This is the story of a city boy who worked for a summer in rural Alabama shortly after World War II.
The story is fiction and it involves explicit homosexual activity. If such is offensive to you or if you are underaged, please read no further. Otherwise, please enjoy.
I would love to hear your reactions to the story. Anything like a summer adventure you've had? All comments or criticisms are welcome, and will be answered. macoutman@yahoo.com.
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SUMMER JOB
by Macout Mann
VII
The weeks passed. Both Malone and Matthew Sykes seemed pleased with my work. Both of the accountants became very interested in me when they realized I was headed to college in the fall. We talked a lot in private about fraternities and stuff.
Mrs. Hatfield and I had developed a very sophisticated bridge partnership. And although I didn't win a lot—who could win a lot, when the ante was a dime?—I was going to leave Sykes with about sixty dollars in winnings.
I was being paid the princely sum of two dollars an hour. (I had been admonished to tell no one what I was being paid. It was evidently a deal between Ramsey Sykes and my dad.) After taxes, room and board, and my purchases at the company store, I was still clearing thirty-five to forty a week, so I expected to clear almost five hundred bucks from my summer of work.
I guessed Paul Earl was earning minimum wage, so if he was clearing twenty a week, it would be a hellova long time before he could hope to get away from Sykes.
Of course I continued to participate in activities at "the haven." All four of the other guys took their turns having my ass. And I reciprocated. We sucked and fucked and fucked and sucked. And several times Paul Earl and I spent the night in each others' arms, sometimes in my room and sometimes in his. He never bothered to rumple his bed clothes, though.
When I typed up my letter of resignation, Malone was quite surprised. "I thought we'd found a good, long term employee," he told me. I didn't tell him that his bosses knew I was leaving in September all along.
The group also seemed surprised I was just there for the summer, but they had no problem with my leaving. Leaving was what most of them would've liked to do. We had one last Sunday afternoon orgy. They bought twice as much home brew as usual and wouldn't let me pay. I took that as a big complement.
Jerry paid me a bigger one. "When you first showed up," he said, "I thought you were another stuck up, big city asshole. But you turned out to be an all-right motherfucker."
I laughed. I had never thought of a motherfucker as being all right.
Everybody had too much to drink. I was ordered to announce who I thought had the best "pussy," who had the nicest dick, was the best cocksucker, and who's dick I'd rather have up my ass.
When I admitted that I'd really rather not have dicks up my ass, I was rewarded by having five inserted one right after another. They, in turn, rewarded me by sucking me until my dick would be sore for two days! Even now I can't think of any better way to be sore.
Looking back, I still think Chuck was a born faggot. He just loved man on man sex too much to want to get it on with a woman.
My friend, Paul Earl, I'm sure was totally bi. He showed up in Nashville, while I was still at Vanderbilt. He was still looking for a life. He had escaped Sykes, but hadn't arrived anyplace else. We spent a hot night together in my dorm room.
Paul Earl told me that Russel had finally convinced the father of that knocked-up girl that he could be trusted with her younger sister. They were married and too soon had an heir. But that was o.k. Premies come along all the time. Was Russel really a straight guy who was seduced by Chuck? I doubt it.
The last I heard—that was from Paul Earl—both Jack and Jerry were still single. I had to wonder if the haven was still functioning.
When I left, Paul Earl was back on a timber crew. So I didn't know who would drive me up to meet the bus at Camden on Saturday. Somebody would. I was preparing to say my goodbyes. I had made some good friends. Then Matthew Sykes stops by my desk the Thursday before I was to leave. "Joel, I'd like you to come up to my house for dinner tonight."
Such a thing had never happened before. But Malone and others now in the know figured that, since I had been Ramsey Sykes' "summer project," Matthew was just following through. I had no idea.
It was a full half mile walk from the hotel to Matthew's home, mostly uphill. I arrived, still wearing the "uniform," dress shirt and chinos, promptly at six. He greeted me, wearing a polo shirt and Bermuda shorts.
"Sorry, Joel," he laughed, "I should have said not-to-dress, but then, around here I guess that would mean `come naked.'"
I laughed too. I resisted the temptation to say, "So I should strip?" Well maybe I should have.
He led the way into a very comfortably furnished living room and asked me to have a seat. I plopped down on a comfortable sofa. "Let me give you something better to drink than that awful home brew you've been having," he offered. I wondered how he knew that's what I'd been having. Well, I guess he figured that was all you could get, so everybody drank it.
He disappeared for a moment and returned with a tray. On it was a bottle of Wild Turkey, two glasses filled with ice, and a pitcher of water. He poured us both a stiff drink and said, "Here's to good luck in college."
"Thanks very much," I replied. My father sometimes let me have a very weak Scotch and water. This was my first real highball. Wasn't bad.
"Well, Joel, have you enjoyed your little sojourn with us?" Matthew began. He sat on a nearby club chair.
"I really have," I replied. "Made some really good friends, improved my bridge and poker game a lot, and saw a few cowboy movies I never would have seen otherwise."
He laughed appreciatively. "I suspect the lack of girls your age was a real downer."
"It was at first, but I got used to it."
We chatted about nothing in particular. He was careful not to ask me what I thought of any of my coworkers. I was glad of that. He also admitted that he was glad he could get away weekends.
After we'd had a second highball, a maid appeared. "Mr. Matthew, supper's ready," she announced.
