This story is fictional and intended for adults only.
Copyright, Boy Mercury X, 2024.
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THE SUMMER HOUSE
For reasons even he does not understand, despite having no practical skills, Martin has always had a peculiar quiet confidence in himself. He's tall and slim, a capable runner, but otherwise not particularly athletic. Among his impractical gifts, he's a fine writer and has a knack for oratory, discovered only by accident on the debate team. But this isn't the sort of thing that earns him any credit with other students, and especially not with other boys. And other boys are the thing that, paradoxically, he knows about the least, but interests him most.
Of course he's studied them from a distance in school, and in books and magazines. He spends his modest earnings on men's fashion and lifestyle magazines, which his family thinks is just another of his oddities, since he shows no interest in his own dress, beyond the standard issue t-shirts and jeans boys his age are given to.
It's the men in those magazines that interest him and fuel his jerking off, at least once and sometimes twice per day. The first issue he bought had on its cover a man with an expressive black ridge of eyebrow over eyes the color of ice, fringed with thick dark lashes and a strong jaw with dense five o'clock shadow. He was so handsome Martin knew if he couldn't have his image to gaze at, he would certainly die.
The man on the cover put to shame the boys in school, even the ones he's fantasized and covertly eyed for glimpses of hair on their tummies, or their armpits or even just the sweaty napes of their necks in gym class. His own chest hair has come in, downy but there.
He's gotten friendly toward the end of the year with the most boyish of those boys, Owen. They'd never been in the same class before, so until then he was only a vague presence in the hallways and cafeteria. They were assigned a project together, which Martin dreaded, but they turned out to work together reasonably well.
Owen is an easy-going nerd, with glasses lenses as round as the O in his name on a boyish face, and a mop of curly dark ringlets. He wears oversized drab hoodies and sweaters and chunky sneakers, and always has his face in science fiction and fantasy books, like Star Trek or Dune or The Hobbit. He's on the track and field team, for shot put, which Martin is vaguely aware means throwing a heavy metal ball as far as possible. Even for sports it seems an unusually odd choice, but Owen is a bit of a weirdo, if a harmless one.
Owen asks Martin, when the project is done, if he'd like to go see a movie, Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan. It holds no special interest for Martin, but he says yes. In the movie theater he's surprised by how it moves him when Mr. Spock dies, separated by a pane of glass from Captain Kirk. But it's later, at the funeral service when Kirk's voice catches, that something in Martin snags also, in his chest but also in his balls at the same time.
They hang out on weekends and sometimes after school, at the mall or at Owen's place. Unlike Martin's chaotic constellation of aunts and uncles and cousins, Owen has a very conventional family: a mom and dad and older sister. They have a wood paneled rec room, with a foosball table, a TV, a home gym (obviously unused), and a stack of board games (obviously well used). They celebrate Christmas with stockings at a real fireplace, attend school events and take family vacations. They seem more like a TV family than a messy real one, like Martin's clan.
They even have a summer house at the coast where they spend the season, the most intoxicatingly mundane thing Martin could imagine. But Martin is surprised by a dull ache at his side when Owen leaves in June. He's long been comfortable spending his time alone, but this summer his days seem unbearably long, as if each has extra hours piled onto them, even when he fills the time with his usual activities, reading and watching movies and jerking off.
He picks up a copy of Dune at the library, to see what Owen sees in it. It's impenetrable at first, but he sticks with it, to see what it's about.
In August, with their last school year together approaching, Owen calls Martin to ask if he'd like to spend a long weekend there with him. His parents and sister will be at a family wedding, so the house would be theirs alone. Having nothing better to do, Martin shrugs and says sure.
When Owen comes to pick him up for the drive, he's barely recognizable. His curls are shorn for the summer like a lamb, and what's left is a dark scruff that Martin's fingers long to rub. Stripped of his usual hoodies, he wears a t-shirt and shorts that suggest he's not the chubby boy Martin suspected after all. He might be a bit of a jock.
It surprises Martin that Owen drove the whole way from the coast to get him and is ready to drive the whole way back. Martin would have offered to take the wheel, but he doesn't have a driver's license yet and had never driven at all. He doesn't like to feel owes anyone anything.
No big deal, Owen tells him. Another way in which Owen is intoxicatingly ordinary, like a real boy. On the way they talk about what they'd read since school let out for the summer. "Well, not Star Trek," Martin jokes, and immediately regrets it for being a little too barbed. But Owen laughs.
They stop in one of a series of small towns on the way at a little burger place, The Hum-Dinger. Owen says it's his family's routine stop, and has been since he was a kid. He orders a cheeseburger, and Martin asks for the same, and pays for both. They eat in a comfortable silence at a picnic table next to the small parking lot. The burger has a crisp on it Martin had never noticed on the fast food he'd had before, and his lips and Owen's are slicked with salty fat.
