Organization: The Denver Exchange, Inc.
Please check the header! The following story contains some form of gay sexual content describing purely fictional events. If this is "not your bag", do yourself and us all a favor and hit the "n" key NOW!
Readers under a "legal" age somewhere who happen to be reading this are used to being told to ignore the existence of this material. Doesn't seem logical to me, if they happen to like and enjoy it. As above, if they don't, they too can hit the "n" key and be done with it. Since I have no control whatever over who does or does not read this, I think this paragraph is silly. Some hot-shot lawyer said it has to be here. Enough said.
Now, on with the show! (Hi, there, Senators!)
Oh: permission to archive and/or re-post granted, so long as the author is credited. Otherwise, (c) Bruce Bramson 1995.
Bruce Bramson
PIECE ON EARTH
You don't see hitch-hikers on the freeway much any more: so I was past him and into traffic before I realized he was there. The glimpse I got in my rear-view mirror suggested his eyes had followed me as I passed, but I couldn't be sure. Still, the prospect of having a companion for the dull drive back to the City made it worth doubling back at the next interchange. I knew that when I got back to my starting point, he'd be gone: sure enough, the roadside was bare as I once again swung into traffic, cursing myself for not having stopped the first time, and wondering yet again why it seemed that whenever I traveled alone, there was never anyone hitch-hiking, but if I was traveling WITH someone, the roadsides were littered with cute guys!
So when, a few exits further on, I spotted him again, I pulled over and screeched to a halt. The head that popped into the window opposite me appeared to be that of a youth of (perhaps) 17 years: dark, almost black hair, sparkling brown eyes, smooth, tanned complexion, wispy dark fuzz on the upper lip; mediterranean or hispanic, I thought.
"Can you get me to Oakland?" the face asked?
"Right on my way: hop in," I replied. What happened to your previous driver?
He tossed his little bag into the back seat and settled in, fumbling with the old-fashioned lap belts in my car.
"The guy was a creep."
Rats, I thought, somebody's already hit on him, and he doesn't give out.
"A creep?"
"On his way to church. Said I should go with him and pray. Yuk!"
"Takes all kinds," I said.
"Cool set of wheels".
"Older than you, I expect." How was your Christmas?
"Bummer. Went home to see my mom and sisters, but my Dad was drunk the whole time. Yours?"
"Hah! Cooped up with an ancient and invalid step-mother for three days? As you said, 'bummer'. Must not have been much fun for you with your dad in that condition," I said, recalling for a moment the problems I'd had with my second lover, a lush.
"Oh, it's no biggie. He sucked me off just once when I was twelve, and he's been on a heavy guilt trip ever since."
Wow! I thought: I know today's youth are "up front", but something like this in the first five minutes of a conversation with a total stranger was startling for an old fart like me.
I replied, "Yes, in today's climate, I can see how it might be tough for him to deal with it, uh ..." I was fishing for a name.
"Juan", he supplied it. (Hispanic, then, I thought). "My dad is Mexican, my mom is Irish. My middle name is Kevin. My sisters are both as Irish as patty's pig".
"Well your dad has the added complication of coming from a culture that takes a dim view of, um, fathers blowing their minor sons".
"Yeah, I know all that. But I enjoyed that blow-job: in fact, my dad's still a hunk - I'd get it on with him in a minute if I thought he could handle it: but I'm sure he can't. What's your name?"
"Bruce." This lad has his act together, I thought. I wouldn't have dared to tell an adult such things when I was his age. Refreshing! And certainly, not bad looking, either. Not spectacular, just wholesome - and very young. We were on dangerous ground, given my many more years.
"Say, Bruce, just how old is this car, anyway? I sure runs nice!"
" '64 Chrysler New Yorker," I replied. My dad bought it new, though I suppose people seeing me drive it think I am its original owner. And it is older than you, right?"
"Oh, yeah: I'm a Bicentennial edition - 1976. I'll be 19 next April".
He has to be lying, I thought. But then, there are late-bloomers: I was one of them.
Juan had turned towards me and put his Levi-clad leg up on the seat. Between the end of his pants-leg and his sock was a short expanse of bare calf; there was a bit of peach-fuzz there to match his upper lip, but no more. I still thought 17 was closer to the truth.
"Hey, Bruce: would you like a hand-job?" Juan brought me out of my musings instantly!
"Oh, come on, Juanito," I said: "I'm old enough to be your Grandfather! A young dude like you isn't interested in an old fart like me!"
Juan put an exquisite "little-boy" pout on his face: "Don't call me 'Juanito'," he said quietly. And I see you don't believe I'm 18, either. I can't help it if I look younger, jeeeezus! I get carded at the 7-eleven just to buy a Pepsi - and I'm supposed to be the 'Pepsi Generation'!" He had dropped a hand to his crotch, and was not-so-subtly groping himself.
Ah, the sensitivity of youth! I should have remembered more of my own: I had blundered.
"I'm sorry," I said as sincerely as I could. "There is nothing wrong with looking as young as you do, and you should relax and enjoy it, for it'll be gone before you know it."
