(From Riding the Big One)
Today was my birthday. I’d managed to wangle a short weekend break away from sailors and the sea, and my search for shags and had come home. Sadly, my mother was away on holiday. She’d left me my birthday present – jeans and shirt – and a note saying she was sorry to have missed me. She had also left instructions that Jim, her gardening youth, would pop around and do some work.
It was a sunny but crisp morning and to all intent and purpose was to be like any other day that I spent at home – chilling out and generally relaxing. Morning coffee and cornflakes had been cultivated and consumed, and my mother’s mail placed beneath the clock on the mantelpiece.
The knock on the door was expected, but at nine in the morning, not exactly favourable before I’d even had time to get myself fully awake or prepared for his arrival.
Jim was clearly visible, though distorted, through the bubbleglass door when I went to answer it.
“Good morning, Sandy,” he chirped when I swung the door inward and toward myself. He held out a soft palm. “I’m Jim. I believe your mother left a message saying I was coming over today?”
I smiled, shaking his palm, but now delighted to be greeted by such a vision of beauty so early in the day. “Yes, my mother left a note, so I was expecting you.” I released his palm but not telling him that I hadn’t expected him to be such a stunner.
“I’ve brought you something, Sandy.” He smiled, handing me a box of Quality Street chocolates with a birthday card attached. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, Jim. That’s very kind of you,” I said, accepting the gift and taking the opportunity to squeeze his arm, totally surprised this stranger youth had bought me a gift. “Come in, I’ve just percolated some coffee if you fancy a cup.”
Jim brushed his cute body against mine as he passed, releasing a smile which I can only describe as sexual and seductive. “Thanks.
Black and no sugar,” he ordered, gripping his palms around a slim waist and then patting his flat tummy, indicating that he didn’t wish to put on weight.
“What work are you going to do today?” I asked, passing him his low fat drink.
“Did your mother leave any jobs for me?”
“Nothing on her note.”
“Might have a go at the lawns.” Jim took a sup of coffee.
“Unless there’s something else you want me to do, Sandy?” His eyes sparkled, all naughty like.
My dirty mind swiftly flashed a thought of what I would really like Jim to be doing, recalling that I’d had similar disgusting thoughts when I was a mere youngster. Even from that young age, I found it immensely exciting to watch my mother’s young gardeners at work, and observe them on hot summer evenings bending over in the garden, dressed only in their skimpy white shorts.
How often I would wonder what lay beneath the cotton-covered bulges bursting between their muscled thighs. To this day, I have no idea why I never discovered the answer to that question or why the answer wasn’t provided freely. Not once did any of them attempt to divulge the contents of their pants.
“Let me have a chocolate and a think,” I said, desperate to move my thoughts away from undressing him.
Jim smiled his seductive smile again. “Hope you like them. The ones with the white cream inside are really nice. I like to make a hole in the top and suck it all out.”
My cock jarred at that tease. “I must try that,” I said, searching for one so he could give me a demonstration.
Jim peered into the box. “Here’s one,” he said, popping his fingers in and pulling it out, and placing it into my palm.
“No, you have it,” I insisted, handing back the unwrapped chocolate.
I watched Jim’s lips part over the sausage-shaped chocolate and his teeth give a nip. My cock twitched excitedly when he made a sucking sound. A white blob of sticky cream clung to the corner of his mouth. I mentally licked it off before his delicious tongue darted out and lapped it away.
“Uhm,” sighed Jim. “Scrumptious.”
“Thought of a job,” I said, realising how desperately I wanted him to stay within arms reach.
“Great. What?”
I quickly conjured up cleaning the jungle-of-a-conservatory, aware that the tropical heat within might lead him to remove his I’M A BAD BOY T-shirt which I’d been dying to rip from his body since he’d arrived. If that wasn’t achievable, simply observing his delightful buttocks bending beneath dying banana bushes and inquisitive ivy would be reward enough.
Jim grinned, another very suggestive grin. He flexed his developing biceps. “Right, let’s get to it.”
I was positive he was up to something. He appeared to be in a very playful mood. To my sheer delight, before he’d even started on his chores, his I’M A BAD BOY T-shirt came over his pretty face and was tossed onto the wicker lounger.
Even from the distance that he was, I could smell the fresh mustiness beneath his armpits, just a hint of sweet deodorant apparent. I could also feel and electrifying aura of sexiness oozing from his every pore. I began to wonder, like his T-shirt boasted, if indeed he’d ever been a BAD BOY.
Whilst Jim worked in his plantation and my mind worked inside his pants, he continued to give me wicked little grins. Still I was positive he was up to something naughty. What that could be, I had yet to discover. Then again, it was most likely my randy imagination, my desire for that to be the case.
As I observed Jim’s toffee coloured chest glisten and glow in the warmth of the conservatory, I knew I wanted to embrace his half-naked body, feel his moist chest against my face or against my own naked chest. Wanted also, to slip his snug-fitting shorts over his compact little buttocks and push my face into the scent of his teenage bulge, which I suspected would be sitting inside a pair of pure white, mother-washed briefs.
Aware that my cock had grown big enough and now deemed no longer decent in the company of strangers, I moved into the kitchen and poured myself a very stiff scotch over ice, ice that would have undoubtedly been of better use inside my underpants. I cannot be certain but I do believe I turned the conservatory’s central heating full on before returning to my observation of buttocks, bulges and welldefined, brown-nippled pectorals.
Within minutes of returning to my study of gardening and the anatomy of a working youth, I was sweating profusely. What with the scotch I’d consumed, the extra heat, and a biteable bottom just a breath away, I was turning into a human volcano. Jim, however, looked cool, although the dampness around the seam of his shorts, separating the cheeks of his delightful buttocks, caused me to believe that he too was warming up nicely.
“Are you hot, Sandy?” Jim inquired, wiping his brow and naked chest. “Why don’t you take your top off? I’m sure getting all steamed up myself, even with my T-shirt off.”
That casual remark stunned me. Here was a total stranger, albeit a gorgeous one, suggesting that I remove part of my clothing. I was tempted to say, “Only if you take your shorts off first” but simply asked if he wanted the heating turned down.
“There’s no need, Sandy,” was the reply I didn’t expect but which I delighted in; the possibility that he would soon need to remove something else exciting me. Failing that, his shorts might become so wet I would soon be able to see right through them.
Obeying my adorable youth, as he continued hacking his way through the conservatory jungle, I pulled my T-shirt over my head and tossed it on top of his.
“You see. Isn’t that more comfortable?” said Jim. A flash of white teeth accompanied his comment, and his smile almost melted the ice in my scotch. It definitely caused a minor volcanic eruption inside my pants.
I began to wonder if Jim knew I was gay. I certainly had no idea if he was. My excitement at the prospect that he might be, caused me to sweat even more.
“You’re sweating, Sandy,” commented Jim. “You can wipe yourself on my T-shirt if you want. It has to be washed. Save you getting a towel.”
Was that a strange thing for him to say, an erotic and sexual thing for him to say, or was it just an innocent offer? Doing it, however, was erotic, was sexual and was far from innocent, and it almost sent my heart into spasm when I rubbed my face into his discarded clothing.
The underarm odour of the youth’s body smelt stunning. When I rubbed the area of his T-shirt that had been closest to his crotch into my face, the scent of sweaty cock was simply sensational. I wondered, as he got warmer, if he might soon discard his underpants and maybe suggest I rub the sweat from my face with those. I could hardly wait.
“Better, Sandy?” Jim grinned seductively. I thanked God he couldn’t see inside my underpants, for he would have found them super-glued to my stomach by the batch of sticky pre-come which had just squirted out.
“Yes, thanks,” I kind of sighed.
Together we remained in the hot jungle, both naked to our waists. Still Jim had an aura of naughtiness exuding from his every pore, whilst I, having had several birthday drinks to calm myself, had neat scotch exuding from mine.
By lunchtime, the conservatory no longer resembled a jungle.
And, as I fed Jim a chunk of Cheddar cheese and a couple of crispy rolls for his dinner, I began to contemplate what other task I could conjure up in order to keep his body tormentingly naked and within arms reach. I wondered whether I could start him on the plants in the bathroom. When he was close to the shower, I could accidentally set it off and observe those tight shorts, stretched so invitingly over his buttocks, absorb the fine spray and soak into that tantalising tuba buried in the undergrowth of his jet-black pubics.
“I have to go now, Sandy,” was not the comment I wished to hear from my hardworking lad but the promise that he would return in an hour and do some more chores, most definitely was.
Jim pulled his I’M A BAD BOY T-shirt over his succulent body. Sadly, he’d been anything but. Having rubbed that soft material into my face, at least I knew our body odours and fluids were now hugging together. Somehow, I found that satisfying.
Closing the door behind such a cute behind, I was tempted to head straight to my bedroom and have a damn good toss, but the promise of his return led me toward the bottle of scotch. I wished myself a happy birthday for the third time and downed another.
I sent Mozart spinning beneath the laser head of the CD player as I tried to prevent my brain from doing a similar thing inside of my head. I suspected so much scotch before midday was not such a good idea. I couldn’t figure out what Jim was up to. I most definitely hadn’t figured out what was inside his shorts.
My scotch sodden brain went all haywire and blew a randy fuse.
I shot into a world of fantasy. Did Jim wear jockeys, briefs, boxers or nothing at all under those tight shorts? Was he a passive or an active youth, or both? Was he a rough youth or a passionate and gentle, kiss and caress teenager in bed? Most important of all, was he?
An hour later, the sound of the front door colliding with the Tibetan chimes hanging from the ceiling brought me from my continued disgusting thoughts. Jim, as promised, had returned. Would it be the bathroom ploy or could I magic another cleaning job that might require the removal of more of his clothing?
Jim strolled into the lounge, not cocky and arrogant as many youths found it necessary to be. It was more a glide, gently floating toward my tortured body. He’d changed T-shirts since he’d been away, hopefully not because of my body scent. It now read I’M A VERY VERY BAD BOY.
Was he trying to tell me something?
“Sandy. How are you?” he greeted, his face beaming all naughty like.
That was a strange thing for him to say. It was almost as if it had been the first time he’d seen me this day. I refrained from telling him that I was tipsy or that I was as horny as hell and wanted to dive into his shorts or any other such truthful statement, and simply told him I was fine.
Mozart continued to seduce my ears whilst Jim continued to seduce my entire being. Just as I was about to try the bathroom ploy, he asked me not to get up but to close my eyes tightly. He had another surprise.
I have no idea why I obeyed this youth whom I’d only know for a few hours, but I kept my eyelids clamped tightly shut and waited for what seemed an age.
Just when I’d almost fallen asleep, serenaded by soft strings and sedated by alcohol, his deepish voice announced, “You can open them now, Sandy.”
Teasing myself, I lifted my eyelids very slowly. Stunned by what greeted me, I popped them wide open – very wide open.
“Oh my wonderful, kind and caring God!” rushed toward my lips but remained jammed in my choking throat when I stared at the vision of beauty. Before me stood Jim, naked as the day he was born!
My eyes focussed greedily on Jim’s soft, lazy cock, which was hanging over tight, teenage balls. Above the scrumptious offering, a tuft of black curls, so few, I think I counted all two thousand from where I sat.
I took a decent gulp of scotch to help calm my hidden joy and compose my ecstatic torso. “Jim,” I whispered, my body and cock rising, “What are you doing!”
“Don’t get up, Sandy. Close your eyes again,” Jim requested, in a voice that slid over my whole body like soothing massaging oil.
I obeyed without hesitation, without knowing the consequences of my actions. And what would those consequences be? Would I open them to find a naked Jim sitting on my lap – on my face! Or would I be greeted by that curly, coal-coloured crown buried into my crotch, consuming my cock? Better yet, his pretty prick pressed against my mouth, tantalisingly teased to its full potential for my pleasure.
“You can open them now, Sandy,” came his long-awaited instruction.
I opened my eyes slowly, very slowly, teasing and torturing myself. I closed them quickly, opened them again, and then closed them again.
I was drunk. No, I was asleep. No, I was dreaming. No, I was all three. I opened them slowly again. I was in total shock! Before my bulging eyes stood a naked Jim, sadly without an erection, next to him another naked Jim, also without an erection. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Jim had a twin, a scrumptious, sensational, sensual, stunning and perfect identical self, or so it would seem?
I almost wet my pants!
I couldn’t move, couldn’t take my eyes from the four thousand pubic hairs and the joint six inches of soft cock, or the four balls held tightly beneath them in tiny hairless sacs. I definitely wet my pants but this time with a wealth of sticky pre-come.
Both youths grinned, the sunlight catching their perfect white teeth.
“Jim?” I questioned, looking at one, then repeating the question and looking at the other. Both remained silent and grinned again.
The youths began to glide toward my desperate body and an even more desperate throbbing cock. My heart stopped – it actually did – then gave an enormous thud, almost breaking two ribs, then began to race like a galloping horse toward the finishing line.
“What are you doing? What’s going on?” I excitedly queried, addressing them both a second time.
Still silent, the adorable youths continued to drift toward my dissolving body. Beside me now, two tender palms gripped my hands.
With a naked youth attached to each, they led me toward my bedroom.
With me still in a state of sexual shock, they requested I sit in my easy chair at the foot of the bed.
Jim and his twin moved away, one on either side of the bed.
They reunited in the centre of the mattress. Both, I noticed, just before they climbed onto the soft centre, had semi-erections, strangely at the same angle and of the same length. Nestled on my multicoloured duvet, they resembled two of the finest wallflowers, a couple of magnificent bedding plants of the highest quality.
Patiently, but excitedly, I waited for the show to commence. For this was theatre indeed, entertainment of the highest quality. Whether I was to come on as an extra at a later stage, I had yet to discover. I could only hope that that would be the case.
Not a word left either of the lad’s lips as they mirrored each other’s movements. I wondered if they had been doing this all of their young lives, as teenage palms began gliding over small thighs, defined chests, flat tummies, more thighs and finally firm young cocks, firm, young, sexy, six inch cocks.
The youth’s movements were in unison as foreskins rolled just the right distance over slender shafts, then back over swollen buds, and then rolled back again. Gently, ever so gently, they caressed each other’s stiff young cocks. I was sure had I measured the distance their tender loose flesh slipped down shafts there would not be a millimetre of difference between each, such was their togetherness.
When mouths met mouths, tongues tickled tongues and lips moistened lips, my cock exploded in spasms of pre-come, for they had reached the point where I urgently wanted to join in. How desperately I wanted that.
I began to remove my clothing. I wasn’t sure if that was permitted but knew I would surely die if I didn’t. A brief break from youth feasting on youth, and a soul-destroying smile from each as I disrobed, confirmed that I hadn’t broken any of their rules.
I slumped back into my chair. Naked and sweating, my cock so stiff it could have drilled a hole through eight inches of concrete, I continued to allow myself to be overwhelmed by the superb sight of the stunning twins sucking and savouring each other’s sexy skins.
My weakened body raised itself and bent over the bed, as sweet and succulent teenage cocks were deliciously sucked, and sucked, and sucked.
I began to caress my own cock, unable to hold back a moment longer.
Then it happened. A hand from each youth raised and beckoned me to join them. Even as they made that welcomed and elegant gesture, both mouths continued to work, savouring each other’s stiff young sexes, stimulating their tiny spunk-filled balls with sensational sucks.
A strange guilt struck me. Was it a crime to break up such a beautiful union? My guilt quickly swept away when Jim, who I now recognised because he was the lad with a cute little beauty spot on his slender neck, reached toward me and passed me a condom and sachet of lube.
For an agonising moment, I began to doubt whether I would fit in with their erotic routine without interrupting the flow, but started my voyage of discovery by kissing Jim’s boyish bottom before working my way up his voluptuous body, abdomen, navel, chest, neck and finally lips.
By the time my mouth had done its return journey, Jim’s legs had parted.
My heart raced excitedly. This would be the first time I had screwed a youth. Both lads stopped sucking, turned and smiled. With a nod from each, they indicated that I should commence lubrication of Jim’s hairless hole.
My trembling fingers tore open both sachets, first the condom then the lube. Within seconds, I was probing into the depths of the softest hole I had ever touched, lubricating the tight passage. My solid sex soon replaced working fingers and with sensationally slow strokes, keeping rhythm with the sucking lads, my cock slid inside Jim’s soft smooth cheeks, fucking him gently and lovingly.
Their first sounds, the emissions of blissful pleasure, almost brought me to the point of coming. Mesmerised, I delighted in the vision of delicate cocks disappearing then reappearing from cute faces as the lads sweetly sucked. No longer able to contain my need to come, I drove my cock deep into Jim’s hole and prepared to shoot.
The boys must have been psychic. They knew at precisely which point to stop. Just as I was about to release a joyous gasp and jettison my juices into the tight little bum, Jim’s twin passed me a second condom and lube and indicated that it was his turn to be fucked.
I withdrew my slippery cock from Jim’s fine young hole, allowing my spunk to retreat into my aching balls. I moved to the other side of the bed and commenced my second act of lovemaking in a similar fashion to the first, savouring as much skin of Jim’s twin as I was permitted before he too offered me his tender hole.
They must have surely been the same person, because as I entered the second pair of juicy buttocks, driving hard and deep into Jim’s twin, I was positive his brother was receiving an equal amount of pleasure from my fucking.
Blissfully I watched as Jim sucked upon his delightful twin and he sucked on Jim. How desperately I wanted to suck both cocks myself.
Soon their ecstatic moans of pleasure reappeared and filled the bedroom.M y head was spinning and my balls ached. This time both youths would surely come into their respective mouths and gulp down gallons of teenage spunk, and I would release enough of my own spunk to drown both.
It wasn’t to be. Unbeknown to me, the lads had other plans.
Once again, I allowed my spunk to subside, and a youth to move either side of me.
It was kissing time. Boy was it kissing time!
Tongues, sweeter than youth’s cocks, darted in and out of my mouth whilst fingers foraged and fondled my cock. Soon I was writhing in ecstasy, wriggling like a hooked worm, controlled and almost crying from the euphoria.
It just couldn’t get any better.
It could!
A pair of lips on mine, another slipping, sliding and slurping over my cock; a pair of lips on mine, another slipping, sliding and slurping over my cock, a pair of lips on mine, another… My wonderful suffering was endless as each twin took it in turns, sucking and slurping on my cock or passionately kissing me.
“Please let me come. Please let this wonderful pain stop,” I inwardly screamed.
But it didn’t stop. They weren’t going to let it stop!
Jim ravished my cock whilst I gorged on his twin, and then the reverse. His twin had sixty-nine with me whilst Jim screwed me senseless, and then the reverse; every possible sexual combination explored and re-explored, then explored again.
These twins were tormentors and teasers, beautiful torturers.
Several times, I almost showered them with steamy spunk. Each time they prevented me. It seemed they had captured me for their own pleasure and had me prisoner in a heavenly hell from which they would never let me escape.
It was time for the final act. God, it just had to be the final act!
