on eighteen, we are the very picture of health and youthful male exuberance and unselfconscious about public nudity. Call us exhibitionists, call us oversexed teens, it is all the same to us.
We really do not feel the lack of clothing, not in an all male preserve like the reforestation project. Males have always gravitated to social spaces where they could mix freely among themselves without conventional accouterments like clothing. Whether at camp, in the dorm, in the barracks, at sea, at the swimming hole, the nudie beach, men's clubs, health clubs, the YMCA, especially before Title IX, wherever they could get away from conventional fussiness and female inspired standards of deportment.
Most of the time the young Haitian males wore only shorts and went about perpetually bare above the waist. Some chose to work naked like us, not that they were worried about tan lines, not with their beautiful black skins. Going about totally naked 24/7, neither did we.
And then there was the sexual dimension. To put it in plain words, Sprout and I are the boy toys for the whole camp, meaning most of the four hundred youths and young men who work there. So it is gang bang time every evening. The happy bunch was selected by lot, maybe ten every evening, take turns with us often in pairs.
Actually the men and boys who seek our favors are becoming more and more persistent and insistent. As I understand it, they they think the very least the young Americans could do is to share their youthful beauty. That was only fair since we display ourselves so blatantly ever day, like the worst of cock teases. The men take that for an open invitation. Realistically we white boys have no say in choosing our sex partners. That is settled by the nightly drawing
And who is to say they are entirely wrong. We volunteered for this, not just the work, but the nudity and our subordinate role as boy toys, virtual sex slaves, if the truth were known, though only for a period of three months. Intensely comely boys like us really must be begging for it, running around naked all the time in front of the horny young Haitians, bending over to plant seedlings, brown rumps in the air, hairless cleavage and all, our genitals hanging freely between slender thighs. No wonder they acted as if we are advertising our wares and our availability.
The young males in camp put it to us that we had asked for it, living at the camp perpetually nude and hairless as our boyish bodies are, even at the fork of our legs. Anyway the pair of us are all alone with nowhere to go, outnumbered, surrounded, and already unclothed, not to mention small in stature, slender, beardless, and hairless everywhere, so we are hardly in a position to assert our masculinity, such as it is. But the black young men are and they do. There was not much little guys like us can do except bow our heads submissively as they seize our limbs and bend us over or put us on our knees or on all fours, giving them the unimpeded access they desire to our orifices, making us available for countless mountings.
We let them do with us as they will. A hard day of labor leaves us so exhausted resistance is futile. And the Haitians have special techniques for making teenage white boys submissive and compliant including continual sexual humiliation. I mean, it is hard to assert your masculinity when your erections, though quite respectable for white males with a slight build, look so puny next to the cocks on most of the Haitians. Blacks really are better endowed sexually, with long heavy cocks swinging pendulously between their thighs. They remind me of Squirt.
With their scorn at our penile shortcomings ringing in his ears, we are in no position to object as work roughened hands take control of our limbs, spread our legs like wishbones and held us down as cock after cock parries our own smaller erections in a parody of fencing. Our manhoods look pretty boyish as they are easily swatted aside in these cock duels the men arrange to humiliate the pretty white boys and make him more pliant. In a very real sense Sprout and I are simply humiliated into submission.
We know what is coming when they pull our legs apart. No matter how much we protest, no matter how frightened we are at the prospect of penetration from such large cocks, our fright only spurs them along. Inexorably alarmingly large virile members address our cleavage, the heads tracking its length then poking at the inside of the thighs, prodding and playing with the anal rings. A bit of lubricant prepares us for the fuck. Nothing could stop it now and nothing does. Soon we are impaled on giant black cocks, their shafts slid all the way up our quims, pushing, prodding and probing, while we whimper and gasp and struggle to accommodate their giant cocks.
I cannot say the experience is unpleasant. The Haitians are so very sexy. Their skins are a black so dark it is almost blue, making or tans look lily white by comparison. It is like a reversal of fortune. Instead of white men enslaving blacks and breeding their women, black males seize white youths and fuck them silly.
In truth, we react like the gay boys that we are. When a cock reaches our joy spot, stimulating the prostate, our whole bodies shudder helplessly, our guts clench in an internal orgasm; our lithe torsos ripple in a wave that starts at the ass and travels up past the hips and back and shoulders to the head. Our eyes blink and roll back sightlessly as they lose focus and we surrender ourselves to the good feelings coursing through us, our bodies tempest tossed on a sea of sensation.
Our sex partners try to synchronize their orgasms with ours, using their thrusts to set our small boyish bodies to shuddering as their proud cocks hit our joy spots again and again till the clutching of their cocks by our spasming ass muscles during our own climax sets them off in turn to shoot their masculine juices deep into our so much less manly selves.