"And you should relax and enjoy me," Juan replied, his face returning to its former brightness. "Actually, my Grand-dad was a handsome guy, judging from my mom's pictures. I've fantasized more than once about getting it on with him. And you're not an 'old fart': sure, you're older than I am, but so what? You aren't going to tell me you don't get horny, are you?"
"No, indeed, I'm not!" I replied. "Three days with that old hen has left me, ah, 'horny', as you put it."
"Good!" Juan unbuckled his lap belt, and slid across the expanse of seat separating us. He expertly flipped the top button of my pants, slid the zipper down, and put his glabrous hand inside my pants. When that hand found my stiffened member, I was instantly transported back to 1951, when the first hand other than my own had touched me "there".
The summer after my freshman year in High School I spent a lot of time with a neighbor who, like myself, was "into" old cars. I was 17, Jim one year older. His dad owned a hardware store, and made a lot more money than my dad (a teacher), so Jim never lacked anything. But he wasn't "stuck-up", like most of the wealthier kids in town. Jim and I had been pals for years.
One warm summer evening, Jim said he had something to show me. We went to his small work-room attached to the garage, and from a shelf he took down a coffee-can innocently labeled "spikes". Inside was an envelope which he handed to me, and inside the envelope was a thick wad of photographs. These were all of guys, all of them with hard-ons. I was astounded! I was fascinated!
"The folks gave me one of those new Polaroid instant cameras for my birthday," Jim explained. (These were expensive, I knew: I'd wanted one, but hadn't even bothered to ask...).
While there was a certain, uh, repetitiveness about the collection, it riveted my attention. Each photo was just the mid-section of each guy - no faces, or identifying features to be seen. Most of the guys had just pushed their pants to their knees, pulled their shirts up, and "strutted their stuff" for the camera. The pricks were the "focus" of attention, they were all hard - and as I shuffled through the collection, my own pecker emulated them.
"Do I know any of these guys?" I asked breathlessly.
"Most of them," Jim replied. (He took the pack and shuffled them quickly) "That's Don" (another quick shuffle) "that's Eric" -- "that's me".
My mind was exploding. I'd always wanted to see my friends' dicks hard, rather than soft like in the showers at school, but had never dared ask. For that matter, I'd always wanted to see Jim's cock - I'd even groped him once or twice, but without effect - and here in my hand was a picture of it, hard, a lot like my own, but different in its way. I was speechless - and horny as hell!
"You want to pose?" Jim asked. "I have film..."
"Aw, jeeez, I don't know..."
"Here: stand in front of the door there," (I suddenly recognized the backdrop for most of the pictures in my sweaty hands) "and I'll shoot from over here. These things are amazing, really..."
I was in a daze. The bulge in my pants could no longer be hidden, but I noticed a similar bulge in Jim's trousers. Jim was fiddling with the camera just a few feet away, and in my clammy hands I now held (in a sense) the "essence" of a dozen or more of my classmates. I stood in front of the closed door, and studied again the pictures I held. Just as I found one of a particularly well-endowed youth, Jim took the pack from me, and told me to drop my pants. Gawd, I was nervous! Sweat gathered in my armpits. I fumbled with my belt, unzipped, and moved my pants down to my knees. My pecker tented my shorts, and as I went for the elastic, there was a terrific FLASH! Jim pulled something out of the camera and glanced at his watch.
The next sixty seconds was an eternity. With my pants at half-mast, I hobbled over to where Jim stood with the camera. Finally, he opened the camera's back, and peeled out the still-developing picture. The image sharpened, and there I was, or at least there was the mid-section of me, my fingers poised to lower my shorts and my evident hard-on pushing out the snowy fabric. It was, I remember thinking, the most exciting photograph of myself I'd ever seen.
"Another!" exclaimed Jim.
I hobbled back in front of the door. "Wait," I said, "I have to get these pants off." I turned and lifted one leg to remove a shoe: FLASH! I finished getting out of my pants, and waited again the requisite 60 seconds. Presently I was able to view myself with a hairless leg drawn up, a youthful arm in front of it, un-tying my shoelaces. "Neat!" Jim said: "Another!"
He took an entire packet of 8 pictures of me. Then he spread them out on a newspaper on the workbench. "Gotta put this coating stuff on 'em, or they fade out," he explained. I, naked now, watched as he took the pinkish squeegee out of its tube and carefully coated each picture. The acrid smell of acetic acid hit my nostrils. (I have forever since associated that smell with sex). I stood next to Jim, one hand on his shoulder as he bent to the task. My hard-on raged. Boldly, I reached around and groped him, and felt the hardness of his dick. I fumbled with his zipper, and got my hand inside. "Wait: not here," Jim said, capping the tube of smelly stuff. "These have to dry a while." He grabbed my hand and led me through the door into the garage. We climbed into the back seat of his dad's '49 Caddie - such luxury! - and he pushed his pants and shorts down to his ankle. Jim had hairy legs! I ran my hand over them, then gripped his throbbing member.