The twins brought themselves together in a seesaw position, so that their balls touched and their stout cocks stood proudly together.
With another seductive smile and a nod from each, I lowered my mouth over both sexes, swallowing them to their scrumptious bases.
Crazy for their spunk, I crammed my mouth into both tufts of fluffy pubic hair. Feasting like a famished child, I worked my mouth hungrily over the youthful cocks, all the while running my palms over soft and slender stomachs or beneath small tightening balls.
The boys released delighted yelps, raised their bodies and locked their naked chests with young arms. Slamming their kissable mouths together, with a sensational tightening of tummy muscles, both sent salvos of sweet spunk swirling around my sucking mouth and shooting down my throat.
Crazily, I captured their creamy juices, concentrating on the heads of their cocks for every sweet droplet. Whilst the wonderful taste still lingered in my palate, the youths brought their heads between my legs and two sensational mouths began sucking in rapid sequence. Not a microsecond ticked by without a marvellous mouth manipulating my cock or my spunk filled balls.
My buttocks tightened and I arched upward, pushing my cock deep into the pretty faces, wondering which lad was to get the liquid torpedo loaded in my tube. But these boys were brilliant blowjob bunnies, and when I released that final yelp of pleasure, and shot my load, somehow both youths managed to savour an equal amount of spunk, swapping it between their mouths, playing snowball as they kissed their final kisses.
I lay on my bed, semiconscious and slain by sex. The lads moved into the kitchen and then returned with drinks. Each had dressed in their respective BAD BOY T-shirts. Passing me a measure of the much-needed liquor, they raised their glasses.
“Happy birthday, Sandy!” they saluted. Both grinned wildly.
Chapter 2 – BOILER ROOM BOY Boxer was bent over some machinery, head stuffed deep inside, boiler suit folded to his navel, the arms tied around his waist, butt drawn in tight and invitingly by the blue material. If I could have handcuffed him there and ripped that boiler suit from his body and stuffed him stupid, then I most surely would have. But Boxer’s sexual preferences were still a mystery to me.
I had no idea where he’d gotten his nickname from. He didn’t look like a boxer and definitely didn’t wear them, especially under that boiler suit. Beneath that – I was only too aware – was naked flesh, a thick short dick and a small tuft of jet black pubes. Every silken sweaty part of his upper torso was solid muscle; two years of torturing tight nuts and bolts. Speaking of nuts, his were hairless and hung, plumsized, beneath that beautiful bone.
“Boxer!” I shouted above the noise of the ship’s engines, “Have you seen the Engineering Officer?” Boxer didn’t reply, elbow working up and down, a kind of wanking action, an action I was sure he was familiar with.
“Boxer!” I yelled, even louder, and placed my palm upon his greasy, sweaty back, running it down to the crack into which his body fluid was draining.
“Fuck!” Boxer screamed, banging his head when I startled him, before spinning around to face me. His pretty face then beamed on greeting mine; baby soft, it looked so cute covered in grease make-up.
I stroked my finger on a blob of grease above his thin black eyebrow. “Commander Cruft?” I asked, waving a wad of signals.
“Not here. I’ll take them if you want,” he bellowed, offering a sticky black hand. My expression gave my reply but I wouldn’t have been allowed to give him them anyway – secret stuff and all that.
“Scared of a bit of shit,” he shouted, pulling five fingers down my cheek, printing an Indian war paint mark from temple to chin.
At that moment, old Crufty clattered down the ladder. “Signals, Sir,” I said, with a salute.
Crufty grasped them in thick fingers then glimpsed my face.
“Clean yourself up, Signalman. How dare you come into my engine room looking like that.”
Boxer stuffed his head back into the machinery, hiding his giggles. “Sir!” I hollered.
As soon as Cruft had disappeared into his office, I stuffed my hand between Boxer’s thighs and goosed him from the front, squeezing that delicious dick tightly in my palm.
A second bump on Boxer’s head, when he jumped in surprise, saw me legging it up the ladder, him gripping his sausage and shouting something back at me. Lip reading, I think he mouthed “Suck this”. If that was the case, then I would have gladly done so right there and then, feasting on his sweat and grime and spunk.
My watch-keeping buddy and I were both on the Middle watch with about an hour to go. The Signal Office was quiet but the weather wasn’t and the ship was bouncing around like a tit in a tantrum. The teleprinter fired up and began clattering away. A signal reminding us there were force eight gales in the area spewed out.
Marconi, a nickname given to the junior signalman because he was a whiz kid, was the lad with me. I pushed myself up against him as he read the incoming message, “Anything interesting?” I asked, kissing his neck.
“Piss off,” he rebuffed, pushing his arse against my stiff cock. “I don’t know, Knocker. I hate this Middle watch. You always get horny around three.” And that was the truth; for all of us in fact. Dead on three up popped our peckers whether we wanted it or not. And when you’re at sea and the only thing shagable is a pretty youth, instinct tells your cock it should find a hole, so a guy’s bum or mouth becomes very inviting indeed. In my case, the most inviting places.
“Wanna crash early?” I asked Marconi, giving him the opportunity of an extra hour’s kip – sleep, rum and fags having the currency of gold on a ship.
He swung around, his cock as stiff as mine. “And what do I have to do for that?”
“On your knees!”
“Half your tot and twenty smokes as well,” he bargained, even though he was already pulling his prick from his pants and going down, knowing only too well I would say yes.
Marconi had been doing this sort of thing well before the navy and was a master at mouthing cock. I pulled my shaft into the open. His lips parted and his mouth went straight to the base. No messing about for Marconi. He loved sucking cock.
“Just the head,” I demanded, knowing I would shoot quickly;
thoughts of Boxer still lingering in my mind. “That’s good, around the ridge.”
Marconi slurped and savoured the swollen bud while jerking himself off. In his eagerness he couldn’t remain at the head for long and was soon down to the base, allowing his throat to do the work. I rubbed his prickly hair and grabbed the back of his neck, pushing harder and deeper. There was no need; he couldn’t have gotten anymore of me.
“You want my spunk, don’t you? You’re gagging for it,” I teased, pulling my cock from his lips as he fought to get the lot back down his throat.
“Uhm! Uhm!” he moaned, his throat contracting tightly on my thickening cock.
Marconi grabbed my arse and squeezed tightly, his right hand pumping as fast as one of Boxer’s engine pistons. I knew he was almost there; we’d done this so many times before.
As thoughts of screwing a naked Boxer covered in grease and draped over throbbing machinery swamped my mind, I let go the whole whack in one thick squirt.
Marconi went mad, his throat massaging every droplet from my dick. With a muffled squeal, he sent his own stream of spunk sailing over my bell-bottoms, the remainder seeping in strands from his cock.
Quickly I pulled him up and fell to my knees, taking what spunk remained into my mouth and milking him dry.
Job done, in a blink of an eye Marconi was away to his hammock.
The office was strangely silent with Marconi absent. I still had an hour to kill until my Morning watch relief. I pulled my cock out again and ran visions of Boxer and Marconi’s bobbing head through my mind. Ringing bells, indicating an important incoming signal, put paid to a second shooting. Reluctantly, I got on with my job.
A ship in distress was the news I didn’t wish to read. It would mean I would remain on watch until things got sorted. It wasn’t good for those relieving me either, and I dispatched the Bosun’s Mate to wake them early.
Drowsy, eye-rubbing guys greeted me when I answered the buzzer and let them in. The coffee was the first thing they headed for, getting their caffeine fix. The second fix was nicotine, each pulling fags from my packet and drawing heavily upon them. Meanwhile, I felt the ship shudder as more revs were stuck on the engines. I thought of Boxer in the boiler room, half naked and sweating as he beefed them up, or put more gas in them, or whatever he did down there.
“Where’s Marconi?” asked my opposite number who was of equal rank and in charge of his shift.
“Sent him below early. It was as dead as a Dodo until ten minutes ago.” I detected a wry smile on his face. I suspected he knew why I was always letting Marconi have time off. It didn’t really matter.
There was nothing he could do about it. Not only that, his junior signalman had been early to bed on more occasion than I could mention, and I’d caught them pressed together several times.
“Going up top for a breath of air,” I said, after explaining the situation. “I’ll be on the flag deck if you need me.”
The bridge was buzzing as I passed through, the navigator plotting a course toward the distressed ship, the duty Bunting trying to gain contact by voice transmissions while swapping information with other craft bearing down on the damaged vessel.
I nodded to the duty Bunting and walked onto the port side of the flag deck. The wind howled, hammering rain and salt spray into me.
I donned an oilskin as I took in my surroundings. Several seaman were positioned around the flag deck, binoculars in hand, scanning seaward in search of the vessel. I noticed Spud leant against the twenty inch signalling lamp as I stuffed my head between funnel and bulkhead and attempted to light a fag.
Spud was a scrumptious sailor, eighteen, jet black hair and queer. I moved over. “Mornin Spud.” I began running my hand beneath his waterproofs and gripped his cock. It was solid.
Spud flinched slightly. “Oh, it’s you, Knocker.”
In the darkness, I bit on his earlobe then unbuttoned his fly and pulled his cock into the wind and rain. Spud kept his left hand on the binoculars but dropped his right into the opening of my oilskin and sprang my cock free. Together we gently tugged, Spud continuing to scan seaward as if nothing were happening. “That feels great, Knocker.
Go a bit faster,” he urged.
I increased my pace. Spud followed suit. I felt a dribble of spunk roll down my finger, then the whole load. A call from the bridge, requesting I return to my office, caused me to quickly lick Spud’s juices from my hand and put my own cock away.
“Sorry,” whispered Spud, apologising for being unable to finish the job.
I pecked his cheek. “Next time. Catch you later.”
As I headed into the bridge I overheard the Captain ordering a decrease in revs and a new heading for the Coxswain. I guessed the incident was over and we were returning to relative normality. That was confirmed when I returned to the Communications Office and was officially relieved. Still horny, I left my relief and his lad to their own devices and headed for my hammock.
The Mess was dark, only the red night light above the hatch bathing it in a warm seductive glow. Men and youths snored, shuffled and talked in their sleep. The scent of sweaty sailors swam in the air, siphoning in and out of sleeping nostrils. It was a heady smell, yet somehow sexy and arousing. My cock stiffened when I brushed beneath a couple of sailors slumbering in their hammocks. I listened for signs of wanking, ready to assist if required. Sadly, all were asleep.
Normally after finishing a night watch we’d jump straight into our hammocks without washing, eager to get to sleep. Washing disturbed the built up drowsiness and made it harder to get off.
Maybe it was the extra hour I had done, or maybe I was feeling a little grubby. Quietly opening my locker, I removed my towel and washing gear, stripped naked, wrapped the towel around my waist and headed for the aft heads.
The hiss of shower spray greeted me as I entered the steam filled room. Pissing in the urinal first, I moved around to the shower cubicles.
The sight of Boxer was not what I expected. He was smothered from head to toe in soap. Happily he hummed away. Again, I caused him to jump when I called out.
“Not you again, Knocker?”
I spun the tap and hoped for hotter water than yesterday. “‘Fraid so.”
“Just finished?”
“Yep.”
“What was all the panic?”
I ducked beneath the welcome spray. As always, with each roll of the ship the temperature changed from freezing cold to boiling hot as the shower was fed with a greater quantity of either. I released a few yelp before answering. “Sinking ship.”
“Should have been this one,” Boxer gurgled his reply, his mouth filling with water.
I could see he was about to complete his bathing and head to his hammock. I didn’t want him to leave so soon. I wanted to get that sexy vision planted firmly in my mind for the wank I intended to have once inside my own hammock.
“You’ve got a whack of grease on your back, Boxer,” I lied. My gaze fell onto his soapy cock when he spun around.
“Wanna wash it off for me, Knocker?”
My cock began to rise. I tried not to appear over eager to get into his side. “Sure.”
I began lathering my hands as I walked toward him. Boxer placed a palm either side of the shower head, standing spread eagled like a criminal waiting to be frisked. His arse looked inviting beyond belief and it took every effort to concentrate on his spotless back rather than those solid fleshy cheeks and the crack into which the bubbles were travelling.
There was no way I could keep my cock down as my hands worked over his neck and shoulders, then around his waist, then back to his neck via his spine. The absent grease would have long gone but I continued to rotate my palms around his solid body, at one point bringing them up under his armpits and over his pecs. All-the-while, my cock grew and grew and eventually stabbed between the cheeks of his arse when the ship rolled to port.
“That’s great, Knocker,” Boxer whispered. “Has the grease gone?”
I prodded his right shoulder, drawing my finger down to his butt. “There’s another stubborn bit just here.”
Boxer didn’t reply and let his palms fall to his side. He picked up his own bar of soap and began lathering. I was sure it was his cock that he was working on but didn’t explore to confirm this.
He moved his palm to his arse and began moving the bar between the cheeks, parting them and pushing. My heart quickened. I began to contemplate if sex was on, if my Boiler Room boy was about to give me what I had so longed for since our first meeting.
I moved slightly forward so’s my cock was against his knuckles as he rotated his hands around his buttock cheeks and between them.
Another roll of the ship and my chest pressed hard against his back. My hands went about his waist as we both slipped on the soapy floor.
It was there, happy and proud, bigger than I’d expected it to be.
I could resist no longer and grasped it tightly. Boxer flinched and sighed, a sizzling sigh. I drew my soapy hand down to the base of his cock, pulling his foreskin back. Cupping the other palm under his balls I gently caressed.
My cock was bursting, pressed up against my navel and his buttocks. Boxer grasped it cautiously, before soaping it with sensational strokes. It felt fantastic. I could have easily come right there and then but I allowed my mouth to fall onto his neck, taking things a step further. Boxer continued to soap, swifter and swifter over my shaft. I did likewise, rubbing in a circular motion around the head of his delicious cock.
Boxer pulled my cock down, directing it toward his slippery crack. On the next roll of the ship the bud slipped into his hole. He didn’t flinch when my dick sank deep. Instead, he released a gasp of joy, as if he’d been waiting all of his teenage life to be shagged.
I moved my palms from his cock, up around his tits and began to squeeze. Boxer pushed his buttocks hard against my pubes.
“Knocker!” he gushed.
Spray fell like confetti over our soapy bodies, running between chest and back, buttocks and cock. Firmly but gently, I thrust deep, then withdrew, then thrust deep again.
Boxer gripped my butt, bending down and pushing himself hard against my abdomen. His body became supple and submissive as he whimpered my name, willing me to work his insides, willing my cock to grow larger than it had ever grown.
I gripped his cock again, biting hard into his neck. Desperately I wanted to suck a love bite onto that tender skin. Boxer’s cock swelled, the ridge of the bud bulging out from the shaft. He arched into me, almost tearing my arse apart with his strong hands. With an almighty gasp, his spunk splashed against the Formica bulkhead.
I ran my palm over his dripping cock a final time. I watched Boxer’s spunk slip to the deck as it slid down the Formica wall. My own gasp rushed from my mouth as I began filling his arse with the contents of my tightening balls.
Someone struggling with the door caused us to break away. Just before the door barged open I pulled our faces together, sucked on Boxer’s lips and tongue, then fell to my knees and sucked the remnants of spunk from his dribbling cock.
Boxer scooped up his towel and wrapped it about himself as the young sailor entered. With a wry smile, he hastily departed.
Spud, his slim and suntanned sexiness wrapped in a brilliant white towel, walked over. “Hi Knocker.” He grinned knowingly.
“About to take a shower?”
I slung my towel back onto the hook. “Yep. Wanna join me?”
Spud tossed his towel intimately on top of mine, his cock already rising as he began to soap keenly along the thickening shaft.
“Sure do!”
Chapter 3- CONVENTION Jeff drew the van to a halt beside the disused warehouse, pulling up the hand brake with a squeak and turning off the windscreen wipers.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, more a fine drizzle, the clouds scurrying across a clearing sky. He sucked in a deep breath, inhaling a few droplets of misty rain, then popped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it, drawing in a mixture of smoke and cool air. He puffed a perfect smoke ring into the cab.
Drumming his fingers on the metal casing of the van, he walked to the rear, unlocking the back doors and pulling out a large pair of boltcutters.
Cigarette in mouth, he moved to the warehouse’s corrugatediron door and with a strong squeeze of the cutters set it free. The chunky lock fell to the concrete with a clunk!
After a brief struggle with the rusty bolt, it slid back. Picking up the lock, he tossed both it and the cutters into the rear of the van.
Taking another deep drag on his cigarette, Jeff began to whistle a tune which had been going through his head all evening. He took a can of oil from the toolbox and squeezed a large helping of the slimy liquid onto the bolt’s rusting surface. After several strenuous movements it finally freed itself, sliding silently back and forth in its harness.Releasing a deep sigh Jeff replaced the can back amongst the tools and closed the lid on the box. Silently shutting the van doors, he let the finished cigarette fall to the ground. It gave a simple hiss on meeting the wet surface, and was extinguished. Almost immediately, he pulled another from its pack, placed it between his lips but didn’t light it.
Walking back to the warehouse, Jeff gripped his huge hand around the door’s handle and began to pull. The hinges shrieked as if in pain as he tried to open it. Gently cursing, he walked back to the van.
Returning to the warehouse door – oil can in hand – he drowned the rusted hinges, relieving them from their metal against metal burden.
After several swift movements back and forth, the metal sheet moved without a whisper and he sent the empty can scurrying in clatters across the concrete courtyard.
It was almost dusk when he entered the vast warehouse.
“Perfect,” he whispered, and walked halfway into the empty shell.
Igniting his cigarette, Jeff glanced up at the broken skylights. A large droplet of water fell from a metal girder high above him, followed by a couple of less forceful droplets, each hitting him square on the forehead. He rubbed the refreshing liquid into his cropped head then glanced at his watch.
“Not much time to prepare,” he thought, and began checking the warehouse for useful items.
Almost marching, he skirted a couple of large puddles but sent his boots crashing through others. The empty arena echoed as studs met concrete, accompanied by softer plips and plops as descending water met more water.
Against a paint-peeling wall, Jeff discovered a bank of wooden pallets. Letting his second cigarette fall to the deck, he began pulling them down, skating each into the centre of the arena. A nail caught his camouflaged trousers as he worked. He released a brief curse as he checked for damage to the tough material before continuing.
Six of the wooden pallets he arranged into a stage, stacking them three high beside each other. The remainder he arranged in pairs, one on top of the other, placing them in no particular uniformity before the main platform. It was a strenuous task so he unbuttoned his combat jacket, allowing air to circulate around his massive frame.
Lighting a third cigarette, he fiddled with the marine name-tags which hung around his thick neck, whilst puffing more circles of smoke into the stale air as he contemplated his next task.
It was becoming almost too dark to work, so he moved back into the courtyard and began unloading his van. Firstly, he took six gas lamps into the warehouse, igniting them and distributing them between the pallets. They flamed into life with a phutt phutt then moved into a strange hiss, filling the place with an eerie atmosphere; their irregular burning sending sinister shadows sliding around the wet and slimy walls – Jeff’s own shadow, ten times his formidable size, accompanying them.