We both of us accept that this is what humble bum boys like ourselves were born for. Still it is embarrassing the way, while we are on the slopes, our holes will sputter wetly and pass gas as we bend over at work, yet more evidence of what shameless 'choupinous' their pets are.
- Sprout
Zach is right on about our role here as sex toys for the workers. Not that we are treated roughly, not at all. Of course the males who use us are energetic and enthusiastic. Both of us would be disappointed otherwise. We know just how cute and sex and attractive we both are to any male who appreciates boy flesh.
So there is a good deal of genuine affection and camaraderie with the other males in camp, some of whom appreciate our cocks as much as our asses, so we do get some chance to top. I am glad that some of them let us pitch as well as catch, since variety is pretty important for a pair of highly sexed teenagers like us. Sure we are inveterate bottom boys, but we also like the warm wetness of a mouth on our cocks and we enjoy another boy's ass muscles working on, squeezing, and massaging our members as we penetrate him.
And we have made some genuine friends among the crew and we we are genuinely popular with the rest, not just for sex play. These good people fully realize we could be living the good life at home but took the time to help them out, to help out their country. We contribute the skills, the literacy and numeracy that almost all of them lack due to the deplorable conditions in their schools.
Still all this sex play can be a bit much. Many is the morning we wake up pretty sore down there with a full day's work ahead of us. And all the time we spend with the young blacks is that much less time Zach and I have with each other. Or to keep up with other pursuits. There is such a thing as the life of the mind, but you could not tell that by our summer in Haiti. At least we got Sundays off from all that.
I am afraid I made the mistake of asking the camp managers to talk to the workers and have them ease up on us a little, give us some daily time off, not just Sundays. I soon found out how wrong-headed my approach was, that, a naked sex toy such as myself simply did not get to call the shots around there. Instead I was taught my place.
The two men in charge of the camp, Francois and his boss, M. Malherbe, just smiled at my presumption.
"Drole de choupinou!" [Silly pet] the older man declared. "Your problem is that you cannot accept the deal you signed up for when you volunteered to serve Haiti here in this camp. Why just look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see? Tell us?"
"Well I see myself, of course."
"Go on. Describe what is in the mirror."
"All right. What I see is a good looking white boy, quite short in stature and slight of build but with a wiry physique, an athlete in fact. Also, the boy in the mirror is not only entirely naked, but the evenly bronzed skin shows no tan lines anywhere, so he is one of those shameless boys who spends a whole lot of time outdoors in public utterly naked. Which is what I do at home, not just here is Haiti. But then I have never denied being something of an exhibitionist, a show off with a fine sexy body to put on show. "
"Not a bad description mon petit, but you should also have mentioned that the boy in the mirror is much prettier than any boy has a right to be; he is a girly boy who is entirely smooth and glabrous, without any body hair anywhere, none at all, not on the chest or the arms or legs or even under the arms or at the fork of the legs like a real male should have even at your tender age of seventeen."
"You are the camp whore, everyone's plaything and sex toy, kept on public display in the nude, taken by the real men around here to their beds or simply bent over a log or put on your knees or all fours when they want to use you for the natural purpose that a boy of your sort is destined for. I see now that Francois and I have been to easy on you by not insisting on our own rights to your sweet body. Perhaps that explains why you could get so uppity. Well it is about time to put you fully in your place."
"Bien sur. M. Malherbe" Francois added. "Time for this bogosse [twink] to learn his place in the scheme of things, which is right at the bottom."
François grabbed my neck and pulled my face into his chest, ordering me to smell and lick his pectorals. I tried to push away but he pulled my wrists behind me. With both of my wrists gripped in one of his huge hands and my neck in his other, he manipulated me like a puppet or a rag doll. With my face pressed to his chest I did the best job I could of licking him, all the while inhaling the powerful cocktail of sweat and salt and male musk that the man gave off. He pulled me away from his chest and looked me up and down contemptuously. I flushed as his gaze swept over my small frame, all five foot two of it, my nude and hairless body, and worst of all, my plumped up cock, already half engorged with blood, unarguable evidence of my own growing sexual excitement. He nodded and said as much to himself as to me.
"Oui, this boy likes it a little rough."
I tried to struggle, but he gave me a smack to the face. It stunned me with his strength and evidenced his resolve to have his way with me and to treat me roughly. The man after all was twice my size, a man grown and me only a skinny under-sized boy. Dreading what would come next but realizing there was no way out of the fix I was in I subsided and let them do what they would with me.
Smiling in satisfaction at my easy surrender, he bent me over the back of a chair. With a peremptory command of écarte-toi, the young Haitian told me to spread 'em, then tied both my wrists and ankles to the bottom rungs of the chair, pulling the cords tight over the slender bones of the wrists and the narrowest part of the ankles, remarking that the rope burns would remind their 'bogosse', of this evening's lesson. As would the whip marks they would lay on me.