He moaned and let me play with him, then suddenly turned and put his hand on my red-hot poker. I had never been "touched" there before, and the effect was electrifying! "Jeeeeeeeeez!" I exclaimed. Jim fumbled under the seat and produced an old towel: not a moment too soon, either, because his hand jacking me off had the expected result within seconds, and I began to shoot big wads of boy-cum every which-way. Before I was through cumming, I grabbed Jim's dick, and within moments he erupted as well...
"Uh, Juan, do you mind if I take the back road through the hills? I hate this heavy traffic, and there's a spot I know where we could park..."
"Fine with me, Gramps," Juan replied. His ministrations to my tumescence had sent me into my reverie, but now, with juices beginning to flow, I found concentrating on my driving a bit difficult. Besides, I wanted more of this boy. I had put my arm around his lean shoulder, but I had not encouraged him to do any more than play with me: that, of itself, was so delightful, that anything more would likely send me over the edge anyway.
As I dove off the freeway and headed into the fields by an older back road, Juan bent over and took my pecker in his mouth. I dropped my hand to the back of his neck, and toyed with his straight dark hair. The stiff hairs of his tapered cut on the back of his neck were unbelievably sexy. Driving more slowly now, I slipped back in time to my first blow-job.
In Jim's collection of photos I had noticed one particularly long toad- stabber, which turned out to belong to someone I did NOT know: Jim told me his name was Butch, and he was only in the eighth grade! With my new- found fondness for grabbing dick, I wanted to see that one for myself. It turned out that my step-brother, in the 7th grade, knew Butch (who lived close by), so I got Dougie to invite him over. Dougie was still pre- pubescent and he did not interest me much, but Butch (the name referred to his haircut, so popular then) was something else. He was taller than me by a head, and very precocious (as I knew from the pictures). He was incredibly "sexy", and when I boldly told him I had seen Jim's pictures of him, he turned out not to be averse at all to "fooling around". I got rid of Dougie, and Butch and I repaired to a corner of our storage barn, where I had an old bed sort of hidden by all the other junk. It was my "hideaway". Not only was Butch precocious: he was always horny, and willing to try just about anything.
Butch had gloriously smooth skin with just a light dusting of light-brown hair. But he had a generous bush in his crotch, and from it sprang this really amazing prong, among the longest I have ever seen. Butch had absolutely no qualms about shucking his Levis and letting me have my way with him. So long as I kept him hard (not difficult) he let me play with his dick for hours. He loved to be the object of attention, and in our oft-repeated sessions, he would only occasionally actually play with me. We usually ended up in a contest to see who could come first, contests I invariably won, because playing with his glorious body always got my juices flowing, and because (for whatever reason) Butch was just naturally slow to shoot his wad. He was only 15 then, but far ahead of me physically. Perhaps my more normal endowment was a disappointment after clutching his own graceful pecker for so long.
But he was occasionally willing to experiment, and one hot summer night as we rolled around on that crummy bed, I was seized with the impulse to suck on his dick, something I had never done. I could not take much over half of it, so I augmented my mouth with one fist. Butch enjoyed this so much that he was moved to do the same for me, and in one blazing instant I was made aware of the inadequacies of the five-fingered shuffle. Nevertheless, after making this stunning discovery, we finished up in the usual way. Un-practiced and amateurish though it was, my first blow-job was an instant suck-cess.
But sometime that summer a girl in town discovered what Butch had in his pants, and he was out of my life in an instant. His nick-name was not so inappropriate, after all...
On the other hand, Juan's head bobbing between my legs was neither that of one highly experienced, nor that of an amateur. He knew what he was doing, but the confines of the front seat and some interference from the steering-wheel combined to make his effort less than wholly satisfactory. Further-more, I was scarcely participating, having still to concentrate on avoiding driving off the road, and my desire to really "know" my young friend was increasing steadily. So I was glad to see the side road that I knew about appear ahead. I slowed and turned on to it: I knew from past explorations that it went just a short way into a side canyon where there had once been a farmhouse. Juan sat up in some alarm as the car lurched over the potholes: "Hey, where are we?" he asked. "What's up, Gramps?"
I turned the car around and parked. I did my best to put my face into a pout and turned to Juan.
"Don't call me 'Gramps'," I said, trying to be stern. Juan looked me in the eye; I saw apprehension in his.
"Awww, don't feel bad; I didn't mean to hurt you. I think you're really neat..."
I could not contain my laughter - never was good with a "straight face". I moved out from beneath the wheel, gripped Juan's head, and pulled him to my lips. I kissed him passionately, and he melted in my arms. When we broke apart, I said (still chuckling), "If you like to call me 'Gramps', you can do so any time. I really don't mind."
Juan's eyes brightened, and he gave me a wet, slurpy kiss on my cheek. "In that case", he breathed into my ear, "You can call me 'Jaunito'...
"The back seat is more comfortable, Juan," I said, reaching across to open the door on his side. We tumbled out, and got into the back.
"Wow! the back of mom's toyota is nothing like this!"
"No, they don't build 'em like this any more. There's a whole generation of kids who were conceived in the back seats of cars like this."
"I believe it," Juan said, settling into the deep cushions with a sexy wiggle. This is a real playroom!"
"So, let's play!" So saying, I reached over and flipped open the buckle of his belt. The action caused another flash back to my own youth...