Checking his watch for a second time, he began to collect the beer, stacking crates beside the main platform. Freeing the lids on the top two boxes, he pulled out a can and opened it with a click. Foam bubbled from its metal mouth. Jeff quickly placed his own over the opening, sucking almost half the contents into his drying throat.
The alcohol sent an instant buzz to his brain and he released a man-sized burp as it gurgled in his belly. After sinking the remainder of the beer, he cracked open another can and, between gulps, retrieved the remaining items from his van.
Into the cool night air for the final time, Jeff moved his van into a slip road then returned to the relative warmth of the warehouse.
Falling to the floor, he sent his powerful body into a session of punishing press-ups, followed by a Karate-like, combat routine.
After locking his fingers and cracking his knuckles, he slipped another cigarette between his lips. He sat on the stage and lit the cigarette, sucking in soothing quantities of nicotine as he waited.
Moments later, the door drew back and three guys entered. Jeff welcomed them in, offering each a can of beer, telling them to help themselves.
Somewhat apprehensively, the guys remained in their own company whilst Jeff began preparing himself on the platform.
As more faces entered, Jeff gave each a similar greeting, and within fifteen minutes some ten bodies had filled the warehouse, dispersing themselves on pallets, and chatting.
After another ten more minutes had passed and no sign of any new arrivals, Jeff raised his body onto the platform and began to address his audience. The group fell silent as his deep voice thundered around them, the occasional word repeated in echoes.
A crushing cheer filled the air when Jeff bellowed, “Tonight we’re going to kill some queers!”
His audience remained riveted to his every word as his deep, South African accent echoed about them. Occasionally, they were greeted with shouts of “Kill the queers!”
Whilst bodies moved forward, collecting courage in cans, Jeff glanced at his watch, almost apprehensively, and declared that he had said all that he had to say, having explained how they could recognise queers, where they cruised, what pubs they used and where their campaign of terror would start this night.
Satisfied he had stimulated their hate, Jeff invited any who wished to share stories of their own sadism to speak.
It was the only female who spoke first, explaining to the group how she and her boyfriend and his mates would use her as bait by pretending she was lost or in some danger, inviting the queer to her car where the others would then appear and beat him senseless. Several stories followed, each stirring more passion and hatred, each increasing their eagerness to get on with it.
Jeff continued to allow the stories to flow, he hadn’t heard enough and wanted to hear more, wanted to drive them to the point of hysteria.A body raised itself above the seated audience, standing upon a pallet. Jeff stared down at him as he spoke. It was a gruff, ugly voice filled with the deepest of hatred. The audience became strangely still while he told his tale, constantly wielding a baseball bat as he wallowed in every word.
Halfway through, he pulled a companion to his side and together they began to laugh as they shared the story; the evil audience now cheering and clapping.
“A queer. A black queer,” he excitedly informed, foaming at the mouth. “Smashed to pulp!” he shouted, circling the baseball bat above his head and laughing.
“Killed two birds with one stone,” they both delighted. “A Nigger and a poof!”
The story completed, the audience stood and clapped, tossing finished cans into the air and stamping booted feet.
“Enough!” roared Jeff, silencing them instantly. “Finish the beers and then let’s do it!” He raised his hand in a Nazi salute.
A rapturous applause rang out for their new leader and smacked against the walls as Jeff stepped down from the platform and began to move among them.
Silently he walked between their ranks, absorbing their hatred, absorbing their anger, receiving slaps to his back, high fives and handshakes.
Calmly, he moved himself toward the teller of the last terrifying tale until they were square on. Gripping the guy’s hand like a vice their eyes locked, the storyteller eager but unable to avert his own as Jeff penetrated the other’s soul and savoured his fear.
Jeff knew this guy would love to kill him – kill anybody! He had seen the look many times as a marine. He held his gaze until the guy surrendered with a wry smile, whereupon the guy punched their fists together as if to declare a draw. Jeff locked into those evil eyes a final time before moving over to the door. Momentarily, he watched as the group gelled, each buzzing with booze and hatred.
Silently, Jeff slipped into the courtyard. Drawing the refreshing air into his lungs, he slid the bolt on the door and locked it. Pulling his last cigarette from the packet, he crunched the empty box in his palm and let it fall to the ground. Solemnly, he walked toward his van.
Removing a black box from his combat jacket, Jeff pulled the aerial out. His thumb covered the red button on the casing as he continued across the courtyard. Without looking back, he pushed it down. A tremendous whoosh filled his ears as flames sucked in air.
Glass splintered and shattered about him as it was blown from the skylights and rained hot fragments over his shaven head. Still Jeff didn’t look back. His only thoughts, it was too quick, too kind, unlike the death of his black boyfriend, his beautiful body broken and beaten by baseball bats and boots, dying for no other reason but for being gay and black.
Jeff climbed into his van, pulling a picture of his dead boyfriend from the dashboard. A single tear slipped down his cheek. Kissing the picture once, he whispered, “It is done.”
Placing his thumb over a second red button, he pushed it down.
The van disintegrated.
Chapter 4 – FIRST LOVE Paul jumped from his hammock wearing his floral, Hong Kong boxers.
They were not Navy issue, but permitted. His erection popped proudly through the open fly, allowing his tight-knit of black pubic curls above his cock to peep through. Before reaching his locker, he smiled at me, his deep brown eyes sparkling when he caught me staring. I smiled back, shyly, my dimpled cheeks flushing as he read my thoughts.
Paul was teasing for sure, leaving his cock dangling and decreasing in length and girth, a globule of spunk sparkling on the head, remnants of his early-morning entertainment.
With some difficulty, I averted my eyes from this eighteen-yearold seaman, who I adored.
“Morning, Nipper,” Paul greeted, rubbing the smallest of hands over my head.
“Morning, Paul,” I returned, then more bravely, “Nice dream!”
He laughed, boyish for a young man. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Yes, I would liked to have known, liked to have known that he was dreaming of me, this young sailor, this sailor who loved him.
“Tea?” I offered, willing to be his slave.
“Bacon and egg, and fries, whilst you’re there.”
Yes, he was taking advantage, but I would have cooked it, even laid the eggs if he’d asked.
Paul’s boxers fell to his ankles as I began to ascend to the deck above to collect his breakfast. His pert bottom stared back at me. It was acorn-brown, not from a decent tanning but from his mix of race.
Catching me staring a second time, he winked. Instantly my face turned crimson. Hastily, I began ascending the metal ladder, two rungs at a time. It clanged loudly when I stumbled and fell. Again Paul laughed.
We sat apart whilst Paul and I ate, not that there was any distance between any of us in this miniature mess-deck, which somehow billeted thirty grown men and boys. All the while, my eyes were searching his, searching for a hint of love, for another smile, for any expression that would give me more importance than the other young sailors. But Paul was aware of the dangers of appearing too interested in any one youth, or simply was not, and was locked in
‘sailor-talk’ with older men, men of whom it was clear saw Paul as a mere boy themselves and not as I did, a mature Adonis.
Paul refused my offer to return his dirty tray to the galley. That hurt me. Another rejection. Didn’t he know that I wanted him to want me to do everything for him? More importantly, I wanted him to want me to do that for him.
We had different professions and the completion of breakfast separated us. I wouldn’t see him again until lunchtime, maybe, hopefully. I knew I would miss him, miss his smile, laughter, company;
miss his beautiful brown body that was firm and fit, flexible, honed to perfection by pulling hawsers, his face freshened in complexion by years of upper-deck air and salt spray splashes. I hoped I too would reach that masculine elegance one day. Hoisting flags, I doubted it.
On the flag-deck, I scrubbed the woodwork with salt water, bringing it to the whiteness of my frail chest, the morning Far East sunshine attempting to reverse that colour to the nut-brown of my beloved Paul.
My white shorts tightened around my buttock cheeks as I bent over and scrubbed the duck boards upon which the twenty-inch signal lamps stood, sweat and salt water dampening them around the crotch.
A stiff slap across my backside bolted my body upright, bringing me eye to eye with Paul, my eyes again reaping every inch of him and sowing the beautiful vision into my subconscious.
How I longed to touch his body, his delicate chest, every muscled defined, or the concave chocolate-button navel sitting on his firm abdomen, or his hairless arms, youthful biceps, formed and solid.
Yes, how I wished to touch any part of his wonderful torso that had a curious sprinkling of pinkish blotches all over it, the result of a skin pigmentation complaint.
I know that I’d seen every centimetre of his body during the month that I had been on board, but I wanted to look at it forever and knew I would never tire of that which I desired so badly.
“Bending over like that, Nipper, you’re asking to get knobbed.”
Paul laughed, grasping the bulge in his shorts.
It was sailor banter, common on board ship, meaningless fun, something to break up the drudgery of the day but warranting a reply, in Paul’s case, one that needed to be daring, that needed to say that I was his for the taking.
“That’s what I was hoping,” I bravely confessed.
Paul laughed again, eyes widening and sparkling knowingly, but simply replied, “Catch you later.”
Why did I want him to knob me? No one ever had. A wank with school friends was the limit of my sexual experiences. But I knew I did.
And at which point in one’s life was it safe to offer up your soul, offer yourself up for possible crucifixion if you were wrong?
Lunch brought us together again, Paul pulling me into the dinner queue as I walked by. My body slotted comfortably between his and a mammoth sailor, my buttocks brushing into Paul’s crotch.
I was not a brave kid, quite shy really, but I turned, thanked him, then bravely whispered, “I meant it. You can knob me if you want. I’ll be up in the Flag Locker after lunch.”
Paul didn’t reply.
Suddenly I was afraid. My heart raced and I sucked in calming air. There were no innuendoes or the usual playfulness in my statement.
It was the truth. My desperate desire had pushed me beyond the limits of sailor banter. I’d armed Paul with enough ammunition to blow me apart.
The wait in the Flag Locker was unbearable, my chest tight from lack of air, sweat trickling from my armpits; Paul would not come, or would, but with someone in authority to arrest me. What had I done?
The metal door swung inward; Paul entered alone, closing the door with a clang, causing me to jump.
“Paul,” I whispered, unsure of what to do next. “Can I kiss you?”
He didn’t speak, his arms gathering our chests together, my lips falling onto another guy’s for the very first time in my life.
Passionately I feasted.
Paul prized our lips apart. My mouth was free to savour any flesh it wished. In a youthful frenzy, I began searching the silken torso of my first love. All the while, Paul remained silent and still, allowing me to seduce him, to love him.
I didn’t really care about my own sexual pleasure. My only wish was to please Paul, give him whatever he desired, demanded.
Opening his fly, I swallowed that very private part of him. It sent my head spinning, sent me into sexual oblivion when he unloaded his cock and I savoured his seeds, seeds I’d never savoured before.
Paul loved me. My heart soared.
The very next day the joy in my heart vanished, and I came crashing down to earth when I met Paul ascending the ladder to the quarterdeck. He was dressed in his best uniform and shouldering a heavy kitbag.
“Paul. Where are you going?” I asked, my eyes already brimming with tears.
“Flying home,” he replied, ignoring my unhappy state.
A solitary tear spilled down my cheek. “Why?”
“My wife’s having a baby.” He smiled cruelly.
“Your wife!”
Chapter 5 – PUNISHMENT My neck ached and my head felt like shit. I wondered if I’d been hit with something. “Shit!” I thought. “Where the fuck am I?”
Two steel rings hanging from his pierced nipples were the first thing I noticed, then the smooth, mountain of a chest sporting them. I couldn’t see his thighs, they being hidden behind a towel, but the strong muscles just above his knees gave me a good idea of their formidable fortitude. Jesus, this guy was fucking enormous, his shaved head threatening. Had I dropped a clanger, or what!
I made an instant promise that I’d never burgle another flat, but knew I couldn’t keep it. God damn it, I was out of work and needed to eat. Anyway, the stupid bastard shouldn’t have left his flat open.
Problem was, I reckoned I was about to be eaten alive.
His fearsome eyes hadn’t blinked once and were screwing me into the bed’s headboard. My brain issued an adrenaline-induced command for me to run. My muscles flexed for the daring dash.
Trouble was, when you are in a state of fear and you are being bombarded with alternatives, it’s funny how things go unnoticed, like your hands having been handcuffed. I hadn’t even noticed they weren’t in their normal position or even defending me.
What a bastard! What did he think I was going to do to him, me an eighteen-year-old David and him a thirty-year-old Goliath? What’s more, I didn’t even have a sling.
Goliath drops his towel. “Right, you little shit!” he roars.
“You’ve got two choices. I call the cops or you suck this.”
“So that’s what you hit me with, you bully,” I muttered, then thought, “What a bitch of a world, how come I didn’t have a dick that size?”
Then it struck me what the bastard had just said. He was planning on him being Tarzan with me his Jane.
Now I could see a problem developing here. I wasn’t gay. But my choices; well, I suppose it made no difference really. Either way I was going to get banged up. It was lock or cock.
This was turning into a real crap day.
Anyway, I can be butch as well. I told him bloody straight, any attempt to use my mouth as an arsehole simulator and I’d bite his bloody bell-end off. Sadly, that wasn’t a good move, and what I thought was a big dick, was now a REALLY BIG DICK! What’s more, it was pressing against my lips, almost prizing them apart.
The problem with keeping your mouth shut – I wished I had in the first place – you have to breathe. Not really difficult until some bastard with the cock the size of a cucumber has it pressed against your lips and has a grip on your bloody nose.
Opening my mouth, I gasped for air. I got some but mostly got cock, and couldn’t breathe again until my nose was released.
Desperately I began sucking in lifesaving air through my nostrils. What did he do next? The bastard went and shoved a bottle of Poppers up one nostril. Jesus Christ, my brain exploded!
Fighting back, I sank my teeth into the solid cock. But shit, the bastard loved it even more and his cock gained in girth and length.
The immense dick hit the back of my throat. I gagged as three inches went past the critical point. My eyes watered. In desperation, I breathed deep and fast through my nose. But shit, the Poppers were still jammed up there. My eyes spun in their sockets.
Now then, this was not such a particularly friendly event, so why did my dick straighten in my pants and an overwhelming urge for the bastard to grab hold of it and pump it, surge throughout my body.
He got right above me now, his meaty thighs either side of my face. He gripped my head tightly. I guessed this was it, I was about to get the whole ten inches.
In one thrust, he gave me all of his cock; not roughly, deliberately slow, carefully feeding my throat with his dick, until his pubics met my nostrils and his balls dangled beneath my spittle-covered chin. After every millimetre had vanished, I was more than surprised I could still breathe.
I wanted to suck in some proper air. Problem was, the Poppers were still jammed up my nose. The blood-pumping gas was doing its job all right. My cock was thicker, longer and stiffer than it had ever been.
What do you mean? ‘Course I wasn’t enjoying this oral sex. I told you, I’m straight.
Hell, that’s a lie. I was fucking loving his thick prick pressing my palate, the bulbous head opening my oesophagus wide. But shit, I shouldn’t have been, should I?
I guess it was because I knew what sexual bliss my seducer was swimming in. I knew he couldn’t stop even if he wanted. Because of this, I sucked and sucked on his delicious dick, eager for that creamy spunk to siphon into my mouth, eager for him to shoot his stuff; gorging on his gigantic glorious gristle as if I were gorging on my own.
Then, just as I was relishing sucking on that fantastic cock to the base, the bitch changed tactics, not deep anymore, just tickling the back of my throat. What a fucking bastard!
I arched my head upward, trying to get more of his cock, trying to get it past the puking part, but the bastard wouldn’t give it me.
I moaned, groaned, begged and cried for the lot. I don’t know why, you tell me.
At last, he gave me the whole length, moving the final inches back and forth so as I could feel the swelling head deep in my throat.
Tip to base his cock sank. Tip to base. Oh God, tip to base!
Suddenly the monster was staring me in the face, pumping spunk all over my cropped hair. I came in my pants at the same time, almost as much as he did.
My punishment administered, Goliath grinned. He released me from the cuffs. I looked him straight in the eye. “I suppose you want to shove that big cock up my arse now, you fucking bastard!” Goliath shook his head. “Well you fucking-well better had or I’m gonna tell the cops.”
Chapter 6 – THE KEEPER My eyes opened joyfully wide. It was a wonderful sight. Tall and slim, pinkish-white with a thicker reddish top, it was simply magnificent.
Never before had I purchased something as delightful as this. Indeed, never before had I purchased anything so expensive, something bound to give me endless pleasure, endless fun. Yes, I couldn’t wait to get inside that lovely lighthouse – my lovely lighthouse.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside. A circular staircase wound me giddily from the kitchen, past the bedroom and finally to a ladder leading to the computer controlled lamp at the very top. I didn’t climb the ladder but stepped inside the lounge, walked across the carpeted floor and opened the sliding glass door leading to the patio.
Taking a deep breath of salty air, I walked onto the circular platform and released a yelp of delight. A strong gust of wind caught my hair and swept it over my face. Hugging the rail beneath the re-enforced windows, I began a slow circuit of the perimeter, taking in the awesome sight of sea, cliffs, fields and countryside village.
The incredible scene was bliss to my hungry eyes, a sheer joy to behold, simply magnificent! “Peace and quiet at last,” I sighed.
The sky started to darken when a heavy black cloud began rolling towards the lighthouse. It released a bolt of lightening. Moments later a thunderclap rumbled throughout my body as the bolt rippled across the sky. Hail pellets appeared from nowhere and began to bombard me. Hastily I completed my circuit and moved inside.
Pulling the last cigarette from its pack, I crunched up the empty box and tossed it toward the bin. Lying back on a large sofa, which begged you to fall asleep in its lumpy arms, I lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. A second, more vigorous clap of thunder caused me to jump as the storm came ever closer. Leaping from the sofa I threw open the curtains so that I could take in its beautiful anger.
As black as night now, I stared into the threatening sky as the storm loomed overhead like the Angel of Death; all the while flashing its daggered teeth and snarling loudly as it spat iced bullets into the double-glazed panes.
It was an awesome sight, frightening and threatening, as the Angel wreaked its wrath upon the sea, churning it wildly, eager to penetrate the lighthouse’s very skin and consume all within. Then, as swiftly as it had begun all was still once more, the sun, in a series of soft shafts, parting the heavens and illuminating the sky.
Moving to the lighthouse base I began to fetch my belongings from the Range Rover – pots and pans, pictures, bedding and the like – finding each a home. After several sweaty hours of grafting, all my worldly possessions had found a place to live.
My picture of a handsome hunk-of-a-black youth hung over the fireplace, my pair of Greek, marble statues either side of it, and my bronze, naked athlete statue, on top of the bedroom cupboard. Other items such as books, CD’s, booze and the like, I stowed into fitted cupboards or sat on shelves.