On the drive, Martin can better see how thick his friend's outstretched arms are. Smooth and milky white up to the tan line of his short sleeves, there are dense muscles in them that twitch from time to time. And his face is more handsome than Martin thought, stealing glances at his profile. It makes him curious about the rest of Owen's body, which he'd never guessed would be so alluring.
The summer house is situated on a bluff over a beach, with a straight climb down a series of wooden and stone steps, and then a barrier of sun-bleached driftwood. It's the first time Martin has seen the ocean, and it really does look as endless as he'd imagined it might.
The house interior is perfectly ordinary, with three bedrooms, a living room and dining room, a full kitchen and even a laundry room. The only unusual aspect to its design is that the whole front consists of tall windows, so wherever you are inside you can see the ocean.
It's isolated, surrounded by trees for miles on one side and only a few other houses on the other. The nearest grocery store is an hour away, and there's no phone, no tv reception and only an occasional flicker of a radio signal. Other than the constant rolling sound of the ocean in the background, it's the quietest place Martin has ever been.
The family next door are the Egans. Unlike most homeowners in the area who only have their small homes for getaways, the Egans live there year-round. They're a couple with three little blond children, two girls and a boy.
The mother, Pam Egan, is a conventionally pretty-enough mom who looks like a receptionist. The father, Mike Egan, is another matter. He's an unusually good looking man with a hawk nose, and a burnished tan that sets off the pale blue of his eyes. His dark hair is cut in a military shave, graying at the sides though he's only in his thirties.
When Martin first sees him, he's just coming up from a jog on the beach in just shorts and sneakers. He has the most fit body Martin had ever seen in person. His shoulder to hip ratio is dramatic, and his solid pecs and chiseled abs are covered in dark, but also graying, hair.
Martin can't help but stare at him, and he senses with some shame that Mike Egan can see him do it. He greets Owen with a firm handshake and nods at Martin. He had a way of jutting his jaw, and when he does, his square block chin mottles.
He wants to jerk off, thinking about handsome Mike Egan, but of course he doesn't have the privacy to do that.
Owen asks if he wants to walk to the river, which is down the beach from the summer house. It takes only 20 minutes or so, during which they sometimes chat, but more often don't.
It's so quiet, Martin mentions, unlike the cacophony of voices at his home, the constant interruptions and arguments.
"Is that how you got to be so good in debate?" Owen asks, and Martin can't tell if he's teasing or sincere.
"Well, sink or swim," he answers.
It surprises Martin that Owen says he's good at debate. He is, but it's not their habit to compliment each other.
At the mouth of the river they see dozens of pelicans and other birds buoyed in the water. As Owen watches them, Martin notices how the back of his friend's neck has reddened over the time he's been gone, and how the walk has made him sweaty enough for his thin t-shirt to cling to his back.
Owen tells him that his father once saw a herd of Elk there. Drawn in by their beauty he took a step closer when the largest of them, the male, turned to him and snorted. He realized how easy it would be to be trampled and quietly stepped back, watching until they passed.
He asks Martin if he'd like to go mushroom foraging, something it has never before occurred to Martin to do. It's almost the turn of seasons, and there may be chanterelles. They drive to a nearby strip of forest just off a logging road. It seems to Martin that they're wandering pointlessly, but Owen seems to enjoy it, occasionally spotting the particular orange shade of chanterelles, which he cuts with a special knife with a brush on the end, and drops into a basket.
By the time he says they have enough, Owen's t-shirt is damp in his armpits and the small of his back and the center of his chest. Martin can see even better what he suspected earlier in the day, that although only 5'9", his friend is surprisingly built. He thinks back to the home gym in Owen's family rec room, and supposes it's had more use than he ever guessed.
"You're sure these won't poison us?" Martin asks Owen, back at the summer house as he sautees the mushrooms.
"Yeah," Owen replies, sprinkling in what he says is thyme, and a chunk of butter. "They're only chanterelles. Nothing else looks too much like them, but false chanterelles."
"False ones? How do you know if you have the right ones?"
Owen shrugs. "They look similar, but a little different. There are little signs. You just get a sense for it."
These nearly invisible cues seem highly suspect to Martin, and risky. But he does try the cooked chanterelles, and they're about the best thing he'd ever tasted.
At the summer house, Owen says they can share a bed, The other room is his sister's and explicitly off limits to Owen, the third his parents' room and too weird for either of them to sleep in.
Martin says he can sleep on the sofa, but Owen says that's silly. His bed is big enough for them both.