******* [continued]
--Bruce Bramson, 1994
++++++++++++++++++++++
I eventually posed for a second set of Polaroid pictures for Jim, so I could have a set of my own; he also gave me a few others that he seemed to have lost interest in, including a great shot of Butch, my favorite. I hid these under the mattress of the bed in my hideaway in the barn. There were those occasions when no one else was around to play with, and I would have to go study those pics and jack myself off.
Although my dad had married his mother, my step-brother Dougie and I did not seem to hit it off. Neither did our parents, for that matter! But after I learned the joy of sucking cock, I began to wonder if Dougie might like to benefit from my insights into feeling good. But I could never seem to find a way to bring up the subject.
Then one day, after phoning around and finding no one to play with, I repaired to my hideaway. As I walked the labyrinth of cartons I'd arranged to make it private, I heard noises. In the open space I found Dougie, trying hard to squeeze out of sight between the rough boards of the wall and some piled up junk. But, I'd caught him in the act. My collection of pictures was strewn over the bed. The little sneak had found me out!
I grabbed his shirt and pulled him into the room. "So, you've found my little hideaway, eh Dougie?" I said gruffly. He was shaking. "Now, how are we going to be sure the whole neighborhood doesn't find out about this, eh?"
"I w-won't tell anyone, I promise!" Dougie cringed.
"And did you enjoy my selection of pictures?" I asked as sarcastically as I could.
"They're...they're..." Dougie was out of words.
"Did your little pecker get hard as you looked at my buddies' dicks?" I asked. Dougie's legs were about to go out from under him. I was enjoying a feeling of power I had never experienced. Even though there was less than two full years between us, we were many more years apart in development. I let go of his shirt, swept the pictures into a corner of the bed, and roughly pushed Dougie down on the sagging mattress. It was not all that obvious, but yes, he surely did have a hard-on.
I dove for the top of his pants as if possessed. I yanked his pants down the way I'd seen guys do at school when they were harassing a younger kid; his pants turned inside out as I pulled them roughly off, and his shoes came off with them. Dougie began to cry, and he threw his hands over his stiffy. I decided to enjoy the view as he sobbed uncontrollably. There was not a hair to be seen on him anywhere, but as it was summer, he had a tan-line. For some reason, I had never paid any real attention to him, even though he ran around the yard in his bathing suit most of the time. Looking back on it, I realize he was just at the onset of puberty: his baby-fat was gone, his muscles were showing a bit of definition. That he had an interest in sex seemed evident, and that he could be stimulated was obvious.
I suddenly knelt between his hairless, fully exposed legs, pushing them apart; then I grasped his wrists forcibly and uncovered his pubic area. Dougie was so scared that he began to pee! His piss-stream arched up over his smooth stomach and splashed down there, running away onto the already heavily soiled old blankets on the bed. When I released one wrist to retrieve a crusty rag from beneath the bed, his hand instinctively returned to cover himself, and he realized only then that he had lost control when he felt the warm pee striking his hand. He bawled even more loudly, this time with humiliation. His eyes were tightly shut, and tears flowed copiously from beneath his lids and like his piss, fell away on to the bed. I stood up, tossed the old towel across his tummy, and shucked my clothes as fast as I could: I was not altogether sure why I was so turned on, but I was rock-hard, and the familiar warmth in my groin told me I was on a sexual high. Roughly, I mopped up the bulk of the wetness on his lithe body with the cum-stained rag, told him to stop crying, then bent down and took his entire little prick and his balls into my mouth. He calmed down almost at once, and his legs that were bent over the side of the bed suddenly straightened out. I knelt again between them, wrapped my arms around them, and sucked his dick far all I was worth. The salty, slightly acidic flavor of his recent discharge was new to me, and I found it strangely exciting.
I felt his small hands grip the sides of my head. I needed no encouragement, but those hands were urging me to increase my rhythm, and I complied. Suddenly he let out a great sob, his whole body began shaking violently, and what I felt sure was his first ejaculation exploded in my mouth as I, in my frenzy, worked my tongue around his neatly circumcised pecker-head. The flavor turned to that of boy-cum, almost cloyingly warm, smooth, and distinctive. I savored every drop. When at last his orgasm subsided, I released his legs, stood up, bent over, grabbed his arms and pulled him up into a sitting position: still in the grip of my power trip, I jammed my lurching pecker between his lips so forcibly that he had no chance to complain, and I fucked his mouth viciously. Of course, I shot my wad within seconds, and he gagged. When I withdrew, tears were still pouring down his face and my load of boy-cum drooled from his lips, down his chin, and dripped onto his pubic mound, still shiny with my spit.
At length I regained my composure. "So, Dougie, are you ever again going to sneak into my private space?" I asked.
"No, never..."
"And are you going to tell anyone what WE (you and me!) did in here just now?"
"No, never..."
"And will you ever so much as breathe a word to anyone about those pictures?"
"No, no, I don't know about 'ny pictures..."
" 'Cause you know if you do, I'm going to tell that you pissed yourself..."
"No, no..."
"And I'm going to say it was you that wanted to suck my cock..."
"..."