Some part of my psyche told me that I should have stood up for himself, but that mindset was impossible to maintain while bent over, tied hand and foot, bared rump in the air, a hand squeezing my tackle, strong fingers pulling the orbs to the bottom of the sac into a fist that closed over them and cracked my nuts. His strong fingers then squeezed the globes of my buttocks hard enough to leave tattle-tale bruises for all to see. To gauge how tight I was before penetration he stretched my tiny anal ring with his thumbs then poked two fingers into the hole. I had enough sense not to offer pointless resistance to this latest series of indignities visited upon my person, a deep sigh at my fate the last sign of my initial feeble rebelliousness. As a small youth in bondage, I was utterly helpless before these two large males anyway and would just have to take my punishment for getting uppity.
François spanked me hard, laying many slaps to my reddened ass. After François finished the initial spanking, the manager took a switch to my rump and back. Of course it hurt and left angry welts on my back, butt, and back of my things. I yelped as he worked me over. Soon I was sobbing softly, tears running down my face, but I also found myself aroused. As a sexual submissive I responded according to my nature, taking what pride I could in bearing up under my punishment and erotically relishing the perverse feelings a moderate ass whipping could bring out in me. There is nothing quite like a spanking or a caning to emphasize the difference between the grown men who administer such punishments and the obstreperous youngsters like myself who suffer the consequences.
Then the two men took turns fucking me. They went at it vigorously, not trying to deliberately hurt me but not much caring how much it pained a little guy like me to take their outsized shafts up my quim. As many males as had fucked me, I was still small and quite tight back there and they were big men in all departments. Gripping my hip bones, each penetrated me with a sudden total impalement, their cocks sunk to the hilt. Their pubic hair was wiry like Brillo and scratched my smooth ass cheeks.
As one of them long dicked me, the other male worked my cock like the teat of a milch cow, pulling my shaft straight down from my groin, rubbing and stroking, repeatedly bringing me close to the edge then backing off, tormenting me with my own urgent need to cum. The strokes of their cocks up my ass repeatedly touched my inner joy spot and I found myself shuddering with lust, delirious with arousal, my helplessness in my bondage adding to my excitement. Fortunately it did not take too long for either male to reach climax, timed with mine because they liked to have my spasming ass muscles squeeze their cocks when I went into orgasm myself.
During this whole rape scene, as hormones were released into my bloodstream I felt myself slipping ever deeper into sexual thrall, surrendering myself both physically and psychologically to these strong males who were giving me what, after all, I rationalized in my erotic delirium, was only just punishment for trying to rise above my station. I was like a protagonist in one of Aaron Travis' hyper-thermal tales of young innocents who fall into the clutches of brutes who use them in appalling ways to gratify the perverse lusts of all participants, including and even especially the victim.
As a further mark of my abject servility, after they each fucked me, I lifted my chin, and let them put their cocks to my mouth for a thorough cleansing. Obediently I tongued and sucked and licked, tugging on the glans with my pouty lips, swallowing along with my saliva their gism and my own ass juices, even submissively licking off and swallowing tiny smears of my own shit that, dirty boy that I was (or so they charged me with being), had soiled their fine black cocks.
After a rest period during which I was kept in bondage but at least given a drink of water, they went at me again. By the time they were finished, I was one thoroughly fucked out punk kid. As I stood up, my much abused ass lips chose that particular moment to smack and sputter wetly, discharging much of the semen the two men had deposited up my quim. I squeezed my eyes shut, utterly mortified as the fluid ran down my legs.
After hearty laughter at my plight, they made me thank them for the lesson they had taught me.
"We must do this again, Sprout, say once a week at this time, hein?"
So it was official; I was now the camp mascot for everyone, the pet for workers and management, their choupinou.
I realized afterwards how foolish I had been to think the manager Malherbe or François might help me instead of playing on and reinforcing my innate sense of physical subordination and sexual submission. After all, I am the sort of boy who instinctively spreads his legs when a powerful male strokes his inner thighs with lascivious intent. My body automatically grants superior males access to its most private places. My habitual lack of clothing is another way I allow access to my body for those who would use it for their pleasure.
These men knew I was that sort of boy filled with perverse desires. So why should they not use me the way they wanted to? As they saw it, having signed up for the program with my eyes open to the role of young white faggots in this Haitian camp, who was I to try to withhold my charms from so many fine hard working men so much more masculine than my own willowy self. Rope burns and whippings were appropriate reminders of this basic fact of my existence. My role here was to serve and to submit my pretty body and talented orifices to these fine strong males. What else was a bottomless boy like myself good for if not for that basic function?