Task complete, I poured myself a scotch and wished myself good luck. I thought I might yet need it, for if the regular clockwise and anticlockwise winding and unwinding of my tired body, as I struggled to the top and back, didn’t kill me, then falling drunkenly from the lighthouse patio some dark and dismal night very well might.
The sedating scotch soon had me relaxed and pleased with my purchase, and my efforts. Dragging a deckchair from a storage cupboard deep in the bowels of the lighthouse, to the patio far above, I plonked myself sun-facing, bottle of scotch beside me. That was where I stayed for the remainder of the day, drinking scotch, content to do absolutely nothing.
My first night in the lighthouse was the quietest I’d ever spent. It was a world apart from the hustle and bustle of London’s city streets, only the wind and waves lapping over the jagged rocks far below, and the squeals of seagulls as they bobbed and weaved above the ocean, to serenade me as I slumbered.
Daylight arrived with a rush of golden beams streaming through the solitary bedroom window as the October sun lifted itself clear from a flat calm sea and begun its skyward climb. I’d slept like a baby all night long, snugly wrapped in my winter duvet.
Before descending to the kitchen for my obligatory cup of morning coffee, I headed up to the lounge and threw open the door leading to the patio. Yes, it was chilly, winter just over the horizon, but I couldn’t resist breathing in that salt sea air, breathing new life into my city poisoned body. Again, I circumnavigated the lighthouse, this time daring to peep over the railings to the shoreline far below.
“This is the life,” I sighed, filling my lungs with crisp fresh air while I scanned my surroundings.
Far on the horizon, I spotted several ships, one of which was Royal Navy, speeding from east to west and the reverse. From this distance, they hardly appeared to move. Closer to shore a couple of fishing boats, bombarded continuously by colonies of gulls, were laying lobster pots or pulling in nets. Over the cliff top, a solitary jogger was doing a roller-coaster run as he climbed and descended hillocks. A couple more sane people casually strolled, circled continually by a yapping dog, its barks rising in the breeze.
Toward the red-roofed village, I could see bluish smoke rising in twisted spirals from early morning fires, while the church clock rang out as it struck the hours, reminding workers and schoolchildren it was time to leave their homes, reminding me I too needed to head that way today.
Breakfast was a simple affair – light, I suppose, was the correct terminology – coffee, buttered toast and cheese. Not marmalade though.
I hated that. It was the peel.
I’d have eaten something more substantial had I had it, but bringing food wasn’t foremost in my mind upon moving here. My first task, then, would be a stroll to the village to replenish the food cupboard. I also needed stationary and some computer stuff. That was most important. After all, the reason I had moved here was to write my very first novel, become the novelist I’d always dreamt of becoming.
Coffee consumed, weak, barely enough granules for a decent cup, I wrapped up warm, unwound myself to the front door and headed toward Tarring village.
There was little warmth in the sun’s rays as I made tracks, constantly cooled by a decent sea breeze that continually swirled about me. A well-worn footpath, hugged by hedgerows, kindly took a mile off the journey as it meandered across fields and skirted farms and guided me toward Tarring. Inside an hour, I’d travelled the two or more miles and was entering the sleepy, though far from dead, village.
Buggy pushing mothers were out early, continuously gossiping, heading, no doubt, for the supermarket or post office, or wherever mothers went at this time of day. Other life consisted of a couple of teenage lads legging it away, late for school no doubt. A horse, one cow and a couple of dogs were also doing their thing.
Three pubs with seafaring names – The Floundering Frigate, The Cabin Boy and The Lighthouse – were the first of the buildings to greet me as I strolled down the main road. Being a drinking person, they wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. An early morning dray replenished The Lighthouse. Guessing there was not a lot to do in Tarring, I suspected that was a regular occurrence.
Thankfully, the stationary shop-come-newsagents-come-music shop-come much, much more was practically empty when I entered and set a tiny bell tinkling. Two reams of photocopy paper, ink cartridges for my printer, pens and a box of disks, plus cigarettes, were soon collected and paid for.
The supermarket I gave a miss. I’d always disliked them.
Queuing at the checkout caused my aversion. In London, there was no way to avoid buying your food in these massive food churches. Here, however, in this cosy village, small shops were still the norm. Places you could buy decent grub – home baked bread and pies, real sausages made from pigs that had had a life, free-range eggs, farm cheese and the like. More importantly, places to give or get the local gossip.
The butchers I did enter. I wanted to taste a decent sausage for a change. Well, yes! The butcher boy was bright and young, and continually bombarded me with heart-warming smiles as he sliced and wrapped. I must confess, I was a good deal more interested in the intriguing bulge rising beneath his blue and white striped pinny than I was with the pound of extremely thick sausages he was wrapping.
I think at that point whether I was the only gay in the village did cross my mind but, more truthfully, whether my butcher boy was gay.
“You the new owner of the lighthouse?” The surprise question issued from the red-lipped mouth of the continually cheerful youth.
“That’s right,” I confirmed, wondering how he knew.
“It’s a lovely building. I often walk up that way or just sit and read beside it. I love it when it’s blowing a bastard and the sea’s rough.
I’ve always wanted to stand on the very top.”
That was a lot of information for a youth to impart to a stranger.
And his possible request for an invite into my home caused me to reexamine his blue and white striped bulge more seriously. One thing for sure, he could sure ‘blow this bastard’ if he were so inclined.
“The view’s breathtaking,” I told him, but refrained from telling him he must drop in at the soonest opportunity, even though the temptation was more than strong.
“I’m Spike,” he said, his voice all deep and seductive.
“Remember, I can always deliver my meat if you don’t fancy walking down when the weather’s bad or you’re not feeling up to it.” Passing me a business card, he added, “Just ring your order in and I’ll be sitting on your doorstep, meat in hand, in seconds.”
An image of Spike sitting on my doorstep – or was that lap – with his meat in his hand flashed into my mind and instantly brought my cock upright. I swung my carrier in front of my crotch to hide it.
“Thanks Spike. I shall remember that.” I reached my hand over the counter and took the card. “I’m Luke. Luke Smart.”
Spike gripped my palm tightly, a little longer than your usual greeting. “Anything else? We’ve got some lovely free range chickens on Special.” I’m sure he winked when he added. “Do all my own stuffing.”
“Thanks. That’s enough meat to be getting along with,” I replied, but knowing an extra sausage would have completed the order nicely.
Spike gave me a groin-disturbing grin when I lifted my shopping and headed toward the door. “Don’t forget, Luke. I’m here to please.” He grinned again but went slightly more serious when the Master Butcher – his dad – interrupted his shameless flirting.
The walk along the footpath, all uphill, certainly took the puff out of me as I battled against the south-westerly wind. Indeed, I wished I’d brought the car. Years of London living had definitely taken the fitness from my body. And smoking more fags than an incinerator burns rubbish didn’t help.
About halfway I rested my tired body against a rickety, five-bar gate and took a breather. Spike re-entered my mind. Did I look that Gay, that available? And were his words evocative and sexually provoking, or were they just friendly chat? Typically, I was most likely reading too much into them. Also, the fact that it had been almost two years since I had any sort of relationship, any sex to speak of, might have had something to do with my excitement, my wishful thinking.
I didn’t really want to remember Jeff’s premature passing, yet again, or the deep and loving relationship with which we were both blessed, up until his death but Spike had certainly done that, reminding me I would dearly love another. And I have to admit, he was my type – cute, cuddly, polite, pretty, in the boyish use of the word.
I took a deep breath and inwardly scolded myself for revisiting the past. My legs found new energy as they propelled me powerfully up the hill and over the remaining mile. By the time I’d reached my lighthouse, my brain had refreshed and filled with positive thoughts.
A parked Telephone Engineer’s van awaited my arrival. In my euphoric state of mind, being in such a serene setting, already I was forgetting the things I’d organised for the day.
The sprightly engineer who greeted me wasn’t at all upset at my lateness – the country way, I guess. After serving him coffee, black and no sugar, the chunky youth set about running wires for a telephone in every room. In an hour, his task was complete.
Commenting on what a wonderful way to live, he left me to my solitude, informing me the line would be connected within the half hour. Sure enough, half an hour later and a loud ringing broke the silence. A deeply accented voice on the other end confirmed his promise. I was now connected to the outside world of publishers, Internet and, of course, a butcher boy.
I poured my first scotch of the day, plonked onto the sofa and lit a cigarette. Pleasantly sedated my mind travelled back to Spike and his bulging pinny. Had I forgotten the Sunday joint? Of course I hadn’t. I rarely ate beef, didn’t eat a great deal of meat at all apart from sausages and bacon.
My grandmother’s words suddenly sprang to my mind. “A happy boy is one with a good helping of meat inside of him,” she always used to say. Now I’d met the butcher boy, I believe she was absolutely right. A change of diet was definitely on the menu.
I began preparing myself a late, proper breakfast. The smell of bacon carved by cute fingers was soon wafting into my nostrils and causing hungry gurgles to rumble inside my empty tummy. Two large eggs dropped into the pan. They spat in protest as I tossed them in.
Soon, I was back in the lounge and tucking into my delicious lapped meal.
Whether it was fact or fantasy, that first lighthouse meal was the best bacon and eggs I’d ever eaten. ‘Course, that may have had more to do with the brisk walk building up a healthy appetite, or maybe thoughts of the butcher boy who provided it.
As I washed the dishes, again my mind re-entered the butchers.
Did I really want a Sunday joint? What I really wanted was the butcher boy. I released a frustrated sigh after splashing some sudsy water over my increasingly hot face.
I moved back to the lounge. The phone was in my palm – a trembling palm at that. Unlike me, I’d even memorised the number on Spike’s business card. I quickly replaced the receiver. What an earth was I doing? Hell, I’d only been in the lighthouse a day and already I was about to proposition a village youth. More importantly, Spike had said he would be pleased to deliver if the weather was foul, and it was hardly that. The only thing that was foul was my disgusting mind.
I took a very cold shower!
I needed a task to take my mind off sex. I began to unpack the Apple Mac, setting it on the desk in front of the window. The glorious view would keep my mind tranquil while I worked. Everything in its proper place, I decided I would try writing. A short story to begin with.
I fired up the Mac. It was always a difficult moment, that blank screen staring back at you, awaiting the first word, first sentence, hopefully, paragraph. I’d sort of remedied that by setting up a template, which did at least have ‘by Luke Smart’ centred at the top of the page.
After an hour of smoking more cigarettes than was good for me, even a title for my story eluded me. Out of frustration, I hastily typed in The Butcher Boy. And that was as far as I got.
I decided to take in the sea air. I slid open the door and stepped onto the plantless patio, this time bringing my binoculars with me. I scanned seaward first, zooming in on distant ships before viewing smaller craft sailing closer to shore. The binoculars were a powerful pair for their lightness and size, and I could easily make out the crew on yachts, even the name on an enormous oil tanker some ten miles away.
Done with viewing tankers and tacking crew, I moved around the patio and brought my attention upon the cliff tops. Way off in the distance I spotted a group of ramblers wrapped up well against the possible inclement weather. One of them was pointing toward Tarring. I suspected a pub lunch was on the cards.
Closer by, a solitary figure perched on the edge of the cliff caught my eye. Knees huddled into his chest, arms wrapped about them, smoke rising from a smouldering cigarette, he appeared to be deep in thought. With a couple of tweaks on the focus knob, a clearer image began to emerge. My heart quickened when I realised it was Spike.
Spike’s right hand raised and placed the cigarette between his lips. He took a long drag then puffed a smoke ring away from him, puncturing the hole with the cigarette. Then, to my total horror, his left hand raised and appeared to wave in my direction.
I let the binoculars fall to my chest. My breathing increased.
“What must he be thinking?” I tortured myself. And answered, “He’s thinking you’re a pervert.”
I wanted to dash inside as the undeserved shame came over me.
Instead, I brought the glasses back to my eyes and once again peered in his direction but Spike had gone by the time I’d found the spot where he’d been sitting. “Damn!” I cursed.
I picked him up a few yards away. A shiver of excitement shot up my spine. My god, it looked as though Spike was heading toward the lighthouse, his face grinning knowingly and flushed red from the freshening wind.
My heart went into rapid pulsing and my breathing took on a manic pace. Spike was coming to see me. “Oh, shit!” I cursed with excitement, getting myself into a girlie panic.
Although I wanted to dash below and throw myself into his waiting arms, I just couldn’t. What was keeping my feet fixed firmly on the deck and my eyes focussed hungrily upon him, instead of wearing his pinny he was now dressed in the tightest pair of jeans imaginable.
What I’d so desperately longed to view in the Butcher’s shop was now openly on display, a bulge of appetising proportion.
Unashamedly, I scanned the delightful mound protruding just below his waist-length bomber jacket, focussing intently on its girth and length. The Levis outlined its dimensions perfectly. What’s more, that treat hidden so tantalisingly under his pinny, the treat I’d so desperately wished to set my eyes upon only a few hours back, was now heading toward my front door.
“Delightful,” was my whispered response as I brought the fabulous swelling from within the tight Levis and fetched it imaginatively into the sea air. Even the most succulent of sausages he’d recently wrapped for me could never look as appetising as this denim delight.
A second wave from Spike sent my heart skipping again as he drew ever closer. Then, just as I was about to dash below and throw open my door – should that be legs – Spike didn’t continue toward my willing entrance but turned toward the footpath and headed toward the village.
I released a gasp of disappointment but with his change of direction came my second treat; firm rounded buttocks, drawn in by the tight denim and divided neatly by the seam, flexing tantalisingly as he strutted away. Again, his arm stretched high into the sky.
My cock exploded my boxers apart. I began to wave. I even called after him. Spike never heard and continued his manly stride toward the village. Not wanting to miss a moment of this delightful lad, I watched every flex and flaunt of his muscular buttocks until he was finally out of view, my stiffened cock dribbling profusely with every seducible stride.
“The little tease,” I unfairly accused after I’d lowered the binoculars and walked back inside.
Back in the wardroom, for some reason my lighthouse had taken on a ship’s terminology, I once more fired up the Mac. This time I did write, detailing my first meeting with the boy butcher, describing his coal-coloured hair, matching thin eyebrows and fluttering long eyelashes. And his dark sexy eyes that seduced with a softness of a kid’s cuddly toy, also his muscular arms with a dusting of black hair on each forearm but especially his lips, those kissable, thickish, plum red sucking lips.
I took a break and made coffee, a spoonful of sugar for energy, then continued at the computer, moving onto Spike’s body. I wanted to write immediately about the large bulge of teenage sex hidden teasingly beneath the denim dungeon, but wrote instead about his superb body: fit and fine, crafted by country living, biceps and chest firmly built by chopping joints and carrying carcasses. And those teenage thighs, stout, strong and shapely, easily capable of supporting that scrumptious upper torso and his tapered waist which emphasised his athletic buttocks so splendidly.
My cock was demanding immediate attention. I dashed down to the bedroom, jumped on the bed and withdrew my pulsing cock.
Adding lubrication, I began thrashing my palm rapidly along its length.
Delighting in my descriptive writing, I mentally moved forward several pages and began pumping myself more urgently as those unwritten paragraphs paraded Spike’s nakedness before me.
At the point of pelting my tummy with torrents of spunk, Spike’s cock buried deep in the softness of my throat and mine in his, the telephone rang.
Releasing a curse, I grabbed the offending object and stuck it to my ear. Anger turning to delight, Spike’s voice greeted me. Deep and masculine, it fired torrents of blood fiercely up the shaft of my cock. I couldn’t stop pumping when he told me that he’d seen me standing at the top of the lighthouse and asked whether I’d noticed him. He’d wanted to come up but had to return to work. It was the way he fired
‘come’ at me which caused an increase in speed of foreskin flashing over pulsating cock, accompanied by far too audible heavy breathing.
I shot my load while he continued to speak, visions of the both of us sending spunk sailing into our ravenous mouths filling my mind. I cannot recall the rest of our conversation; although I’m sure I detected a knowing giggle on the end of the line. I didn’t even question how he’d gotten my phone number so soon.
I’d been living in the lighthouse for almost a month. Spike still hadn’t visited. Regularly I called into the village pubs and got to chat with the over-friendly, sometimes nosy, locals. Spike had become my main conversation companion but I still hadn’t plucked up the courage to invite him over, or get him to deliver his meat. He often did his lonely vigils on the cliff edge. My attention would be upon him on those special days, observing him, unseen, behind curtained windows.
He remained fantasy sex for my creative mind and more paragraphs of my book than I dared admit had the pair of us in every conceivable sexual scenario. I would invite him over soon, I’d promised myself on his last lonely vigil.
The end of October had arrived – Halloween tomorrow. Over the ocean, a violent storm was well underway. The relentless wind whirled around the lighthouse. I could hear the sea crashing over the rocks below, threatening to tear it from its very foundation. Contentedly, I lay curled up on my lumpy sofa, serenaded by The Lark Ascending. It blended remarkably well with the tempest raging outside. Regular sips of rum helped keep me mellow and sleepy.
Whilst gazing thoughtfully into the hypnotic flames of the imitation wood fire, a frantic banging sounded from the base of the lighthouse and echoed up the staircase. Wondering who an earth could be making such a racket at such an hour and in such weather, then wondering if it might be Spike, I speedily spiralled myself to the door below.
The wind almost laid me flat when I opened the heavy door. The sight that greeted my eyes most certainly did!
At first, I thought it was Spike standing before me when my eyes fell upon the bedraggled youth. He was certainly the spitting image of him, the same age but only smaller. Realising it wasn’t, and remembering it was Halloween tomorrow, dressed as he was, I presumed he must have been an early ‘trick or treater’.
I opened my mouth to speak. Before I had time to discover if this was so, and inform him that he was a day early, the youth brushed me aside. He was soon halfway up the first flight of stairs, yelling something about a ship as he ran.
I followed quickly in his wake. By the time I’d reached the bedroom the lad was already heading higher. Moments later, he’d gone through the lounge and was now standing on the lighthouse’s patio. He was pointing seaward when I reached his side, his tearful eyes scanning the horizon as he sobbed, the wind and rain buffeting his bedraggled body.
I seldom got annoyed but this unexpected intrusion quickly had that effect. Grabbing his shoulder roughly, I dragged him inside and slammed the door against the storm. “What’s all this, then?” I questioned, somewhat angrily.
“She’s gone fa sure. Sunked. Ta bottom of ocean. All ands, an all.”
I hadn’t a clue what this ruffian was talking about but he was certainly distressed about something. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Where are you from?” I suppose it was too many questions but they just escaped my mouth.
“Smyke’s me name,” he sobbed. “From Thunderer.” He pointed seaward toward the stricken rocks. “Sunked now. All ands.” He sobbed again.
If this was a Halloween trick, it was the best I’d ever seen. But try as I did to contain my annoyance, I just couldn’t, believing I was on the receiving end of some teenager’s prank.
“Thunderer? Who… What’s Thunderer?” I interrogated.
“His Majesty’s frigate… Thunderer,” he blurted with remarkable pride as he continued to sob. He gripped my arm tightly. “You as to launch the lifeboat. Save the Cap’n!”