"And I'm going to say you enjoyed every minute of what we did together just now..."
Dougie sniffed up a big wad of tears and snot. "It did feel pretty good," he said weakly, wiping his chin with the soggy rag.
"Then I think we can go back to being step-brothers, you and me, OK?" I said, a little more gently.
"Yeah, I guess;" he was still a bit shaken. And he was hard again!
"Here, I'll show you how to take care of that," I said, and I grasped his wrist gently and wrapped his fingers around his woodie. "Rub it up and down" --I showed him the motion -- and stretched out along side him and demonstrated. He closed his eyes, jacked his dick sensuously, and grabbed my thigh as he sent another geyser of boy-juice skyward. His hand on my thigh sent me over the edge and I aimed my jism across on to his smooth tummy.
We never did it together again, but I got used to hearing the rhythmic bed-squeaks in his bedroom every night, until our folks parted company and he disappeared from my life.
Juan cooperated as I opened his pants and squirmed helpfully as I worked them over his buns and down to the floor of the car. What I found revealed before me took my breath away. There was no doubt that Juan was past puberty, but only just. His patch of pubic hair barely covered the area just above his dick, and what would someday be a more defined treasure-trail was as yet just the faintest outline of dark fuzz leading up to his navel. His ball-sack reminded me of a buckeye nut on the tree, wrinkled and fuzzy, but essentially without hair as yet. His dick was somewhat darker than the surrounding skin, and although he was cut, the skin on his tool was very loose. There was not an ounce of fat on his frame, and his veins lay close to the surface, where they could easily be traced, especially as they threaded their way down the insides of his thighs. His musculature was perfection itself; it took no imagination, looking at his frontside, to imagine the glory of his backside. All this I drank in as my hands got busy feeling him up; his dick waved at me from time to time as my fingers found various erogenous zones whose urgent neuronal messages found their way to the center of his pleasure. He was fully relaxed, apparently confident that my intent was to make him feel as good as I could, and in this assessment he was not wrong.
There was absolutely no urgency about our love-making: we had the whole afternoon. So, while doing my best to tease Juan into some sort of wild orgasm, I still had plenty of time to admire his beautiful form. With his pants down and his shirt open, it became clear that his Hispanic genes predominated; I would not have guessed, seeing him thus, that he had any Irish blood in him at all. His ab muscles were prominent, his rib-cage a bit less so, and his pecs were perfectly formed. Large, dark nipples that would one day be hairy, I supposed, were now deliciously smooth, and they reacted to the teasing of my tongue by becoming hard like his dick. I searched in vain under his arms for anything more than a trace of hair, and while doing so, was reminded of the first time in my life that I had encountered someone whose ethnicity differed from my own.
Jim and I remained friends through high-school, though of course he graduated a year ahead of me. Apparently, his prowess with the Polaroid became widely known, and it became something of a status symbol to be included in his "rogues' gallery". Knowing how much I enjoyed his pictures, Jim often would make duplicates for me, though I was almost never included in his photo sessions. Since we still jacked off together a lot, I did not mind knowing that he was getting it on with lots of other guys; my active imagination needed only a couple of his photos to fill in the details.
One picture he showed me, but would never let me have though, could get my juices flowing faster than all the others. It was another boy in junior-high, who was Oriental. The picture was a trifle out of focus, and I longed to get a better view. But I no longer had contact with Butch or Dougie, so there was nothing to do but loiter around the school whenever I had time in hopes I could spot this kid and maybe get something going. There were so few Orientals around in those days, I thought it would be easy. But some months went by without my ever seeing even one. Just when I thought I would give it up, he stepped into my web so unexpectedly that I almost missed him.
My dad married a third time, and at his wedding reception I spied Kenji with his parents. I knew at once it was him, even though I had no more than Jim's picture to go on. It turns out my new step-mother and Kenji's mom taught in the same school! Not so long thereafter, some complicated arrangements fell through at the last minute and it fell to me to entertain Kenji at our house one night when everyone was at a conference out of town.
Kenji blushed when I mentioned casually that I knew Jim: he blushed more deeply when I told him I had seen his picture. He blushed even more deeply when I told him I wanted to have sex with him! I was a bold, in those days. But Kenji was willing, and we were alone, and I was bigger and older...
We got comfortable in front of a nice little fire. I'd found with other friends that it could be incredibly stimulating to have someone unbuckle my belt, open my pants, and lift my shirt over my head, even take off my shoes and socks. So I thought Kenji might respond to the same thing, and he certainly did. It was my good fortune that he liked to reciprocate! While still in our shorts, we began fondling and licking. I used my tongue on his inner thighs, working my way up to the cloth of his shorts, while my hands felt his arms, legs, face. (The value of hand work is often greatly under-estimated as a means of stimulating another guy). My exploration revealed erogenous zones Kenji never knew he had, like the cavities behind his knees, for instance.