The meal was from a different planet that those served at the hotel. Shrimp Bisque, Filet Mignon on Holland Rusk, topped with a huge mushroom cap and Bearnaise Sauce, a baked potato stuffed with Gruyere and chives, asparagus tips, and a just-picked garden salad with real French dressing, all apparently made from scratch. For desert there was a chocolate pot de crème followed by coffee demi-tasse. I hadn't had such a meal since Dad took us to dinner at the Tutwiler Hotel's Continental Room for my sixteenth birthday.
"If you eat this way every night, you ought to be as big as Mr. Baumgartner," I ventured.
"I work out," he laughed.
"Fanny, you can worry about finishing up tomorrow," he said. "You go on home."
"Thank ya, Mr. Matthew," she replied.
We returned to the living room. "I like to finish up a good meal with a bit of Cognac," he said. He went to a nearby cabinet and returned with two snifters. This time he took a seat next to me on the sofa.
"I really wish we could have gotten to know each other better," he said, "but you know...if I get too friendly with people, publically that is, it can cause problems."
"I sure can understand that, Mr. Sykes," I responded.
He moved closer to me and took another sip of his brandy. "Do call me Matt. Actually, I would love to be out in the woods with you boys instead of having to go to Mobile or New Orleans all the time."
His words hit me like a log had been dropped on me, and before I could respond I felt his fingers fondle my dick. "I've wanted to get with you ever since the first time I laid eyes on you," he said softly. "I hope you want me too."
Taking my silence to mean assent, he slowly unbuttoned my shirt and palmed my pecs. Next I felt his lips on my tits. "I know you won't say anything tomorrow, and then what happens tonight will be just a memory for both of us," he admonished.
I nodded.
He took my hand and led me to his bedroom. There he removed my shirt. "Yes," he said, "you are just like I thought you would be." He unbuckled my belt, and unzipped my chinos. "Oh, I thought you'd be free-balling."
"Maybe out in the woods," I finally spoke. He had to be getting information from one of the group. But who?
He finished undressing me and then pulled his polo over his head and let his shorts fall to the ground. He was free-balling. And he wasn't kidding when he said he worked out. He wasn't a muscle man, but he was beautifully sculpted with a well defined chest and abs to die for. And his dick hung halfway to his knees.
Mine was sticking straight out, and he reached for it again. "Such a lovely thing," he murmured.
His bed was already turned back, and he led me to it by my stiff rod. We lay side by side, one of his hands continuing to massage my manhood, the other rubbing whatever part of my body it could reach. "I must remind him of someone," I thought. And yes, he immediately confirmed that that was true.
"You are so much like my first love," he whispered. "He was my roommate at Princeton. He died at Normandy."
"I'm so sorry," I said.
"I was in so much pain," he continued. "I finally found solice by fucking around with every dick I could find. I still do."
Well, a lifetime of fucking around had turned him into a fucking expert. I just lay back. He energized every sexually sensitive spot on my body, from the depths of my ears to the ball of my big toe. I was tingling all over when he finally took my prong in his mouth and brought me to the edge again and again before finally letting me dump my load in his willing throat.
I tried to reciprocate, but he said "No. Just hold me close. I want to savor you. And I want you to fuck me. More than once."
After a half hour he used his lips and tongue to get me up and I began to minister to his beautiful body. It wasn't long, however, before he cried, "Fuck me now, Joel. I want your dick up my ass."
I was happy to oblige. I filled him with my cream and he licked the residue off my prong. And after another half hour I repeated the routine, this time humping his ass for over twenty minutes before dumping what load I had left.
It was after eleven when I staggered up the hotel's steps to my room.
On my last full day at work not much was accomplished. Matthew Sykes didn't come in. He'd left early for his weekend sojourn.
Before dinner I packed and continued to wonder which of the guys was fucking with Sykes and telling all. I didn't think Chuck could keep a secret, so it wasn't him. It might be Paul Earl, but I didn't think so. Actually, when he visited me in Nashville I asked him. He seemed shocked and denied ever being with Sykes. He had taken the cherries of both Jack and Jerry. And Chuck had brought Russel into the group. I'll never know for sure who it was.
I was driven to Camden Saturday morning by good-looking boy who said he was sixteen. I wondered how long before he might be enticed into the group. After all it had functioned a whole lot better with six members than with five.
I had dinner that night in my very own home just east of Key Circle. Everybody was glad to see me and thought I looked great, healthy and tanned. In two weeks I'd be away again, this time to Nashville by train, the South Wind.
While in Birmingham I picked up where I had left off with Rose Fleming. She was one of the girls I'd made out with before, and I was able to fuck her a couple of times before I left for Vanderbilt. I thought I'd forget all about the haven and the group and even Matthew Sykes. But I was wrong.
At Vandy, I connected with several coeds, one of which had a massive case of hot pants. But something was missing. I found out what it was midway through the fall quarter.
I was at JUL (the Joint University Library) and needed to take a piss. I needed to go bad, so I rushed to the first urinal. There was another student at the next one. As I let go my golden stream, I noticed that the guy next to me was playing with his hard dick and was brazenly staring at mine. One thing led to another, the other being that I enjoyed the first blow job I'd had since I left Sykes.
So the only lasting consequence of my summer job at the Sykes Sawmill Company was my addiction to man to man sex and smoking, both of which I engage in as often as I can to this very day.
THE END
Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.
WHO WAS MATTHEW SYKES' SOURCE OF INFORMATION? THERE IS A CLUE BURRIED IN CHAPTER 5. Contact me at macoutman@yahoo.com, if you think you know. I'll let you know if you're right.