“Right, Spi… Smyke?” I said, resting my hand upon his shoulder. “It’s a damn good trick and treat, albeit a day early, but it has to stop.” I offered up a smile. “Tell you what… I’ll give you a treat anyway, but then you’ll have to go.”
Smyke looked desperately sad and sobbed harder. “Please let me stay, sir. Till mornin. I ain’t got no folks. I’ze the Cap’n’s boy. Rescued me fromt workhouse, e did. Ain’t got nowheres to go nah.” He moved across to the sofa and slumped down, head buried between his knees, arms wrapped around them. “E’s sunked wid er, fa sure by na.
Drownded.”
Situations seldom fazed me but this one did. I hadn’t the faintest notion of what this lad was on about, but something strange was happening which was beyond my sensible reasoning.
Considering my next tack, I began to study Smyke. In the course of events, I hadn’t had time to take a good look at him, but now he’d moved onto the sofa I began to examine his attire. He appeared to be wearing breeches – knee length, torn and dirty breeches. His T-shirt, if it was that, was also dirty. Decorated with blue and white stripes, it too was torn to tatters, his frail chest and tummy revealed. Shoeless and grubby footed, I guessed he stood about five-five. I’d also noticed the backside of his breeches had been partly torn away when he’d legged it up the stairs, a bare buttock peeping through. Like his feet and legs, his arms too were grubby and grimy, a bare shoulder revealed through the torn T-shirt.
Smyke continued to sob and shake. He was cold and wet and, by the looks of him, starving. I swung the fire up an extra notch and called him over to sit beside its warmth. I seemed to have forgotten he was nothing more than a very convincing trickster.
“Would you like a hot drink, Smyke? Some food perhaps?” I asked.
“Thank e kindly, sir. I’ll av an ot toddy or a tot. Me bones is freezin!” he said, rubbing his grubby palms up and down his breeches.
“Toddy or a tot?” I queried, disbelieving the youth was requesting alcohol.
“Please. Cap’n always giz me an ot toddy or a tot of rum before we beds down.
I glanced at the shivering youth. I was about to tell him that that wasn’t on, but seeing how hopeless he looked, snuggled close by the fire, I succumbed and headed toward the drinks cabinet.
I fetched a bottle of Navy Neaters – the proof of which could kill a horse – and poured a good measure into a glass. Smyke grasped the tumbler in trembling fingers, upturned the vessel and sent the whole measure down his throat.
He licked his lips, savouring every droplet, then held out the tumbler. “Thas nice stuff,” he said, with some satisfaction, like a man who’d been drinking all of his life. “Thank e kindly, sir. Can I av another?”
I have no idea why, maybe it was the shock of seeing the rum disappear so readily, but I tipped a couple of hefty glugs into the outstretched vessel.
Smyke wiped the back of his hand over his lips after another single swig saw the tumbler emptied. “I feels much betta nah,” he sighed I’m sure you do, I inwardly mused, pouring myself an even larger rum but, unlike him, coughed severely as it tore my throat apart.
Smyke chuckled, a childish laugh, when I coughed. I laughed with him.
In fact, we both laughed loudly. And what a joy it was to see that youth’s face finally light up.
The rum had begun to take effect, on me at least. I dropped beside Smyke, the two of us caressed by the warmth of the fire. Steam was rising from Smyke’s wet clothing and dampened black hair.
“Would you like a bath?” I suggested. “It’ll thaw you out and make you feel better.”
The shock to him of that offer was totally unexpected. Indeed, it was practically one of horror. “Don’t make us do that, sir! Bosun sticks me in the tub if I stas to smell igh. Don’t like it though.” He thought for a moment. “That’s right. I ad one a month back. And I’ze just swum the ocean, an all.”
It was a natural reaction, placing my arm around his shoulders.
“No tub tonight then,” I said, reassuringly. I was pleased and relieved when he leant into my body and wrapped his arm around my back and the other around my chest, hugging me lovingly. I gave him a squeeze.
“Tell me more about yourself.”
Smyke cuddled me tightly. “As I says, I’ze from Thunderer.
‘She it the rocks, she did. Sunked by nah.” Smyke gripped my hand. I moved my palm into his black hair and gave him comforting strokes.
“Like I said, I’ze the Cap’n’s boy. I looks afer im. No more. Dead, I reckon. Treated me kindly did the Cap’n.”
Smyke glanced at me, tears welling in his eyes again. I brought a finger beneath them and gently brushed away the sorrowful droplets.
“S’okay, Smyke,” I consoled. Stunning me, he then unexpectedly kissed me full on the lips.
That solitary kiss sent such a sensation throughout my body I knew I would have gladly whisked him up in my arms and taken him to my bed – to love, hold, cuddle and caress, comfort, keep forever.
Sensing my thoughts, Smyke cuddled me tighter still.
My lad looked exhausted, his eyelids constantly fluttering those big black eyelashes over his eyes, his body swaying gently as he came closer to slumber. Cupping his lightweight frame into my arms before he toppled over, I cradled him toward the larger sofa and laid him gently down.
I felt my heart racing as I studied his pretty face. It had been so long since I’d held another person in my arms. The warmth of Smyke’s youthful body pressed against mine had filled me with an unhelpful surge of sexual desire. I could barely contain myself as I stroked his slumbering cheek. I knew I wanted to make love to him, make love to him all night long. With a solitary kiss upon his slightly parted lips and another upon his forehead, I bade him good night in a whisper and covered him with a blanket.
It was early morning, close to three, when soft bare arms wrapping around my nakedness disturbed me. “Didn mean to wake e, sir. Can’t sleep on me own. I always sleeps wiv the Cap’n.”
“Smyke,” I whispered, my lips caressing his ear when he leant into me. “You okay?”
“Am now. You gonna av me now, sir?”
“Have you, Smyke? What do you mean?”
“Av me like the Cap’n do. I likes that. As I says, I’m is boy. Is Moll.”
My mind raced excitedly as Smyke’s words filtered into my sleepy mind. He was the Captain’s boy. His moll. I thought for a moment. Moll? Goodness! Smyke was the Captain’s lover!
“Smyke,” I sighed, pulling him comfortingly close to my body.
“Take me, sir. Please let me be your moll tonight,” he pleaded, arching his bottom into my crotch.
I hadn’t noticed until that moment but Smyke was totally naked, his silk smooth skin fitting snugly into my shape as it pressed against me. Predictably, my cock was stiff with excitement, with the joy of having a youth’s flesh touching my own.
I breathed deeply, excitedly, brushing my lips over the nape of his neck and bare shoulders, my cock caressing his smooth buttocks, my palms pressing on his tummy.
I sucked his odour into my eager nostrils. He smelt of the sea, gunpowder, ropes, even tar and oak. He smelt delicious!
My palm moved onto his sex and cupped it gently, stroking the spheres beneath before moving over the sturdy young shaft. Smyke whimpered as I caressed his cock. Moving between the warmth of his softened buttock cheeks, we began to make love.
Oh-so-gently, I guided my cock deep into the softness of his buttocks. Smyke wriggled excitedly. Turning his head to one side, he whispered for me to kiss him. Our mouths pressed together as I pushed deeper, all the while our tongues exploring inside the other’s mouth.
My buttocks clenched tightly together. Frantically, I began thrusting deep, deep and deeper still, into the softness of my cabin boy’s covetous cheeks.
“Cap’n,” Smyke whimpered, sending spunk squirting from his cock, over flat and tender tummy and onto my working palm.
“Smyke. Beautiful Smyke,” I sighed, shivering sensationally as I sent surge after surge of my own spunk sailing into those treasured depths.
We kissed and caressed, cuddled and stroked, for an hour after that most wondrous and welcome lovemaking. We made love again.
This time it was more loving, more beautiful. Smyke was the youth I had been searching for, for two lonely years. Now I had found him I would never let him go. He could be my cabin boy, my moll, forever.
A lightning strike, a direct hit on the lighthouse, brought me from my trance when it crashed into the tall structure with the force of a twenty-megaton bomb. As I came to full awareness, I glimpsed the fire blazing away before me. Memories of the incredible but strange wet dream were still fresh in my mind. I reached for a pad and pen and began scribbling down important details before they had gone forever.
In less than five minutes most of the dream had dissolved.
I moved over to the window and glanced toward the rocks. I think I was expecting to see something. I decided I’d bed down. With any luck, I might be able to relive my dream, make love to my cabin boy again.
When my head hit the pillow, a strange kind of sadness came over me, as if I’d just lost someone dear to me. I remembered Smyke mentioning the frigate Thunderer, his distress. It had all seemed so real.
Although I suspected my imagination might be running away with me, I decided I needed some answers. Later in the day, I would head into Tarring and visit the library. Maybe there was an answer in the archives.
Leaving my Range Rover behind and braving the foul weather in order to clear my boozy head, I cut along the muddy footpath and down toward the village. Bypassing the butcher’s shop, even though Spike had acknowledged me with a seductive grin and a wave, I headed directly to the library. Thankfully, it wasn’t busy at this time of day, and with the help of a youthful assistant several volumes of old records, which detailed the Village’s history, soon sat before me. In the solitude of the quiet room, I began my search through the first of the heavily bound books – for what, I wasn’t sure.
After a long time searching, deep within one of the books ancient pages the word Thunderer leapt out at me. Beautifully handwritten, beside the date in the margin, it told of His Majesty’s Frigate Thunderer, which floundered on the rocks and had sunk in stormy seas.
A cabin boy had managed to get ashore and raise the alarm, alerting the lighthouse keeper. Because of his bravery, all hands were saved. Sadly, the cabin boy never knew this. He was swept overboard from the lifeboat when they rowed out to Thunderer, and had drowned. His name was Smyke.
I checked the date of the entry. It was today’s date, albeit a hundred years back. My body shivered cold and hot. I couldn’t believe what I’d just read. Thunderer was real. Smyke, too, a hero who’d saved his ship’s crew, whose actions had saved his beloved Captain.
Incredible!
I gently closed the book as the revelation began to sink in. Had my dream been a dream or had this unfortunate cabin boy really visited me? Was my beloved lighthouse haunted by a beautiful youth named Smyke? It was only then that the enormity of what I’d just discovered hit me. Jesus, had I had sex with a ghost!
I began my thoughtful journey home. A shout from Spike, as I approached the butcher’s shop, jarred me away from my thoughts and reminded me I needed meat.
“You okay, Luke?” inquired this most scrumptious lad, who provided me with equally scrumptious sausages. “You look pale.” I nodded I was fine; ordering sausages, bacon and chops.
Spike continued to chat as he made up the order, while I resumed my trance-like thoughts of Smyke and Thunderer. I briefly smiled when I contemplated whether Spike’s own tasty sausage might be among the six fat ones he’d wrapped. Free-range farm eggs were added to the order, along with fresh butter and milk.
“Tell you what, Luke,” said Spike, swinging the bag onto the counter and jolting me from my thoughts. “Why don’t you let me bring these over this afternoon? It’s early closing, so it’s no trouble. No point in struggling all the way up that hill with a heavy bag in this foul weather. It’s a lot easier on my bike.”
“Sure,” I said, without even realising I’d agreed to his offer and even forgetting to pay for the goods before I left the shop.
I don’t recall much of the homeward leg, my subconscious releasing bits of my dream as I walked. Once in the lighthouse I fixed myself a decent shot of rum while I studied what I’d written about the night’s events. I slept the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening.
I was too tired to do anything else.
My ringing doorbell, as loud as any fire station’s alarm, catapulted my body from the bed and sent my drowsy body dizzily down the staircase.
“Trick or treat!” greeted a cheerful Spike when I opened the door. Seeing my tired state, he promptly apologised for being late.
Quickly realising this was the opportunity I’d been longing for, I dumped the food in the kitchen and invited him up to the lounge, allowing him to climb the spiral staircase before me. Until that moment, I hadn’t really seen my butcher boy’s body close to, especially his fantastic bum, apart from when hidden beneath a pinny or through magnifying lenses. And how delightful that teenage bottom was, those tightly clad buttocks divided tantalisingly by the seam of his jeans as it burrowed into his crotch. Already it was beckoning me to bite the cheeks tenderly, to burrow my tongue between them, to…
“Tasty,” said Spike as he entered the lounge and sat on the very sofa on which Smyke had huddled last night. How right he was, ‘tasty’
had been the very thought running through my mind on our ascent.
“Thanks,” I replied, my voice strangely nervous, my gaze having landed between his parted legs and onto the incredible teenage bulge tempting me to fall on my knees and shove my face deep into its mustiness.
“I put the meat on your tab,” said Spike, shifting closer to the arm of the sofa, gesturing subconsciously for me to join him.
“Didn’t know I had one,” I told him as I inched closer.
Spike smiled. “Have now.”
“Thanks,” I said, plonking myself beside him, causing him to bounce.
He winked and patted my thigh. “No problem, Luke. You can have anything on tick. I know you’ll always come up with the goods.”
He was feeding me a line, dangling the bait teasingly, waiting to reel me in when I took it. So why wasn’t I biting? It wasn’t because I thought he was going to charge me. He certainly wasn’t a rent boy. It might have been this close-knit village thing creating the barrier. Then again, it might have been visions of his Master Butcher dad chasing me up and down the cliffs with a cleaver in his hand.
I made myself more comfortable on the sofa, desperately controlling my urges, torturing myself by wanting to touch Spike, touch any part of him. Thoughts of Smyke kept flitting through my mind. I was amazed by Spike’s resemblance to him. They were almost identical, though I suspect Smyke were a year younger. And having made wet dream love to Smyke, I was also wondering if Spike’s naked body might look just as beautiful when stripped of his attire, whether he’d make love just as wonderfully.
We chatted about this and that as we sat close enough to be lovers – the village, music, food, TV – just getting to know one another kind of chat. I was tempted to bring Smyke into the conversation but resisted.
After half an hour of swapping information, rum replaced coffee, and the gas fire set aflame, a more relaxed atmosphere taking hold. I asked myself whether I had done this last night. Spike’s familiar features of black hair, rosy cheeks and soulful eyes certainly made it feel so. Again, I was tempted to ask Spike if he knew of Thunderer.
Again, I decided to leave well alone. I didn’t want to spook him on our first date, or for him to think I was one rasher of bacon short of a pig.
“You might think this strange, Luke, but I feel I’ve been here before. The lighthouse seems so familiar. I think I’ve told you, for some reason I always seem to be drawn here,” said Spike.
“You certainly seem at home.”
Spike nodded agreement. “This is the first time I’ve been inside, though. The miserable old bugger who used to live here wouldn’t let anyone get within a hundred yards of his precious lighthouse, even tried to move me off the cliff.” He took a sup of rum. “Yep, sure seems familiar.”
Spike couldn’t have put my own thoughts any better but I was on a slightly different tack, convinced I was doing a rerun of yesterday.
And if that was the case, did this mean within a few hours the pair of us would be huddled in my bed together, making love? I could hardly control my excitement when that thought surfaced, and I definitely couldn’t control my stiffening cock when it agreed.
“A past life, perhaps?” I suggested, surprising myself.
Spike stood. “You mind if I go out on the Crow’s Nest? Always wanted to see the view from up here.”
I followed him to the door, stepping into the belting wind when he slid it open. “Crows Nest, eh? I call it my patio.”
Spike laughed. “You can’t call it a patio. This isn’t your little London pad. This is a lighthouse, with atmosphere. It has history! He pointed seaward. “Just look at it out there, raw energy, magnificent.
This ain’t no city garden.”
“Crow’s Nest it is then,” I agreed, placing my arm on his shoulder.
Spike’s response was more than a surprise when he unexpectedly cupped my flushed face in his palms, bent toward me and kissed my mouth. My heart skipped a couple of beats and my cock stiffened painfully.
I didn’t speak, couldn’t. Spike pressed my body against the thick glass window, weighting me down with his. A more passionate embrace and kiss followed. His hand skilfully sought my cock and began caressing. Our breathing increased when we pressed our bodies together, rubbed cock against cock through clothing.
Bordering on the frantic, T-shirts quickly came over heads and were tossed on the deck, bare chests buffeted by the chilly wind. Flesh smoothed against flesh when our chests melted together. In an instant, he’d freed my cock.
It was with such a start, the way in which I pulled away, it caused Spike to believe he’d made a terrible mistake. “What’s up?” he asked.
I stared mesmerised by the rocks beyond and what I could see.
“A ship. My God! She’s sinking!”
Spike turned and peered into the howling wind. “Where?”
My whole body shivered. I stared intently into the darkened sea beyond but this time could see absolutely nothing. Then I heard it!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
BANG! BANG!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
My head swung toward the door leading to the spiral staircase.
My body froze and my face felt like ice as a bedraggled youth rushed toward us. “Smyke?” I murmured.
“Yes?” said Spike.
I didn’t speak. I became frozen to the spot. I watched my cabin boy head desperately toward us, or rather, toward Spike. At the precise moment of impact with Spike’s body, Smyke appeared to glance toward me. His face all joyful, he beamed the broadest of smiles, mouthed something, then vanished into thin air.
“You okay, Luke?” asked Spike, calmly, appearing totally unaware of events.
I sucked in a deep breath, for I’d not breathed for those startling seconds. “Did you see that!”
“See what?”
“That ship. Smy…” I stopped my sentence short. I’d had too much rum. Yes, that was it; I’d had too much rum.
Spike laughed. “Reckon you’ve just seen Thunderer. Don’t worry, grandpa says he’s seen it loads of times. Never seen her myself though. Anyways, storms can play tricks on your eyes.”
I rubbed my freezing chest. “That so?”
“Old wives tale. Come on, let’s carry on where we left off,”
Spike suggested, hugging me tightly as we moved back into the lounge.
Spike laughed. “You’ll be telling me you believe in ghosts next.”
I laughed. “Ghosts?”
Spike gave my cock a squeeze. “Trick or treat?”
“Treat,” I said, giving him a kiss.
We resumed our lovemaking, arousing each other with caresses.
Spike suggested he spend the night. Soon we were snuggled beneath blankets, exploring each other’s nakedness for the first time.
Spike slid his willing bottom into my lap. His smiling face turned toward mine. There was a strange sparkle in his eyes. “You gonna have me, Luke? Let me be your moll?” I heard a voice whisper.
“Smyke?” I inwardly gasped.
Chapter 7 – TORPEDOED
“What you got in your hand, lad?”
“Balls!” the lad replied with a laugh. He spun around, instantly realising I wasn’t one of his mates and noticing the hook on my arm indicating my rank.
“Charming,” I said, before he had a chance to rephrase his reply.
“Let me see!”
With flushed cheeks, he held out his palm, offering two large, silver ball-bearings. “Sorry, Hooky. I thought you was Buster.”
“Where do they go, then?” I asked. Before he had a chance to reply, I scooped them from his palm and dropped them into his bellbottoms.