He was only about 4-ft 6-inches tall, and in truth he looked just like a little boy. But he was long past puberty, perhaps farther past it than I. His shape, his incredibly smooth skin, and his almost total lack of body hair gave him the attributes of a pre-pubescent. He was, however, already skilled at making love (I never found out who had taught him) and he was able to teach even me a few things. And he was "verbal": he kept telling me things like, "You have great legs; I like your arms; neat hair;" things like that. He made me feel nice. I loved to run my fingers through his straight jet-black hair. We got into tonguing each other's eye-brows, and went from there to heavy kissing and tongue-tasting. While cupping his still-clothed crotch with my hand I lightly ran my hand up his thighs and slipped a finger under his shorts.
Of course we had both long-since gotten very hard and Kenji was the first person to remove my shorts with his teeth, which nearly sent me over the edge too soon. Finally, we were together buck-naked, basking in the glow of the fire and getting very excited. After a lingering kiss, I moved down, slowly licking my way across his chest, down along his smooth, tan stomach, on past his cock to lick his balls; then I worked my tongue around the head of his rigid cock before I went down on it completely. He moaned with pleasure at the sensation, but swung his gorgeous little body around so we could do a sixty-nine (new to me at the time!)
Presently, Kenji said he had to take a whiz, and as he stood up and walked out of the room I admired the nice musculature and general sexiness of his body. Recalling my excitement watching Dougie, I got up and followed Kenji into the bathroom. He stood at the toilet, and I knelt behind him and gently turned him around, aiming his pecker at my open mouth.
"I can't piss with a hard-on, silly!" he said. "Wait here, and don't "go" 'till I get back," I said.
I ran to the kitchen, pushed the ice-dispenser bar on the fridge, and got two round cubes in my hand: I rushed back to the john and resumed my position before Kenji. Then I took the hand with the ice cubes and worked them up around his balls.
"Ooooh, wow, that's cold!" he said, startled: but it had the effect I wanted: his cock lost its turgidity almost at once, and scarcely thinking about it, he began to pee in my waiting mouth. I drank his water as if in a desert, finding its flavor astringent but not unpleasant. Pumping out his last drops got his pecker started towards hard again, and we went back to the fire.
After more delicious foreplay, another new idea hit me. "Let's take a shower together," I said. Kenji giggled, but he was game for it. He helped me up, and we ran like school-kids back to the bathroom. We stepped into the shower-stall, closed the door, and turned on the water, adjusting it quite hot. I soaped him all over, relishing his statuesque beauty, smooth-ness and sensuality. The combination of hot water, fragrant soap, and slipperiness got us both very excited! We switched places and he soaped me down, too. Over and over I had to stop him briefly while I "cooled down": it was sensational! Even toweling off was a turn-on.
We dozed briefly, wrapped in each other on the sheepskin in front of the fire. But eventually foreplay began again, this time a little more fervently, a bit less tentatively, because now we both knew more about what each of us liked. Kenji rolled over on top of me, and slipped his hard-on between my legs while I kissed him and ran my hands through his still-wet hair. He humped me slowly, then moved up and drove his dick into my waiting mouth while I held his tense thighs in each hand and assisted the motion. I knew he was almost ready to come, and decided this was a neat way to take his load. His thigh muscles worked beneath my fingers, he cried out, and I felt his warm exudate flood the back of my throat. His cum was sweet tasting and I loved it; it was something I could never seem to get enough of! He collapsed beside me, utterly spent. After a brief interlude, he took my dick in his hand and began a slow jack-off, running his other hand up the insides of my thighs and toying with my balls. I was so enthralled with his beauty and general sexiness that just a few strokes of his hand were enough, and I erupted and shot my load all over his gorgeous smooth tummy, his sparse pubic hair, and his thigh before I was through spurting. It was one of the most memorable hand-jobs I had had (out of many!) up to that time. We curled up together completely nude in my bed, and dropped off into that wonderful deep sleep that comes ONLY after a thoroughly satisfying sexual encounter.
Juan luxuriated in my attention. After perhaps a half hour of intimate exploration of everything I could reach, I decided to see if he still had any interest in me: I was, by this time, past being horny! I moved into a reclining position beside him and prepared to remove my pants.
"No! wait:" Juan seemed to awaken as if from a dream. "Let me do that."
He assumed the position I had so recently occupied, and began to work my pants down and under me. He was adroit. I looked down at the top of his head, where he had a sexy whorl of hair at the end of his part. My oppressed cock sprang out as he managed to get my pants and shorts out from beneath me, and he slid them down to my ankles. Then he bent down to my knee, and began virtually washing me with his tongue. I've always had sensitive legs, and his tongue licking me was incredibly exciting. I grabbed my cock because I could easily have shot my wad with a couple of strokes and his wild tongue-bath, but he pushed my hand away and ever-so gradually worked his way in between my thighs. When his bristly hair met my engorged balls, his tongue still bathing my inner thighs just a few inches below my crotch, I thought I might just lose my load without further ado.
I watched as his shapely head moved between my outstretched legs.
"What would your lover say, if he could see you now?" I asked.
Juan paused long enough to say, "Don't have a lover; still playin' the field." He resumed his enthusiastic application of his tongue to my private parts, but after a few minutes, rose up to ask, "What's it like to have a lover?" I reached down, pulled him up beside me on the car seat, and drew one of his shapely legs across my lap: he nestled my rigid pole in the fold behind his knee. "That's a tough question to answer," I said, "but let me try..."