He steps down to a pair of boxer underwear, and Martin in kind wears just his white cotton briefs.
He's amazed at Owen's body, having never seen it bared before. He had a slightly arched back, like a seahorse, a firm belly with visible abs, rounded pecs and solid shoulders. He has just a few curly dark hairs on his chest, but is otherwise smooth, with pink nipples and milky skin except for his tan arms and legs after a summer in t-shirts and shorts. It gives Martin a hard on being so near him, and he wonders how he'll get through the week.
In bed Owen pulls out his weathered copy of Lord of the Rings, and Martin opens his copy of Dune. He starts to read, but still feels restless.
"Isn't your neighbor kind of weird?" he asks.
"How so?" Owen asks in response.
"He always seemed kind ofÉ watchful. And the way he's always shirtless."
Owen shrugs. "It must be weird to be out here all year, so isolated. I used to think about him. Like, that his wife never could give him as much sex as he wanted, so he'd have an eye out for other opportunities."
"Like what?" asks Martin.
"Well, like me," Owen answers. "That maybe he'd think a boy wasn't exactly what he wanted, but in a pinch would do. And he wouldn't even know how much I'd want it too."
Martin is quietly astounded. They'd never discussed sex - not with other boys, nor with girls. He assumed Owen was too much of a nerd to have gotten a girlfriend, and for himself it was always his way to cover, to hide his feelings from others. But now Owen has shared something, and it requires a trade.
"I used to write smutty stories," he tells Owen. "I'd write them in these little notebooks. And then destroy them later."
Owen asks what about, and Martin says about men, about teachers and boys at school. His underwear would be soaked with precum while writing them, and he destroyed them after he jerked off, but he doesn't say that, even though he's leaking precum under the sheets as they talk.
"Well, I guess I'll read," Martin announces, leaning back against his pillow, pulling his book up onto his chest.
"Night," Owen says, and turns to Martin, kissing him quickly but softly on the lips.
That could have been all, just a goodnight kiss. But he kisses Martin again, his lips parting slightly. They turn closer to one another, and his hands wrap around Martin's head, their mouths open and their tongues fully meet.
Martin rolls over and onto Owen, taking in how athletic his friend's body is, with solid shoulders and biceps. He runs a hand up from Owen's firm belly and grabs a handful of meaty chest muscle.
Owen's hands in turn run down to Martin's crotch, reaching in to grab at his erect dick. It fills his grasp, and he groans, "Oh fuck."
He slides out of his boxers and Martin eagerly jerks down his briefs so they can grind their hips against each other, their erections smeared with precum. While they kiss frantically, Martin pulls Owen's arm up over his head to expose his pale armpit. He digs his face in to lick the hair there and feels his cock surge precum. There are so many things he wants to lick and probe - Owen's dick and chest and ass, but he doesn't know what's permissible, what lines he might cross.
But he knows they both like it when their dicks press together, snaking against their bellies, and how Owen grabs onto his lean veiny arms, and laps at his long neck, and wraps his sturdy legs around Martin's slim hips.
He flashes on Mike Egan and his hairy muscled torso, and what a fool he was to not have a go at Owen who he could have fucked so easily. His face flushes hot and his cock swells at the thought.
He pulls up on his knees to jerk off, and then drawn by irresistible desire straddles his friend. He spits on his palm to stroke himself while Owen jerks off under him. He looks at Owen's boyish face and imagines the pleasure that would dance over it while he's being fucked, by Mike Egan, or even by himself.
In the heat of his excitement, he lets his hand reach down to grasp at Owen's chest. It's the thing that turns him on most. When he does, his friend grins at him, which makes it so much sexier.
"Oh fuck," Martin moans as his cock stiffens and pumps streams of hot cum on Owen's pecs, even whiter than his ivory skin. The sight of it makes him jerk more furiously, smearing it on the swell of his chest with his dick.
Owen shudders and his hips buck up as he shoots his own load on Martin's ass. He feels the heat and the wet of it, and leaves Martin wanting more, even as the motion of Owen's strokes slows and stops.
"Oh my God," Martin whispers, dropping onto Owen to kiss him again, caressing his shorn scalp, his cum smearing between them.
They finally wipe themselves off on discarded t-shirts and underwear, and pull up the blanket over their naked bodies, their books still where they dropped them.
"I like how you read," Owen says to Martin, grinning, and they kiss again.
Martin turns onto his slide to sleep, and Owen pulls up behind him, wrapped around him and kisses the back of his neck.
He realizes suddenly the whole day when he thought Owen was dragging him along, he was sharing the things he liked, like little treasures. The Hum-Dinger, the river, the foraging.
Even years later, chanterelles will still be precious to him.
- END -