The weeks finally passed in much the same manner. I lost count of the cocks I sucked and the endless mountings. With summer was drawing to an end. Malherbe and Francois knew they would miss both of us white kids but consoled themselves with the scrap book and videos they had made of our nearly three months of sexual degradation and slavery. They knew that whatever stories we told back home, there would be no shortage of young Americans next year, who inspired by our tales, would eagerly submit themselves to the same regime, a virtual paradise for oversexed bottom boys. They wished us well at Andrew Jackson High and hoped the school would sent him two more such interns as ourselves next summer.
Which was quite likely. Oh Zach and I would put the word out, but there were plenty of heedless submissive boys who would jump at the chance to become sex slaves for the whole summer of hundreds of virile black males. We ourselves were not interested in a repeat performance next summer. As far as being a sex toy and cum dump, I had been there and done that once, and once was perhaps once too many. Zach feels the same way.
- Squirt
Great stuff, guys. Really vivid imagery in your stories. No offense, Sprout and Zach, but this is me speaking in my editorial voice. Some of your material will have to be toned down before I can publish excerpts in the AJHS Intelligencer. I mean the Intelligencer is just a high school paper. Even Principal Degnan's commitment to freedom of the press and to academic freedom, admirable as it is, goes only so far. AJHS does not publish smut.
I reminded both of my young authors that the two of them had gone off to Haiti with their eyes open about what happened to pretty white boys pent up in isolated rural reforestation camps with all those horny young males. Perpetual public nudity was only the smallest part of it. For all their official duties were real enough, the boys had also volunteered to be kept as naked sex slaves for the duration.
Which was inevitable regardless, the way they we were running around naked all the time, so no wonder everyone took it as an invitation to turn them into sex toys for the whole crew. They told me before I left that they figured I'd been fucked at least a hundred times a week and two hundred the final week."
Once back home, the five of us gathered at Sprout's home while the two travelers described how they had spent their summer vacation. We hung on to every word, all of us, physically aroused by what they related.
"Poor baby," Squirrel soothed Zach and Sprout. "I hope they left some for the rest of us?"
So to general hilarity, the five of us had a happy reunion, retiring to the bedrooms and making love day and night, only taking time off to eat and sleep. We didn't come up for air for almost three days.
To his credit, our host, Mr. Sprout just shook his head at all this and muttered: "Teenagers!"
Later on, when I got to talk quietly with Mr. Tagliaferro, I mentioned that I was starting to feel left out. I mean, I was the only one of us little guys who did not a real adventure under his belt. Squirrel was a fugitive for three months hiding in the woods, living almost like an animal, stark naked; his only covering was body paint in a camouflage pattern. Zach and Sprout shared their perverse sexual adventure in Haiti. Then there was Sprout's ordeal at the hands of Sir. Would I never have war stories of my own to tell my hypothetical grandchildren?
"Watch what you wish for, my young friend." Mr. Tagliaferro said in all seriousness. I know my son, and I listened carefully as he told his tale. You may have missed it yourself, but I heard real anxiety in his voice when he told how some of that stuff in Haiti reminded him of his captivity by Sir. That is something you do not get over in a year, maybe not in a lifetime. Boys your age are often impulsive and even heedless, especially when the sex drive kicks in, Squirt."
Words to live by. Thank you Mr. Sprout. Now I know where your son gets his quiet wisdom.
Author's Note
If you have enjoyed this story and others like it, I hope you will consider making a donation to the Nifty Archive. It is so easy. They take credit cards.
This tale was inspired by my recent story 'Squirt' and is the fifth in a series set in and around a fictitious Andrew Jackson High School in South Florida.
Meanwhile, good news for readers disappointed at how few stories I have published of late. Folks, help is on the way. I am writing my first novel-length story, which is already at 110 thousand words. Mostly I publish novelettes of 10 -15 thousand words.
The novel is in the genre called heroic fantasy. Like so many stories in that genre it is set on an imaginary world in an imaginary universe where wizards and druids and others work real magic, a world populated by several sentient races including humans, elves, giants, and dwarves. Unlike most such worlds, this one has an awful lot of cute young guys running around in the skimpiest of costumes or even nothing at all, and taking every opportunity to hop into bed with each other and to switch partners.
Sorry, no dragons, but I bet you never read a tale that featured a naked teenage druid leading the charge of a herd of brontotheres against an army of Amazons. What is a brontothere? Look it up, but not in the dictionary. Try the Wikipedia instead.
Look for publication of my very first novel this summer on most of these same stations.
Readers who like this story might want to try my two series 'Daphne Boy' and 'Naked Prey' in the Gay/Historical section of the Archive or my 'Jungle Boy' series of Hollywood tales, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section. Also available are my older 'Track and Field' stories in Gay/College and my 'Mer-Boy' stories in Gay/Beginnings. For links to my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors on the Archive.
Comments and feedback welcome.