In my freshman year at Junior College, having at last taken on some of the physical characteristics of young manhood -- which meant I was no longer hassled as a "sissy" in the gym -- I got mildly interested in sports. Though I loved the "body-contact" of basketball, I was still too uncoordinated to do well at it. Hence, I spent most of my time on the bench, happily pressing my bare legs against any of my team-mates who would allow it. As the weeks wore on, I realized that most often that team-mate was Ed. Though fair of skin, Ed was very hairy, which I found to be a real turn-on. He never pulled his legs away when we sat close on the bench, and once or twice I fancied that my slight pressure, so carefully applied, was re-turned; but I couldn't be sure. I had no reason to suspect Ed had the slightest interest in me.
One week-end, Ed invited me to his place, along with several others: the intent was a pick-up game of basketball in the driveway of his folks' house. It was a warm, sunny day, and I got there early, so we shucked our shirts and shot some baskets to pass the time. I realized quite un- expectedly that I very much "wanted" this handsome guy. As luck would have it, none of the other guys showed up: only several years later did I discover that Ed had actually only invited me!
When the novelty of the two-up game wore off, and we'd worked up a good sweat, Ed suggested a swim in their pool to cool off. In the pool-house, he shucked the rest of his clothes unabashedly and rinsed his sticky bod in the tiny shower. The way the water interacted with his black body- hair, plastering it down to the surface in streaks, fascinated me: in shape and appearance, he was splendidly put together, and I could not take my eyes off him. The cold shower helped to prevent any embarrassment on my part, and in a few moments we were splashing around in the pool. After a bit of actual swimming, we both wound up sitting, submerged from our waists down, on a stair into the shallow end. I realized with a start that neither of us had bothered with swim-trunks (not being much of a swimmer, I did not even own a pair). There, within easy reach, nestled in a thicket of silky black hair was Ed's shriveled dick. He put his head back on the rim of the pool and his body floated free: his eyes were closed. On impulse, I stood in the water, placed one hand underneath his shapely buns, and without warning bent over and slurped his dick into my mouth. It was wonderfully soft: I think it was the first SOFT cock I'd ever tasted. When it began to stir, I got worried about the directness of my approach, and sat back down in the water: Ed did likewise.
"Would you believe me if I told you I'd fantasized a thousand times about your doing that?" he asked.
"Really? Why'ncha say so!" I replied. "Should I do it again?"
"No, not here, not now. We'll go inside."
We returned to the pool-house, rinsed the chlorinous water from ourselves, and picked up big soft towels. Emboldened by his earlier remark, I threw a towel against his back and began patting him dry. He leaned against me; I reached around with the towel in my hands and rubbed his chest and his flat stomach: I could not quite reach his crotch, but his wet hair falling in my face, still smelling faintly of chlorine, was an aphrodisiac. I was rapidly developing a hard-on, which he could doubtless feel against his buns. After a few minutes of this, he turned around, grasped my head powerfully, and kissed me, driving his tongue between my lips then sucking my tongue into his mouth. He pressed his body against mine, and I felt his now rigid pecker slide between my legs. This was no casual kiss: it was blazing passion! We embraced this way, kissing, hugging, pressing urgently against each other for what seemed like hours. Presently, he slowly broke away, gently took my towel and rubbed down every inch of me. He wiped my dick as if it were his own, without embarrassment, without undue attention either. When he had dried me to my toes, I did the same for him, discovering as I did so how sexy he really was.
A trifle shorter than I, about 5-foot ten-inches, I guessed. The same age as myself, now 21. But where I still had traces of baby fat and rather poor muscle definition, he had only young-man muscle, sharply defined but not over-grown. He was heavily carpeted with jet-black hair: not the typical curly stuff one is apt to find, but long, dead-straight, fine and silky, the hair on his head and under his arms indistinguishable from that of his treasure trail and all around his dick. As for that, it was "classic": perfectly circumcised, dead straight, close to six inches long, with prominent veins and a clearly defined urethra along the bottom. His balls, in their silky black shroud, were in perfect proportion to his cock, which stood at rapt attention as I dried his body.
We stood now, both dry, both nude, and both erect. Not twenty words had yet passed between us: but I knew this was a special moment. We drank each other in, each apparently pleased, and completely at ease with each other. At length, he spoke: "Wouldja like a beer?"
My dad was a tee-totaler; I had never yet tasted beer, but the frosty glass Ed handed me was welcome, as it was getting warm in the pool-house. We sat together on a sofa, close; Ed put his hand around my shoulders and we drank in silence, our erections pulsing from time to time. Cares and problems seem to melt away and our bodies communicated contentment. Conversation seemed unnecessary. As my first taste of anything alcoholic emboldened me, I caressed Ed's hirsute leg, fascinated by the unfamiliar feeling of his abundant hair. Silently, we moved to the nearby bed and began to explore each other intimately. Before the afternoon was over, we had fit ourselves together in every possible way and had maintained our state of sexual animation, without reaching any climax, for close to three hours. Scarcely a word passed between us, though numerous other noises signaled a degree of satisfaction I'd never experienced from just "being with" another guy.