They knocked together with a clunk as they disappeared under his waistband and then into his white pants beneath, creating a bulge twice the size of the one hidden beneath his bell-bottoms which I’d already noticed was ample for a lad his size.
He gasped as the cold spheres met his own. “Don’t know, Hooky!”
I glimpsed his name tag – D. HEAVEN – and guessed straight away that his nickname would be Angel or some heavenly equivalent.
How appropriate that was, what with his golden hair, striking blue eyes, rosy cheeks and lips to match, body so slim and waist about the circumference of the torpedo, chest not much wider, and his height about three quarter the length of the long weapon.
“S’okay, Angel. Relax. I’m not going to bite you.” That was a lie! “I came down looking for Buster. Know where he is?”
Angel stuffed his hand into his pants, nervously foraging around for the silver spheres. “Buster went down the canteen, Hooky. Should be back soon.”
“Might as well wait, then,” I said, moving forward and stuffing my hand into his pants and retrieving a sphere. The other fell from his bell-bottoms and hit the metal deck with a clang, spinning away to port with the roll of the ship. I winked, handing him the crutch-warmed sphere. “I think you’ve lost one of your balls.”
Angel’s large mouth opened in a wonderful wide grin, revealing a thick pink tongue which lapped nervously at each corner. He bent over to retrieve the rolling ball. “Okay, Hooky.”
I licked my own lips, thinking how good it would be to suck on that fleshy member or have it lapping around my cock. I licked again when his cute bum bent and tightened in his bell-bottoms, offering an imagined tight crack for my own tongue to sink into.
“There’s no need to call me Hooky,” I said, relieving him of the burden of using my rank and allowing the possibility of a friendlier, less formal liaison.
“Okay, Hooky.”
“Smudge,” I corrected, using my own nickname.
“Okay, Smudge,” he repeated. Although he smiled, I could sense his unease at calling a higher rank by a nickname.
“How long you been on board, Angel? They do call you Angel, don’t they?”
“They call me lots of things.” He laughed. “Especially the Petty Officer. But, yeah, a lot of the guys call me Angel or Stardust. I’ve been on the ship for a couple of months.”
Angel continued to rub a rag over the torpedo, an action I found very evocative and erotic. I wondered, like me, if he too was imagining the huge length as something erotic as he lovingly caressed its solid shiny surface.
“That’s a big weapon you’ve got there,” I teased, moving closer to his bending body.
Another wide grin flashed a row of white teeth at me. “Yeah, I wouldn’t like to be bent over when this beast came bounding through the bulkhead.”
“Bent in front of this beast?” I asked, gripping my semi-stiff dick.
Angel’s face flushed brighter than the red head of the torpedo as he glanced innocently at my stiffening cock. “I bet the birds love that, Hooky.” He smiled shyly having reverted to using my rank and diverting the conversation away from guy on guy sex, although banter like this was common.
“You bet,” I confirmed, guiding the conversation in his chosen direction but watching closely for hints to keep it going the way I wanted.
Angel pulled his white front over his head, a line of sweat visible on the back. “Whew! Hot work this,” he said, tossing it over the workbench behind him.
I glimpsed a twinkle in his eye as he did that but also studied more closely his well-defined muscles on arms, chest and abdomen. My cock became stiffer as I watched that solid flesh ripple as he continued to rub and caress, tease and torture stubborn grease stains from the smooth, cold metal.
I visualised nibbling on his nipple buds, browner than his tanned torso, and darting my tongue into his navel knot. I caught a glimpse of his white underpants as they rode up from his bell-bottoms waistband, and that excited me even more. “Got a girl?” I asked, venturing back into his sexuality.
Angel continued to rub robustly on the stubborn stains, whether intentionally or not, his hips gyrating his crotch into the solid shaft, each buttock cheek flexing as he moved right to left, left to right.
“Nah!” he said, twisting toward me, revealing a short ladder of cock hair climbing just above his underpants waistband; below that, a cock which had risen slightly.
I could sense a hint of a green light but wasn’t really sure. “Me neither.”
Angel swung to face me, resting an arm on his weapon, his own weapon having risen yet another inch. “Good looking guy like you. I’d thought you’d be married with a dozen sproggs by now.”
I still wasn’t sure if we were having a mind game, teasing and testing each other. I moved closer, close enough to inhale his fresh sweat. And how sensational that smelt, although partly masked by a cheap deodorant. “I like my nookie too much,” I told him.
“Any port in a storm, eh.”
“Any hole, I’d say.”
Angel flashed his long eyelashes over his blazing blue eyes.
“Fuck! I’m getting my kit dirty,” he said, glimpsing some grease around the crotch of his bell-bottoms, his palms rubbing around the area.
“Take them off,” I casually suggested. “Evening rounds have finished, so you’ll be okay.”
“Think that’ll be all right, Smudge? Buster won’t mind, will he?
I won’t get in the shit, will I?”
“Course not,” I encouraged, knowing that Buster wouldn’t mind in the least. Given half the chance he’d rip them from this youth with his bare teeth. Swim through crocodile-infested waters just to sniff his knickers.
I watched in eager anticipation as Angel nervously unbuckled his belt. The slowness with which he undertook that task almost caused me to rush forward and do it for him.
Down dropped his bell-bottoms. I wasn’t sure where to look at first but chose his firm calves, then moved up to his solid youthful thighs, thighs that had sped him over sports fields for sure, thighs that had wrapped around a youth, maybe, thighs that would wrap around me, I hoped. God, did I hope!
There was a shyness in his look but also a kind of naughtiness as he stood before me and smiled, wearing only a pair of whiter than white tight briefs. My mouth went dry with desire. I could see the outline of his hidden weapon, thick and long, stretched toward his right leg, almost to the point of becoming visible. I mentally wrenched those briefs over hips and buttocks.
“Is that a gun, or are you just pleased to see me?” I tossed in an old chestnut.
Angel blushed again and began to search his locker. “Shit! Left my overalls in the mess.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll only get them dirty as well and have to wash them,” I suggested, not wanting him to cover that delightful body and wishing he’d remove the remaining item which was sending my head spinning from imagining its contents.
“Suppose so,” he grunted, and continued his circular cleaning motion, moving closer to the torpedo’s pointed red tip.
I moved closer, almost to the point of touching him. “This your first ship?”
“Yep. Joined up six months ago.”
“A baby, eh?”
“Yeah!” Angel smiled again, still quite nervous. “It’s a bit strange and scary. Everyone seems so sure of themselves. Get the piss taken out of me as well. But the guys are mostly okay.”
I sensed an opportunity to comfort him and stroked my palm down his moist back, then patted his bum. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Everyone goes through the mill on their first draft. Trick is, give as good as you get.”
Angel grinned, a more relaxed grin. I patted his bum another comforting pat. “Anyway, Buster will look after you. He’s a nice bloke and big enough to sort out any trouble.”
“He is that…” Angel hesitated for a moment then laughed. “His cock, I mean.”
That observation of his took me completely off-guard, even though sexual statements were commonplace on board and taken in one’s stride. However, such a direct one warranted a reply, a reply to test the water, a question to discover if Angel held more than a casual interest in cocks other than his own offering rubbing seductively against the torpedo.
“Been peeking?”
The familiar flush filled Angel’s face. “Can’t help it. Buster bunks above me. When he gets up in the morning it’s almost stuck in my face. Jesus, it’s nearly as big as this thing!”
That was a pleasing picture, and I could easily visualise Angel’s luscious lips slobbering up and down Buster’s enormous slippery shaft.
Although I doubted Angel could manage the whole of Buster’s cock, the thought of watching twelve inches vanish into Angel’s pretty face sent my own cock into spasms of delight.
“I bet the birds love it,” Angel speculated, again bringing the conversation straight I sensed the possibility of Angel’s own desire for Buster’s big cock and chose the opportunity to enlighten him. “Probably. But if I were you, I wouldn’t bend down in front of him too often.”
Angel’s eyes sparkled. I was waiting for him to ask why but he remained silent. Whether it was a deliberate action for my benefit or not, I wasn’t sure, but his hand stuffed into his pants and pulled his prick upright, tucking the stiffened head beneath the elastic waistband.
“Got a problem?” I asked.
Angel winked. “What about you?”
“Have I got a problem?”
“No. What about bending over in front of you?” Another casual remark caused me to gulp but this time it wasn’t accompanied by a nervous grin but by parted moist lips begging to be kissed, and by seductive smouldering eyes which sensually searched my own.
The door pushed open. Buster’s solid physique filled the empty space. I saw his eyes sparkle bright at the sight of Angel in his underpants, even though I knew he had seen that sight, and more, many times. This time, however, Angel’s nakedness was in the confines of Buster’s workplace, without the possibility of excited stares being noticed. Except by me, that was!
“What you doing half naked, lad!” Buster barked. It was a playful reprimand really and I caught his wink before Angel bolted upright, searching his young mind for an excuse.
“Leave the boy alone, Buster. It’s bloody hot in here and he’s been working as hard as a Honk Kong prosy since you’ve been away.”
Angel smiled, albeit a nervous smile as I came to his defence but still muttered, “Sorry, Buster.”
“Hong Kong slut, eh! Doing what, I wonder!” teased Buster, slapping my shoulder then Angel’s arse as he walked by and switched on the kettle. “Cuppa, Smudge?”
“Sure.”
“Angel, darling. Want one as well? You must be exhausted by now, being here all alone with the biggest whore on the ship.”
Angel giggled and said, “Thanks.” Remembering my advice to give as good as he got, said, “I thought you were the biggest whore on board!”
Angel didn’t even see Buster’s move from kettle to his body, and in a flash his pants were down by his ankles. Swiftly he pulled them over his hips, his face as bright as the torpedo head.
In that hasty act of redressing, I glimpsed his cock as the pants waistband caught it and pushed it tantalisingly into an erect stance.
Buster also noticed and ripped the underwear back to Angel’s ankles, and with a bear-hug grip spun him around. “Look, Smudge. She’s all excited!”
This time even Angel’s buttocks flushed! But that wasn’t through his embarrassment. Buster had slapped his palm across the cheeks, fingerprints on one, palm print on the other.
“Shit, Buster. That fucking hurt!” cried Angel.
Buster resumed his coffee making. “What you doin here, Smudge? Cradle snatching!” I watched his eyes roll upward and his tongue flop out then ride over his lips, almost touching his nose, when he said that.
The reason I had come to his workplace was only to ask him a favour but I could sense that something much more interesting was in the offing. Angel didn’t seem at all put out by Buster’s attack on his bare bum and I could sense Buster was hoping his sexual frolic could be taken one step further.
“Come to do those safety checks,” I said.
Immediately, Buster knew that that was a lie. He knew what job I did on board. “Right, the safety checks,” he repeated, following my lead and waiting for the next clue to my plan.
“Yeah, the torpedo harness hasn’t been checked for a month.”
Angel remained engrossed with his cleaning, obviously unaware of the plan brewing.
“Problem, Smudge. The testing weights are down aft and the Bosun’s locked them away by now.”
I loved the way sailors were quick at taking up a line, conjuring up all manner of tales to defend a lie or gain advantage over some innocent soul. “I’m sure we can find some way to do it,” I suggested.
“Can’t we, Angel?”
Angel hadn’t yet realised that this devious plan was focussed around him and my reason for bringing him into the conversation was also part of it. “Do what?” he asked.
“Got to test the strength of the torpedo harness,” explained Buster, getting into the gist of my plan, “but the weights to test it are locked up. Wonder what else we could use?”
Angel had no idea he was being baited. No idea that his body would hold the answer to all our problems. “Could use something heavy like those spare chains,” he suggested.
“Nah! Not heavy enough and they’ll probably slip off,” I discouraged.
“Yeah, we need something pretty weighty, about eight stone,”
Buster enlightened.
Angel wasn’t a thick youth, just ignorant of the ploys older sailors could use to meet their needs. “I’m eight and a half stone,” he helpfully announced.
“Are you really?” I said, pretending to disbelieve him.
“Honest, Hooky!”
“You reckon Angel’s eight stone, Buster?”
“Nah!”
“I am! Honest,” insisted Angel.
Buster and I moved over to the youth and lifted him from the deck.
“What you reckon, Smudge?” asked Buster as we hoisted Angel above our heads.
“Eight and a half stone,” I confirmed, slipping my hand beneath Angel’s briefs and caressing his buttock cheeks as I lowered him.
Angel, still the innocent, simply stated, “Told you!”
Angel had been snared – hook, line and sinker!
I moved to the door and pulled four of the damage control handles firmly down. It would take any unexpected visitors a while to open it.
“Right,” said Buster, “we’ll use Angel as the weights.”
Angel smiled, pleased that he had been chosen. “What do you want me to do?”
“Climb on the torpedo,” Buster ordered.
Angel pushed his palms down on the torpedo and raised his white-briefed buttocks onto the cold weapon. “Like this?”
My eyes bounced over Angel’s bulge when his thighs closed and pushed it upwards. Buster also flashed a crafty cruise over the bulging cock, then at me. He opened a draw and pulled an item from within, secreting it behind his back.
Our minds were in sync. I knew exactly what to say. “That’s fine, Angel, but to test it correctly, I need your weight to be dispersed. I think you’d better lay along the length.”
“Oh, right!” Angel swung his leg over the solid weapon, straddling the beast. Gently he lowered his naked chest onto the cold surface. Reaching out, he grasped the harness chains closest to the head.
His legs fell either side of the thick cylinder, parting his arse cheeks slightly, forcing his buttocks to arch upward. “This do?”
“That’s perfect!” muttered Buster, his throat tightening in anticipation of his next move. Moving to the torpedoes head, he whipped a rope from behind his back and in a flash lassoed Angel’s wrists and lashed them to the chains.
Angel wriggled frantically, his buttocks flexing and legs lashing out as he tried to dismount the torpedo. “Shit, Buster. What you doin?
Smudge, tell him to stop!”
Buster pulled Angel to the head of the torpedo, bringing the cute face into his crotch. Meanwhile I positioned myself at Angel’s side and slid his briefs down. I couldn’t get them over his dangling thighs, so I tore the cotton and ripped them off.
Angel continued to wriggle furiously. “Smudge! Buster! Please stop. Please!”
Buster pulled his massive prick from his pants and pushed it toward Angel’s panting and pleading lips. On the youth’s second cry of complaint, Buster shoved his thickening, throbbing cock halfway down the pleading palate. Angel gagged as it met his tonsils, wriggling even more forcefully. But it was to no avail, Buster was ramming home, parting the begging mouth wider apart with each forward thrust.
During his fight for freedom, I glimpsed Angel’s cock and balls when they rolled from beneath his tummy, falling between his tightening thighs and down one side of the cold torpedo.
Although his mumbling mouth complained as it was filled with thick flesh, I could see his young shaft stiffen as he rode the torpedo.
Plunging my palm below his bum-crack, I pulled his prick free, pulling it backward and down the weapon’s steel shaft. Still Angel wriggled and mumbled complaint but as soon as I dropped my mouth over the head, first sliding my tongue over the cold steel, then around the growing bud, Angel began to relax and writhe at the sensation.
Running my tongue up the length of his cock, Angel’s buttocks flexed, closing his inviting crack tightly. After I’d sucked one ball and then the other into my hot mouth, I saw the cheeks relax and his virgin hole spring into view. All-the-while, Buster continued to work inside the mouth, pushing deep then withdrawing to the tip.
Buster’s face was red and sweaty, delighting at being devoured;
his eyes bright with the sheer bliss at the pleasure of seeing his shaft sink into the pretty face.
I managed to catch his attention. Immediately, he knew what I wanted and nodded to a draw. Inside, I found the lubrication.
Returning to a now solid sex and a more relaxed Angel, I continued to savour and slurp – balls then cock, cock then balls.
No longer was Angel fighting to be free. Indeed, there were whimpers of pleasure emitting from his mouth as I sucked on him and he sucked on Buster.
Another really deep and glorious gorge on Angel’s cock and I felt the head expand, my tongue encircling the ridge of the bud. A dribble of come surged from the head. I quickly swallowed it before pulling away. Angel groaned in complaint.
My greased fingers weren’t expected by him and Angel yelped when I sunk them knuckle deep. On seeing what I was doing, Buster gripped harder on the blond locks and began a frantic invasion of the moist mouth.
As I worked my fingers ever deeper, I could feel the buttocks tightening around them. Angel was now submissive and willing. For several minutes I thrust one, two, then three fingers deep into him.
Gripping the harness bar, I pulled myself onto the weapon and sat behind Angel. His cock was solid to the point of bursting, pre-come dribbling down the side of the torpedo. Greasing my own sex, I pushed with one firm thrust.
“Yes!” cried Angel when I impaled him on my prick. He had me to the hilt!
Robustly I rode the youth, banging hard into his buttocks, his soft sphincter sucking me deep. The harness began to swing with the ferocity of my fucking. Angel gasped and moaned in delight as I drove hard into his bum, and Buster into his mouth.
A cry of “Jesus!” from Buster saw Angel cough and splutter when spunk siphoned in streams into his dribbling mouth.
Angel stretched his neck forward as Buster withdrew, eager to get every last morsel of come, begging for Buster to ram it back down his throat. “Fuck my face, Buster. Fuck my arse, Smudge. Fuck me hard!” he pleaded.
Buster, willing to bring Angel off, shoved his sex back into the begging mouth. Seeing how gratefully Angel gorged on that, I dropped my naked chest onto his smooth back and began biting his neck and banging my bone hard and fast; my balls massaging the youth’s dribbling cock.
Angel arched his arse upward, working toward my cock, his own rubbing over the torpedoes cold surface. With a delighted squeal from both of us, Angel shot his load backward down the steel shaft and I sent mine sailing in streams into his hot hole as it tightened around my exploding dick.
A voice over the intercom startled us. “Leading Seaman, Wood.
Engineering Officer. Are you there with Junior Seaman Heaven?”
Buster moved to the intercom. “Yes, sir!”
“What are you doing?”
“Some torpedo practice, sir!”
“Very good, Wood. Keep it up!”
“We will, sir!” Buster replied, taking up my position and me his.
Chapter 8 – STREET KID In a dark, dank, railway tunnel, my back pressed hard against the cold damp brickwork, soaking into the green slime. The stench of his lager mouth pressing against mine made me want to vomit, but I didn’t. He was hungry to satisfy his lust.
I moaned, urging him into action, eager to be free from the stale sweat of his armpits, from the foul smell of his body. I probably didn’t smell much better, no bath, bed, food or punters in a week. Only half a bottle of stale plonk and a quarter tab of ‘E’ to help take the edge off things, help me to remember, to forget.
His rough hand searched, found, fondled. A builder’s hand, I reckoned. He could have been my dad. Might have been for all I knew.
It didn’t matter. I’d have let a gorilla have sex if it paid me, if it meant I might feed myself or get another fix, whichever seemed important when the time reached.