When we heard noises in the house, we dressed, helping each other. Fully clothed, Ed embraced and kissed me savagely, pressing his body tightly to mine. Suddenly he froze: he stopped breathing, and I knew from the rhythmic pulse I felt against my stomach that he was cumming. When at last he relaxed, a hot blast of his breath flowed sensuously past my ear, and he said, "Bruce, I love you." I was dumfounded! Did I really excite this guy so much that just hugging him would get him off? This was something new. And what about this "love" thing? My experience up to then with boy-lust and teen-age horniness had left no room for the idea of "love". Wow!
"Damn!" he said. Releasing me, he went into the bathroom and shucked his pants. Right behind him, I pulled down his white shorts, besoaked with his exudate, the familiar smell flooding my nostrils. I whipped out my own rod, stuffed a soggy fold of his shorts into my mouth, grabbed my cock: Ed put a leg up on the toilet, moved me into position, and within seconds I shot my wad all over his hairy thigh - more cum, I thought, than I'd ever produced before. When I was nearly done, Ed grasped my dick and milked it, squeezed out the last drops of my load and shook them on to his leg. As I began to relax, he kissed me again and again and again, until at last some semblance of composure came over us both. He cleaned up his leg with a towel, pulled on his pants without his shorts, which I wadded up and slipped into a pocket.
Later that night, when I had returned home and was lying in bed hoping to sleep, I sucked every drop of cum out of those shorts, and reveled in my new-found friend's aroma. The sensation of him holding me and dropping a load in his pants was so fresh in my mind that I could experience it again, aided by that pair of gooey shorts, which then absorbed my second load of the day.
Ed was my first true lover. The books all say he was the best, and they're right. We lived together, enraptured by each other, for more than three years: military service intervened, and a bullet in some far-off land ended it. It was Ed who taught me to say "I love you", and mean it.
"I wonder if it will be that way for me," Juan mused dreamily as I concluded my tale.
"It'll be something like that, I expect," I said: "The details will be different, but the feeling will be about the same. You will know by instinct. But for now..."
It was growing late: there was some distance to go before reaching Oakland. I pressed Juan over onto his back on the seat and began a long, torturous and convoluted tongue-bath, commencing with his dark eye-brows, briefly frenching his ears and blowing softly into them; on down, toying with each brown nipple; then on down the smooth expanse of his stomach. I purposely by-passed his cock, now oozing a bit of pre-cum, and began a slow ascent from his knees up towards his balls. He shivered as I swept my tongue in long strokes up his inner thighs, and moaned softly as I lifted his legs and bathed his perineum. I briefly explored his exquisite anus, which animated him so that I thought he might toss his load before I was ready to receive it. There was nothing I wanted at that moment more than to feel his starchy load spraying my tonsils! And when I put his legs back down and went down on his lovely cock, he arched his back and roughly drew my left hand under his buns. My finger quickly found his hole, and penetrated it easily. With my years of experience, I knew just where to apply a bit of pressure, and it sent him over the edge. Wave after peristaltic wave, his gloriously sweet teen-juice flooded my throat. I thought (and hoped) it would never end, but of course it did eventually; I carefully withdrew my finger and he relaxed back on the car seat, breathing heavily. His thigh muscles were still knotted and his dick still throbbed in my mouth. Calm slowly returned.
"Jesus, Maria y Josefa!" he uttered the words as if astonished. "You are the man with the golden throat!" he exclaimed.
"Well, to quote an old saying, 'There's many a good tune in an old fiddle, all it needs is a good Beaux,'" I said.
Juan chuckled. "So, gramps, now it's your turn!"
So saying, Juan applied the golden rule: he did unto me as I had done unto him. By the time I reached nirvana, he had me so wound up I nearly passed out from the sheer pleasure. I flooded his honeyed throat with my long-pent effusion, and he took every drop of it. I tend to "dribble", and as I slowly came down from this thoroughly unexpected high, he repeatedly took my softening tool between his lips and milked out those last drops of jizz.
"Gotta pee," he said, as he opened the door and stepped out into the waning sunshine, his pants only part-way pulled up. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow on his olive skin, and his piss-stream gleamed as it arched to the ground. He was breathtakingly beautiful. He could have been that funny fountain in Brussels, grown up a bit. I wiggled into my clothes.
"Come along, Juanito," I said - I have to get you to Oakland, and myself home."
Once back on the smooth highway, he curled up on the seat with his head in my lap and slept soundly. Even in this quiet state, he was beautiful, and I had trouble concentrating on my driving...
"Where in Oakland?" I asked, gently teasing his hair to awaken him.
"Can I come live with you?" he asked meekly.
"No, bambino: my life is behind me, but you have yours entirely ahead of you. You need to find your first lover, and your second, or whoever it is that will make your life exciting. There's a hunky young guy about your age out there just waiting to make you his..."
"Broadway and Telegraph, then: I can walk from there..."
"Good: maybe you'll meet Mr. Right on the way!"
"Who knows?"
(c) Bruce Bramson - 1994