My pants came down, bare buttocks against the green slime, his greedy mouth manoeuvring. I think he took his teeth out or didn’t have any. I wanted to puke again but let his mouth work, rubbing his balding head, feigning excitement, pretending I desired him. He knew I didn’t but couldn’t care. Running with the cash was an option but he’d only given me half. I needed the other tenner.
I wanted to come quickly, instantly. I wasn’t even hard. Sucking his cock was more likely. I’d already said I wouldn’t. Made no difference really, money dictates!
I was getting hard now. Coming? A long way off. Him? I didn’t even know if he was wanking. I didn’t care. Couldn’t care. It took as long as it took. One second was too long.
He took all of my cock, down to the base, to the pubics, and coughed. A hair in his throat, I guessed. His gums worked hungrily, bulging my helmet, tongue darting deep into the eye, mopping up my pre-come, searching for the thicker stuff. He was tossing himself now, rubbing fiercely.
Our bodies shook, mine from cold and hunger, mostly.
He might come first, he might.
I took the Poppers eagerly and jammed them into my nostril, sucking in their sweetness, sucking in some stimulation, sucking in some sort of sanity from this sexual wasteland.
My brain spun as the chemicals hit. My thoughts went haywire.
I’d lived a lot of lives in my few years on the street, and died as many deaths. The place was littered with youthful bodies, all with dying souls.
I could come now, my young balls lifting high into their hollow sockets and ready to propel the liquid meal into his lusting mouth. My stomach muscles tightened in spasms, forcing firepower into the delivery.Suddenly his head pulled away. I fell forward and he steadied me. My creamy liquid shot over his angry face. I inwardly cursed as it splattered over him. I’d blown the trick.
He appeared taller than before, more powerful, more aggressive, more threatening! My face met the brickwork when he spun me around and forced my feeble body forward. I shoved a condom into his hand. I think he used it. It was for his protection, not mine.
For some there is no mercy. His penetration was painful, powerful and cruel. If I was lucky and remained in one piece, then I could thank the God, in whom I didn’t believe, and continue with my insignificant existence. If I were really lucky, a train would flatten us both.
He worked angrily at my buttocks, his big hands squeezing my waist and gripping my nuts. A stiff slap, then another, harder this time, and they flexed, firming around his prick.
A gasp. A couple more slaps. A really deep thrust, slamming me into the brickwork, and it was all over.
I was sick, violently so. My nose was bleeding and my stomach ached from the fisting it had received, not the sex. I curled into a ball, cold and crying. He’d taken back the tenner and the fifty pence I’d found. Frightened and freezing, I drifted into unconsciousness.
The perfume was the sweetest I’d ever smelt. I could have lived a lifetime on the price.
He soaped my blond hair. The water ran like mud over my saddened face. I felt ashamed. I had more life on me than in me.
I wanted to bathe alone but he wouldn’t let me. Cleansing is a personal thing, especially so if you carry half the City’s grease and grime beneath your crotch.
Gently he lathered shoulders, back, buttocks and cock, mostly cock. My embarrassment subsided with each soaping as the water began to clear. For a moment, I wondered if he had cleansed me of my sins. I even let him shave my pubics. I guessed it was so my body matched his, or perhaps he thought the creatures living there unsavoury.
He laid my pristine-clean body onto soft, pink sheets, circling it with arms of love, or of pity. It mattered little. Either way, affection is a precious gem, a treasured prize on a pitiless planet.
He looked good for his twenty years, even younger than me. The warmth of his naked body against mine was comforting. Unashamedly, I gathered him into my arms, absorbing his love. Selfishly, I would have drained him of every ounce, saving it for later use, for the lonely days and nights on the streets.
We swallowed each other’s sexes, not greedily but pleasingly slow, soft lips, hot palate, soft lips, thoughtful movements, deliberate depths, deliriously desiring our delicate flesh, searching for our seeds, teasing them into the safe sachets.
I never knew lips and mouths could be so electrifying, so sensitive, so loving. We swapped tongues as he slid over me, two in his mouth, two in mine. I wanted to cry. I would only understand why. You can only know heaven if you’ve known hell.
I think I did. We did.
I’d always thought there was no such thing as good, only evil in varying degrees. I now thought that maybe I was wrong. The streets can strip you of your self-esteem, senses, even sorrow. Only love rebuilds.
He knew this, reminding me that I’d forgotten. Reminding me with caresses, cuddles and kisses, things I thought that were reserved for pets, not for the likes of me.
Suddenly this stranger called love lay me open, made me feel defenceless, lapped at the wounds of the vulnerable child within. Even so, I offered the guy my soul. Offered him the only thing I had to give, that precious gem, myself.
But it was I who entered him; into the blissful realms that I had never entered before. And for the first time in my life, I had been given something freely.
But the pain of his kindness cut me like a dagger and I hated him for loving me so, but at the same time loved him even more.
I believe we were one body, one mind, one soul, a universe unto ourselves, as we faced each other and made love, tenderly, affectionately but for me, desperately!
He took me deeper and deeper, taking me into depths of delirium, depths of desire I never knew existed. But then he told me he loved me and I wished that he hadn’t. I’d heard it so many times before, so many places. Giving it meaning was difficult, painful, impossible.
When he came, he cried, “I love you.” For a microsecond, I believed he actually did.
The street bustled and busied itself with shoppers as the sun shone its life-giving rays across the hemisphere. My stomach ached with an unbearable pain. I wasn’t sure of my whereabouts. My head felt like shit and my nose was surely broken.
I coughed, yawned, scratched my balls and rubbed my sleepy eyes. As I slowly opened them, the pleasing pallet of a young man’s face formed before me.
His perfume was the sweetest I’d ever smelt. I could have lived a lifetime on the price.
Chapter 9 – JOSH’S INCREDIBLE PACKET It was a comfortable Saturday night, warmth wise. Josh had perched himself in the leafy arms of a large oak, its orange and rust coloured leaves darkened by the night sky, the half moon not bright enough to give splendour to the wonderful autumn colours.
He raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and focussed on the small window of the rickety old cottage. It was the bedroom he was secretly spying upon, the bedroom belonging to a farmhand whom he adored, the farmhand that filled his fantasies night after wet-dream night. It had become a weekend ritual ever since he’d spotted Jason doing his nightly exercise.
Reward came when Jason’s strong and shapely body came into view. As always, it was clothed in nothing but underwear but not those boring briefs or ghastly Y-fronts. Rather, he clothed it in sexy and evocative underwear; that oh-so-tantalising, mouth-wateringly divine, body hugging, all-in-one underwear, underwear the likes of which he wanted his mother to buy but was too embarrassed to ask, not that he’d ever found a similar kind in her Littlewoods catalogue that he kept secreted under his bed.
Jason’s underwear was special, underwear that buttoned from the neck down, all the way to his bulging crotch, underwear that hugged his powerful buttocks and abdomen tightly. Yes, short-sleeved underwear that gripped those cannon ball biceps, underwear that didn’t reach as far as the ankles, like some old granddad’s thermals, but stopped well above the knee, encircling those massive thighs. Thighs that Josh knew could squeeze him tightly in a passionate embrace, or press against his face as he gorged upon the thick cock that nestled tantalisingly beneath the soft and musty cotton.
Josh pressed his body against the trunk of the tree, reached for his own cock, and teased it from his jeans. So hard was his sex he could barely prize it from the fly. He began to toss, Jason’s image jerking slightly as the other hand pressed the binoculars against his eyes. If he was lucky, and he often was, he would shoot his whack before his adorable farmhand had completed his nightly exercises. After that, he’d scamper home for second helpings while the vision of Jason’s handsome face, beautiful body, and bulging crotch was still fresh in his mind.
As the dumbbells rose and fell, pumping up those hardened biceps, Josh studied the soft cock nestling beneath the final buttons of Jason’s all in ones. Although he’d never witnessed it, he knew he would be content with the size, with every scrumptious inch. He doubted his cock would be as big as Jason’s when erect, but he was happy with his own six-inch beauty, now seeping pre-come as he feverishly worked the foreskin back and forth. He hoped, one day, that Jason would be too.
Hoped, also, the pair of them would be dressed in similar sexy underwear when that wonderful moment came about, when Jason took away his virginity.
Jason turned slightly as he bent and lowered the dumbbells. The powerful buttocks hugged invitingly against the soft cotton. His palm went directly to his crotch and adjusted the huge mound when he stood.
Josh gasped. He thought the cock was about to be withdrawn. His hand began working feverishly, even more so when he spotted the increase in girth and length when Jason’s mystery sex was gratifyingly mauled and manipulated.
Jason moved to the window and pushed it open. Taking in the night air, his massive chest rose and fell with each deep breath.
Harder and faster Josh worked his cock when he sensed contact was about to be lost. His worst fears came to fruition when Jason moved from view. Seconds later, Jason extinguished the bedroom light.
“Damn and bugger!” cursed Josh. His palm dropped from his cock. “I was about to come all over your sexy underwear. Lick all of it away. Suck that big cock of yours until you filled my mouth with spunk.” He let the binoculars fall to his chest. “Damn!”
Josh descended the tree, his legs racing him home when they touched down. His desperate dash for his bedroom came to a halt with a timely verbal tackle from Mum. Bath and chores done, and thoughts refocussed, he plucked the Littlewoods catalogue from beneath his bed and made himself ready.
The thick book fell open at the exact spot required such was the use it had received of late. Several times his mum had asked why it was always in his bedroom. He liked to look at the bikes was his repeated excuse. No, he couldn’t have one for his birthday had been the response of his only parent, far too costly, and it would only end up rusting in the garden while he played in the woods. Josh had feigned disappointment.
Josh kept his black boxers on while he studied the glossy pages containing every breed of youth and men’s underwear imaginable.
Slipping his fingers over succulent bulges, big and not so big cocks, his excitement increased. Although he sighed, disappointed at the absence of any all in ones, he was reasonably content with his own boxer briefs, they being fairly close to Jason’s underwear, at least similar to the bottom half of the all in ones, the most important part.
Like his farmhand’s, his boxers also had buttons on the fly and came a quarter way down his developing thighs, gripping his teenage buttocks tightly and making his youthful packet very impressive indeed.
At least he thought so.
Josh’s cock began to grow as he studied a youth and a man dressed in similar boxers to his own, the very same in fact. The handsome man had his arm around the attractive youth’s naked waist, the youth smiling wildly. Josh began to wonder what the youth might be thinking as he unbuttoned his own boxers and teased his solid cock through the fly.
“Bet the youth’s thinking how much he’d love to bend down and suck on that man’s big cock; suck it through those musty briefs until it was big and hard. Bet he’s thinking, he’d love to push the leg of the boxers up and pull the big cock out and swallow the lot, right down to the fluffy bush,” thought Josh.
The foreskin of Josh’s cock zipped back and forth over the bulging head as he increased speed, his other hand caressing his balls.
“Bet Jason would like me to suck his big cock. Like me to start at the neck of his all-in-ones and unbutton them down to his curly hairs, licking all the way.” He fell back against the pillow, the catalogue no longer required, his hand working frantically as his imagination did likewise. “Bet Jason would love to cram my head right inside his underwear and force his big cock down my throat; fuck my face.” His panting and pummelling reached fever pitch. “Spin me around and spank my bum as I gobbled him good.” An ecstatic grunt gushed from his mouth. “Climb on top of me and rip my boxers off, and ram his big cock.” The sensation caused Josh to stop midsentence. “Aah! Aah!” he grunted as a single spurt of spunk shot from the eye of his cock and landed on his tummy, followed by a small globule running over his thumb and down the shaft Josh coughed, and then laughed. “Like that, Jason? I bet you would.” He slurped the spunk from his thumb. “Delicious!”
Sunday morning saw the sun’s rays streaming through the crack in Josh’s bedroom curtains. A keen but not-so-cold breeze was coming from the west. In the kitchen, he quickly devoured a boiled egg and toasted soldiers. A note from working Mum informed him that supper would be at eight. It also contained a list of chores; feed the chickens, tidy his room, put the wash on the line and a few other minor tasks, all done within an hour. He had the rest of the day to himself.
Josh was quite content to be alone playing in the woods, by or with himself, and usually was. In a couple of weeks, he’d join the weekend beaters and earn some cash for Christmas presents. Today he decided he’d follow the stream that skirted the wood, and search for treasure, old bottles, coins and the like. He’d found some good ones, bottles mostly, and was given a few bob for them by the old man who ran the local junk shop. A Roman coin had earned him the most, an incredible twenty quid.
As Josh approached Jason’s cottage, his plans changed. He’d spotted washing hanging on the line and flapping in the breeze.
Underwear suddenly flashed into his mind. With that, he moved into the small copse that shielded the south side of the cottage and began to sneak toward the garden.
Josh crept closer and closer toward an impressive hedgerow of hawthorn, elder, and dog rose that backed onto the garden. Through the foliage, he could make out several items of clothing as they twisted and flapped, rose and fell. Excitement mounted when he spotted Jason’s all in ones hanging on the low side of the line, from where the prop held it high. Even more pleasingly, they were at the end closest to the hedge.
Sneaking along the base of the hedge with the dexterity of a cunning fox, he searched for an opening. “What an earth am I doing?”
he suddenly asked himself. He plonked his bottom onto the leafy soil to reconsider. He’d read in the local paper about some dirty old man that had been caught nicking some lady’s knickers from her line. Surely he hadn’t become so desperate to get inside Jason’s underwear that he was about to do the same?
Josh laughed, reassured. “S’okay. They’ll probably think it’s the same dirty old man.” Anyway, stealing Jason’s underwear was far more exciting than scrumping his apples, which he’d done many times before.
Josh continued with his plan but the hedgerow was tight and he could find no way through. Jason had done a good job laying it. He decided he’d have to leave the copse and make a dash through the gate, just as he’d done with the apples. His excitement increased with the prospect, along with his breathing, as he backtracked to the path.
Josh approached the mossy-green gate. Thankfully, it no longer squeaked. Keeping very low, he pressed his palm against the woodwork, his target just a twenty-yard dash. Oh-so-gently, he began to push the gate, his heart racing, his gaze flitting across the empty garden like a kestrel about to swoop on an unsuspecting prey.
An almighty shove saw the gate swing wide. Thigh and calf muscles flexed as he sprang away. In less than ten seconds, he was halfway across the overgrown grass and heading toward the flapping underwear.
“Mornin’, Josh. Lost summin?” Jason’s accent was as broad as his shoulders.
Josh fell spread-eagle beside the hedge. He turned his reddened face toward the voice and caught sight of his farmhand hunk, fly-mower in hand. His mind raced for excuses. Embarrassment caused him to stutter his words. “Phea… pheasant! I… I’m after this pheasant. It ran through your hedge.” Josh smiled guiltily.
“That so?” Jason wagged a finger, but he didn’t look at all angry, not that he ever was. “Naughty lad.”
Josh began to calm, got up, and dusted the twigs and leaves away. “But it was nice and plump. Just right for supper.”
“That’s may be… but if Lord Bankworth’s gamekeeper catches you with one of his precious birds up your jumper, it’ll be you for supper. Well and truly stuffed, I reckon.”
Josh couldn’t resist being cheeky, and a little smutty. “I’d like a good stuffing,” he said with a giggle, giving his bottom a sexy little wiggle. He wanted to add, “Especially, if you were doing it to me.”
Jason smiled. He checked his mower, giving it a quick burst.
“That so?”
Josh walked back to the gate, more than relieved Jason hadn’t caught him with the underwear stuffed up his jumper. He waved a reluctant goodbye.
“What you up to, then?” asked Jason.
Josh shook his head and shrugged. He took another glance at the illusive underwear. “Go to the woods or stream. Working on some ideas.”
“Working on your todger, more likes,” chortled Jason.
“Not!” yelped Josh, defensively, embarrassment flooding his cheeks as he wondered whether Jason had twigged that he’d been after the underwear.
“You can help me if you don’t mind doing some hard work,”
suggested Jason. “I’ll give you something afterwards.”
“Sure,” agreed Josh, trying not to sound too keen, and wondering whether Jason might give him what he really wanted when they’d done; help him play with his todger.
Jason scratched his crotch. “Into the kitchen and make me a cuppa.”
“Yes, boss,” said a smiling Josh, pleased he was to spend the afternoon drooling over his favourite farmhand, pleased he was still within striking distance of the underwear.
Josh returned with strong, hot tea. For a moment, he studied Jason’s cock and balls balancing on the handlebar of the mower like some skilful tightrope walker. The firming biceps held his attention next as they swung the machine effortlessly from side to side. Finally, he studied the powerful buttocks that flexed on every twist of Jason’s hips.
“Tea, boss,” called Josh, as he strode over the freshly mown grass.
“Set it on the path,” shouted Jason against the constant thrash of slicing blades. He moved the mower between the two big apple trees.
“Grab the rake from the shed. Rake up the grass and then fill the wheelbarrow and take it to the compost when you’ve got a nice big heap.”
“Got it,” replied a spirited Josh, skipping across the sunlit lawn and ducking under Jason’s underwear. Although it was the perfect opportunity to whip them away, he didn’t, merely giving them a gentle squeeze as the crotch and legs brushed the top of his head.
Jason worked at a steady pace, slicing a swathe as he moved the mower back, forth, and sideways. The aroma of freshly mown grass wafted in the warmish breeze, meeting Josh’s nostrils as he raked. He loved that smell, and the one after a summer thunderstorm, when the sun came back out and heated the wet earth.
A couple of hours into the work and Jason tossed his sweatshirt over the gate. Josh’s eyes sparkled with delight when the all-in-ones appeared. The top buttons were open, exposing a smooth summer-suntanned chest. Josh moved up close so’s he could get a better look of how well they fitted, how they hugged that rising chest and powerful abdomen, stretched and sprang back into shape with every delicious ripple of that manly torso.
“Bugger you!” alarmed Jason when he almost fell over Josh as he stepped back. “Nearly had me on top of you.” He pointed to a mown area near the vegetable patch. “Over there first.”
Josh giggled with embarrassment as he apologised, the thought of Jason lying on top of his body and buggering him the cause. His cock sprang upward and pressed against his red jeans.
Jason stopped the mower. “Where’s me cuppa?” Josh’s hand had subconsciously begun to adjust his rampant cock. Jason winked. “Told you, you’d rather be playing with yourself.”
Josh’s face fizzed like cherryade. He decided to be brave, bold and cheeky. “And you, I bet.”
Jason was upon him in a flash. “And how would you know?” he said, upending the lightweight youth and tossing him onto the heap of grass cuttings.
“Get off, you bully,” barked Josh, although that was the last thing he wanted.
Jason grabbed the kicking legs and lifted his work mate high.
Josh’s face swung between the muscular thighs and brushed the musty mound. How much he wanted to bite into it. Grab it. Be forced to eat it.
Anything! His own stiffened cock oozed pre-come.
“Put me down!” snapped Josh, feigning his desire for release.
Jason dropped him onto the cuttings and began rolling him over and over, until his jumper resembled a grass field. When he rolled him over a final time, Josh felt a strong palm accidentally press against his cock.
A shrill gasp of delight issued from his mouth and his own cock jarred excitedly.
A large hand suddenly struck his backside, a single blow.
“Ouch!” yelped Josh, but eagerly awaited another.
“My cuppa, slave,” ordered Jason.
Josh hadn’t finished yet, not by a long way. Excitedly, he jumped on his man, bowling him over when he caught him off balance.
His bottom bounced on Jason’s crotch. He was sure the cock grew bigger, harder, excited like his own. No longer embarrassed about his own erection, he spread himself over Jason’s body, cock rubbing against cock.
“Give up?” said Josh, pressing his small palms onto Jason’s hefty shoulders, their lips within kissing distance.
A hand went to Josh’s backside. His heart fluttered excitedly. It skipped a beat when the fingers began to slip beneath the waistband of his jeans. “Cheek me, would you?” said Jason. Gripping the boxers, he gave Josh a not-so-lethal wedgie.
Josh jumped to his feet. His artful gaze focussed on Jason’s cock as he brushed the grass from his own. “Had you there,” he said with a satisfied grin. Boldly opening his fly, he pulled down his jeans and began adjusting his underwear. Far from being embarrassed, he wanted Jason to see the proud sex tenting his boxers.
“Reckon so,” said Jason, walking away, paying the proud cock no mind. Josh’s disappointment didn’t go unnoticed They worked until teatime, Jason giving the lawn its last haircut of the year, while Josh heaped the green locks onto the compost heap.
A spot of rain caused Josh to rush to the line.
“What yer doin?” called Jason, now trimming borders.
“Raining,” replied Josh. “Better get it in.” The plan had been brewing in his mind since he’d spotted the approaching clouds. If he took the underwear down last, once in the kitchen he’d be able to sneak them into his windproof jacket hanging on the back of the door. After that, he could tell Jason he was late for tea and had to dash home, thus making a good excuse for a swift exit.
Jason glanced skyward at the solitary dark cloud. There were others but they were still a fair way off. “Raining?” he questioned. He stretched his arms for falling droplets.
Josh wiped a palm over his locks. “Is over here.”
Jason laughed deep and loud. “Ged away with yer. A gnat can pee more than that.”
“Be heavy soon,” Josh predicted, his finger pointing toward the gathering clouds, his plan already evaporating.
Jason laughed again. “Monsoon by the looks of things.” He thought for a moment. The task needed doing at some point. “Is it dry?”
Josh rushed beneath the clothesline, his hands squeezing clothing. “Yep.”
“You sure?”
Josh continued on his journey until he’d reached the all-in-ones.
Pressing the crotch into his face, he breathed in their soapy freshness;
felt the silky softness against his smooth cheeks. “Dry as a boner.”
Jason glanced over. “What?”
Josh coughed and giggled. “Bone dry, Jason. Shall I take it in?”
Jason nodded.
Walking back to the basket, Josh began to take the clothing down, folding each item neatly; paying special attention to any garment that went over Jason’s naked body. When he reached the final item, Jason’s divine underwear, his mind began to wander back to his tree top vigil.
“What yer doin’ with me smalls?” called Jason, his voice startling Josh, who had the all in ones pressed against his body, his arms folded about them in a loving embrace.
Josh’s brain reacted quickly, as it usually did. He laughed and began to wave the underwear. “What you call these, granddad bloomers?” He knew his face was red but hoped Jason wouldn’t notice.
“You don’t wear these, do you?”
Jason strutted over and took them from him. “I’ll have you know them’s designer. You can’t buy these in any old shop. Very expensive.”
He held them against his body. “And sexy, don’t you think?”
Josh tilted his head from side to side. “Suppose. But I’d have to see you in them first.”
“Ged away with yer,” laughed Jason, giving Josh’s locks a rub.
With that, he picked up the basket and carried the wash into the kitchen.
“Damn!” cursed Josh when another plan had been scuppered.
He was tempted to tell Jason that he would carry the basket in for him, iron the lot if he could bring his plan to fruition, but decided that would really blow his cover. “Best be off now,” he told Jason, the work done and no other plan to hand.
Jason called him into the kitchen and thanked him for the hard work. He handed over a tenner. “What you gonna spend it on?”
All-in-one underwear would have been nice, half an hour of spanking better. He told Jason he would save it up and buy something special for his birthday on Saturday.
“Naughty mags, more like,” Jason said with a grin, giving Josh’s cute bottom a gentle pat as he bade him farewell.
Josh leapt from the bus this Friday afternoon. Now that he’d left school, he’d registered at a big college in the town. The bus journey had been a desperate bore. Josh couldn’t think about anything apart from Jason’s underwear. His mind now had a detailed drawing of the all-inones, every button, seam and stitch. Twice he’d had a full-scale boner going.
He began the three-mile walk home; a journey that took him along tractor paths, small footpaths, across fields and through copses, shortcuts of the essence.
He’d reached the summit of Bishop’s Hill when he spotted Jason working in a far off field. It looked as though he were mending fencing.
Josh could see no tractor in his vicinity and guessed he was on foot today. The underwear suddenly sprang to mind. “Plan B!” he delighted with a grin. With that, he darted to his left and jumped a five-bar gate.
He almost tripped as his legs raced him excitedly down the grassy slope. Another couple of gates keenly vaulted, he crossed the tractor path again. The copse slowed him down a little as he zigzagged through silver birch, willow and beech, fallen twigs cracking underfoot as he raced. In the next field, a herd of milking Friesian cows scattered as he rushed through. The brook was low and flowing slow when finally he reached it. His feet and best shoes got wet as he tiptoed across. Mum was going to shoot him.
Almost breathless Josh began the accent of Bishop’s Mitre; a far steeper hill than the one he’d just descended. Another speedy descent saw him do a complete somersault and come up running. Two more fields and a largish wood and he finally spotted Jason’s cottage, smoke rising from the chimney.
“Made it,” he breathlessly puffed, sucking much needed air into his chest, then bending over when his side started to stitch. He was beginning to wonder whether these shortcuts were indeed quicker.
Josh walked the remaining distance. He began calming himself and gathering his thoughts. It proved extremely difficult, his heart was truly racing in excited anticipation of what he was about to do.
Reaching Jason’s garden gate, he briefly leant upon it, his eyes scanning his surrounding for witnesses. There was no washing hanging on the line today, but his plan wasn’t to grab the underwear and dash home. No, this plan was far more daring than nicking them from the line. He planned to enter the cottage and steal them if necessary.
Josh strolled up the garden path to the front porch. He acted calm, as if he were on a genuine errand. Doors usually remained unlocked in these parts. Turning the big black knob, he pushed the creaky woodwork open and stepped inside.
The glowing embers of the fire had given incredible warmth to the cottage. It felt like a furnace after all that running. With no time to spare, he darted into the kitchen and knelt before the washing machine.
Disappointingly, it did not contain dirty clothing as he’d predicted; he’d have to risk going upstairs to Jason’s bedroom.
Before climbing to Jason’s bedroom, Josh checked all windows for approaching people, for Jason. He began by tiptoeing up the creaking stairs but quickly darted to the top when he realised there was no need.
The bedroom was much cooler, the window wide open. Even so, his farmhand’s odour was present; mingling with what Josh thought was a smell of oranges.
His heart was truly racing now. His excuse, if caught, he needed to use the loo. He knew it was lame. Even if you needed to squat, country boys would duck behind a hedge or find a decent sized tree. It would be most unlikely they’d pop into another person’s cottage.
His eagle eyes began scanning the bedroom for the dirty underwear but Jason was a tidy guy and there wasn’t even a mug of cold tea or any half-eaten biscuits lying on the bedside cabinet. The place was spotless. His mum would gladly rent a room to Jason; swap them perhaps.Josh pushed the bathroom door wide. Without him realising it, his cock had begun to stir when he spotted a laundry basket. Darting over and kneeling, he whipped the lid away and began to forage, tossing clothing onto the carpeted floor.
His fingers grasped something soft and silky. He tugged the garment out. “Yes!” he delighted, holding the musty all in ones up to the light.
Josh studied the underwear shaking them fully out. He already had visions of Jason’s body inside of them, his big balls bulging the crotch, his solid cock poking through the fly. Cupping the buttock area in his palms, Josh pushed the crotch into his face. A heavenly, musty smell met his nostrils. “Delicious,” he sighed when he breathed the odour deep. An exploration of the armpits produced a similar response.
Josh shoved the rest of the clothing back into the laundry basket.
He dashed into the bedroom and again checked the windows. The coast was still clear. His shirt and jacket came off in a flash. The excitement had already tented his trousers, his solid cock having found a way through his boxers fly, and standing proud. Down they came, his sixinch cock springing flat against his tummy. Boxers swiftly followed.
Apart from his socks and shoes, he was naked.
Josh brought the all-in-ones to his face and took a healthy sniff, then gave his cock some satisfying tugs. It almost developed into a full toss. Again, he checked the windows.
His right foot went into the underwear first. The left soon followed. Wriggling his bottom, he hoisted them over his rampant cock and up to his armpits, both arms slipping into their respective sleeves.
Trembling fingers buttoned the underwear to the neck, his whole body shaking like never before when he fastened the final button. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. He couldn’t believe it; he was dressed in Jason’s underwear. An elated smile filled his cheeks.
Josh moved over to the full-length mirror standing in the corner of the bedroom. His joyous expression quickly changed to one of disbelief. Rather than looking sexy, he looked… well… ridiculous!
Unlike Jason’s, his cock wasn’t hugged tightly and suggestively by the underwear’s crotch, that was down by his knees. Actually, his cock was poking through the exact spot where Jason’s navel might be. Likewise, his delightful bottom looked inviting no more, lost in the bagginess.
And those sleeves that gripped Jason’s biceps so magnificently on his workouts, flapped just below Josh’s elbows, his thin arms lost in a tunnel of cotton. As for his chest, God only knows where that had gone.
“Oh dear,” said Josh, his hands falling to his side. In a sudden fit of giggles, he began twirling before the mirror, the baggy underwear filling with air and ballooning, his stiffened cock loosing rigidity and vanishing out of sight.
“Evening, Dusty.”
“Evening, lad.”
Josh’s heart raced; panic this time. Dusty was the gamekeeper;
the other voice was Jason’s.
“Please, God, don’t let me get caught,” he sent up a prayer to the man in the heavens who had taken away his dad.
Off came the underwear. Josh didn’t even need to unbutton it and simply stretched it over his body. On went his trousers. He slipped his jacket straight over his naked chest, both shirt and boxers hastily stuffed under his arm. He did a quick peek from the window. Dusty and Jason were still a fair distance away. He could run around the back of the cottage and take a detour home. The hedge would hide him.
“Please, pretty please,” another prayer went skyward.
Josh had only made it down three steps. “Bugger!” he cursed.
Dashing back, he scooped up the underwear, rolling them into a ball and hurled them toward the basket. They missed and landed beside it.
“Bugger!” he cursed again, leaving the evidence and legging it back down the stairs, out of the door and across the garden.
“You. You there!” Jason’s voice roared when he spotted an intruder vanish around the corner of his cottage.
Josh heard the garden gate slam against the catch; Jason was in pursuit. His heart kicked hard but when it came to great escapes, he had the speed of a March hare. In a flash he’d jumped the garden hedge, zigzagged through the copse, run down a hill, and was soon rushing along the brook that had a steep bank to hide him from view.
“Don’t think you’ve got away. I know who you are,” Jason’s distant voice barked.
“Thank you, God. Thank you,” were Josh’s panted words of gratitude when he realised he was safe. He didn’t stop running until he’d reached home.
The voice of his singing mother this glorious Saturday lunchtime woke Josh. He thought her rendition of “Happy Birthday” a little silly at his age, but she loved to do it. A late breakfast came on the tray she carried. With it, his present, a pair of expensive trainers, trainers that were not for woodland rambles or tree climbing, she reminded him before she set off to work. Josh wasn’t quite sure when he would be able to wear them, at home probably, but he thanked her with kisses and cuddles After he’d done his chores, he spent most of the day idling around, watching telly, messing about in the garden, and the like. He wore his new trainers when indoors and several times checked himself in the mirror. They did look smart.
As the sun began to set, he again started to tingle with excitement, even more so after yesterday’s episode. Although apprehensive, the need to nip to the old oak and watch Jason go through his exercises could not be ignored and had to be fulfilled. After all, it was his birthday and what better present he could give himself than a damn good toss.
A big moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds as he silently moved through the darkened woods. The night was chilly, so he’d wrapped up warmly for his vigil. Shivering with excitement, and a little apprehension, he was soon climbing.
Josh reached the penultimate branch. With squirrel skill, he raised his arms above his head, grabbed the higher branch, swung his legs sideways, and plonked his bottom on the sturdy arm. “Phew!” he puffed, sending a steam cloud from his mouth as he made himself comfortable.
He pulled the binoculars from his jacket pocket and brought them to his eyes. As usual, his cock had begun to rise, ready for the show. This time a vision of beauty did not greet his eyes but a cottage in total darkness. He stared blankly at the black window; Jason was always there, always doing his routine for him, why not today, his birthday of all days?
“Bugger! Bugger, damn and bugger!” he cursed. He looped the binoculars over his neck. He’d wait. “Jason must have had some urgent task, sick cow, or something,” he considered.
In the darkness, his mind began to wander, worrying thoughts.
Right now, was Jason sat in the police station giving a description of the intruder? Was he telling the police that he reckoned the lad was local, had a fair idea who the culprit was, and that the lad had tried to make of with his smalls?
A barn owl hooted from a couple of branches higher, its white face swivelling inquisitively from side to side. Josh almost jumped from his skin. It looked far too wise for its own good. “Okay, clever clogs, where is he?” Josh asked with a whisper. “Reckon he’s shopping me?”
The owl gave a couple more hoots; Josh let it be, still none the wiser. Anyway, they were wonderful creatures and did a good job at catching vermin. That said, if one landed directly in front to you, you were a goner. That meant death.
“I’ll give him fifteen minutes,” he told the owl. The owl hooted agreement then sailed silently away; its wings spread wide.
Jason’s cottage remained in total darkness only the moon illuminating the white walls on each of its appearances. Josh checked his watch; twenty of his fifteen minutes had already passed. With his mum due home at eight, he had no choice but to leave. He needed to get the spuds boiling for supper. Oh, and peel them, which he’d forgotten to do.
His bottom was feeling numb when he slipped his legs over the branch and stepped onto the one below. “Thanks a lot, Jason. Great birthday present that was,” he mumbled sarcastically.
As he swung around the trunk, preparing for his descent, something struck him on the head and caused him to jump. He knew it wasn’t the owl because they didn’t attack people. Thankfully, it wasn’t a policeman’s hand either. Reaching above his head, his fingers struck the offending object. In the darkness, he couldn’t see what it was but it felt like a flat box. Gripping it tightly, he plucked it from the thread on which it hung and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Whatever it was, he reckoned it must be for him, a bomb, perhaps!
Josh scampered home, his thoughts on supper preparation rather than his find. For a brief moment, he did wonder if the packet was another gift from Mum. She knew he climbed that tree and was nifty a climbing them herself, having chased him up a few. Perhaps the gift was learner plates for his Porsche she promised to buy him when she’d won the pools.
A few logs went on the lounge fire after Josh had changed into track pants and his new trainers. Soon, potatoes and sprouts were bubbling away on the hob. Cold pheasant was to accompany them, a gift from the gamekeeper. He reckoned Jason had had a word. Not charity you understand, neighbourliness.
His mum looked tired as she flopped onto the sofa. Josh took charge and prepared supper. It wasn’t long before she decided to go to bed. Neither of them had mentioned the packet in the tree. In fact, it wasn’t until he too climbed the stairs that he remembered it.
Josh slipped under his blankets, totally naked. In his palm, he held the mystery packet. Several shakes didn’t give any clues as to what it contained, as did sniffing or listening to it. He did wonder whether the gift really was for him, if indeed it was a gift. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he began to peel the paper away.
A blue corner appeared first, then a blue side. He had no idea why he was opening it so gingerly but it did make the proceedings more exciting. It wasn’t because he still thought it might be a bomb. Then again, it could have been a prank, and any moment flour or some other messy substance would explode from it.
Josh tore the paper away. Blue card greeted his blank expression. “Oh!” he said none the wiser.
He turned the packet over and held it so that it was facing him.
Closing his eyes, he peeled the remainder of the paper away. Oh-soslowly, he began to reopen them. As he did so, an image began to form.
Fully open now his eyes almost popped from his head. Staring back at him stood an extremely handsome, wonderfully sexy, blondhaired youth. Not any youth, but a youth dressed in brilliant white, allin- one underwear. Josh’s fingers became thumbs has he began to wrestle the box open. The Sellotape caused him to rip it apart when he couldn’t remove it. “Wow! Bloody wow!” he exclaimed when the neatly folded contents greeted his eyes.
He was out of his bed in a flash, almost breaking his neck when the bedding snagged his foot. Checking for pins, he’d been pricked in the bum before, he swiftly unfurled the garment. “Oh, boy!” he delighted, hugging the underwear into his nakedness, his cherub face beautiful and beaming.
Excited fingers eventually managed to unfasten the small buttons. Unsteady legs wobbled as they stepped inside their respective holes; Josh felt as if he’d been coated in cool cream when he slipped the silky white cotton over thighs, firm buttocks, proud cock, flat abdomen, and smooth chest.
“Oh, yes,” he sighed, his heart dancing with delight.
Elasticated arms gripped his biceps tightly but gently as he pushed them through the short sleeves. Trembling fingers again worked on buttons, fastening them to his slender neck. “I love you, Jason,” he gushed as he moved toward his wardrobe mirror, not for a single moment suspecting Jason had rumbled him.
The mirror reflected his beauty back at him as he stared proudly into it. Sun-tanned skin looked darker and smoother against the whiteness of the underwear. His tapered waist and hips looked even more defined as he swivelled from side to side and studied his seductive shapeliness, peppercorn nipples and navel, too. And his crotch, well that appeared twice its normal size hugged tightly by the soft cotton, especially his six-inch cock that had become so hard you could see the ridge of the helmet. As for those teenage buttocks, those mind-blowing, fuckable, virgin buttocks, they simply begged attention, begged to be kissed and licked, begged to be hugged and squeezed, begged to be….
Josh could have stood there all night long admiring himself.
Reluctantly closing the wardrobe door, he gently kissed those parts of the all-in-ones his luscious lips could reach. Moving sleepily to his bed, he lay down and began caressing every inch of his body, especially his cock, his cherub face beaming joy like never before.
“Just wait until you see me in these, Jason. You’ll want to eat me for breakfast,” were his contented slumbering words.
Chapter 10 – Novels by the author Going Down Virgin Sailors Spunky Sailor (Riding the Big One sequel)
Cowboys Can Fly Skin Run Naked, Run Free (Brad sequel)
Brad
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