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It was my 21st birthday. My boyfriend picked me up, saying he was going to give me the surprise of my life. We drove to his apartment, but before we went in, he blindfolded me, then led me by the hand to the lift, and his flat on the second floor. 

He led me through the hallway to the lounge, where I thought the blindfold would come off to reveal my present. Instead, he started kissing me. With his hands behind my head, someone else removed my socks and shoes. The snogging continued, and my top came off. By now, I was rock-solid, so I was relieved when my belt was taken from the loops and I lost my trousers. My dick was out the leg of my new CK briefs, that I had bought for today. Someone sucked it, before removing my last piece of clothing, leaving me feeling excited and vulnerable. Hands and lips played with my nipples, and my cock was being sucked deep.

I was laid on a mattress, and my hands were guided to various penises, short, fat, long, cut and uncut. The only one I recognised was my boyfriend’s, as it bends to the right. With little encouragement, I worked my way round, sucking and wanking them. As far as I could work out, there were eight, including the boyfriend. I was laid back down on the mattress, and for the next twenty minutes, they worked their way round, with a different cock in my mouth, and different lips on my knob every couple of minutes.

I was turned over and put on all fours. Now I had a dick down my throat and a tongue at my hole. I begged to be fucked. I felt what I knew to be my boyfriend’s knobhead push into me. I sighed, dripping precum. A minute later, I was cleaning his cock, while someone else had entered me. The procession continued, with me tasting musty dicks that hat just been inside me. Between fucks, someone ate my ass, keeping it moist.

I was turned over again. Two hands held my legs, and the invasion carried on. One of them bred me (I don’t think it was meant to happen), but it made successive poles easier to take. Finally, my boyfriend said, “Right, guys, you can go for it”. That was the signal for them to breed me. One by one, they fucked to completion, some pulling out and shooting over me, but most depositing their loads inside me. My boyfriend was the last to cum, kissing me as he did so. Finally, the guy who came early wanked me off. I can’t remember ever blasting the amount of cum I did that day. A tongue licked it up and fed it to me. There were cheers and high-fives all round, and each one kissed me, wishing me a happy birthday. 

The blindfold was taken off, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I didn’t recognise any of them, and to this day, my boyfriend won’t tell me who they were. A birthday to live long in the memory.

While Jon was setting up the next scenario, Ben was getting me ready for it.

Face down ass up syringed with lube and plugged wth my wrists and ankles handcuffed to parallel bars that were attached to the floor. Ben yanked the chain attached to my ball stretchers making sure they wouldn’t fall off my pumped balls then secured it tautly to a bed post. The pills that Ben gave me were making me really relaxed and a bit sleepy. They must have taken   different ones as they were hyper. I hear the click of the record button on the camera.  Jon  warns “we’re going to turn your boy pussy inside out, what do you think about that”

“Yeah that’s what I want”

“Good boy, I wanna hear you beg for it like a slut;

 “Turn my pussy inside out, please, do whatever you want with it, wreck my faggot pussy”

“Faggot, we are going to wreck your pussy till it’s permanently destroyed”

“Fuck it up, that’s what I want   wreck the fuck out it;

Jon twisted the plug  back and forth then fucked me with. Next was an 18″ double ended dildo till it could disappear into my hole followed by and even longer one. At the same time I wanted all the degrading things done to me that Ben was whispering in my ear then it was his turn with my hole. 

Ben lubed  his right arm up to the elbow  and shoved 4 fingers, rotated them and  within seconds he was wristdeep. I could feel his fingers wriggling and digging into my second hole. Opening it up with 2 fingers then 3. He remained with 4 fingers knuckle deep in my hole, massaging my insides from his fingertips to his forearm. With a push and several hits of poppers that Jon held to my nostrils his fist opened up and entered my sigmoid colon. I had never felt anything as incredible as that, almost spiritual, emotional and totally connected with Ben. I could hear him enjoying himself to and he was considerate, making sure I was OK and enjoying it and asking me if I wanted him to stay, pull out or go deeper. My hole has been pummelled so many times mercilessly and selfishly and was expecting the same. Connected and mutually enjoying my hole. Not wrecking it but perfecting it. 

“Go deeper”

He stayed in my hole for half an hour as far as 3 inches from his elbow before he slowly pulled it to wrist deep then quickly yanked it out.

“Fuck look at that gape” he held my hole open with his hands then added more lube to his arm and went back in elbow with no resistance then just as deep as before within a couple minutes   rather than 25. He said he was going to pull out fast. My noisy hole felt tunneled out and empty till Jon sunk his arm.  Both taking turns going deep  a few more times each. 

Ben stayed wrist deep  for a while circling and expanded ingredients my insides with a clenched fist. Yanked it out and punched it back in. I screamed in pain.

“Was that too much, sorry, do want me take it out”

” yeah it was too much,  don’t take it out” 

After a couple minutes I asked him to do shallow punches  quickly begging harder and faster  and to make it hurt. I could take doubles but I could take a fist  and 4 fingers. The laughed when they plugged my hole swallowed the same plug. Ben dug it out and chose one twice as big. I was uncuffed and had to be helped standing up. I looked at hole on the mirror. My asslips were huge and swollen and protuded easily when I pushed them out, opening up wide exposing my rosebud. I pulled apart my cunt lips and pushed my rosebud till it was hanging out in full bloom . Ben and Jon loved watching  and hearing me in love, excited and appreciating them for transforming boy pussy.

“We’re not done with you yet” 

It started with a message on Grindr, simple and direct:

“Nice to see you in Candem again. I’m free on Tuesday, if you wanna hook up again for a blow job.”

Julian replied within minutes.

“Hell yeah. It’s been years since I had your mouth around my cock. I can still feel it.” I Ubered to his place and knocked.

He opened the door with that same easy, boyish grin. “You came,” he said, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “I didn’t think you would.” His place was beautiful — clean, open, warm — like him. He invited me upstairs.

We climbed the stairs chatting like we’d never missed a beat. The years between us melted away in the banter and laughter. It was all so effortless.

Once inside his room, something shifted. The comfort gave way to hunger.

Clothes fell away in a matter of minutes. And there he was, standing beside the bed — breathtaking. Steam wasn’t present, but it might as well have been, the way the soft afternoon light kissed his smooth, flushed skin. I drank him in — the tight, sculpted abs, his firm chest, the defined lines running down to his cock, hard and waiting.

He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful — powerful, intense, and impossible to ignore.

He lay back on the bed, fully present, cock pulsing with anticipation. I knelt beside him, lowering my mouth to his length, taking him in slowly, my hands at my sides — reverent. He moaned, his hand reaching for mine, voice husky.

“Warm your hands up,” he murmured, “and feel my chest.”

I did as told, gliding my palms across the tight swell of his pecs, fingers tracing the lines of his torso, feeling him react — his breath hitched, a ripple of shiver danced under my touch. His skin was satin over muscle, warm and alive, a living map of pleasure. I worshipped him with my hands, my mouth, my breath. Every twitch, every moan, every sigh only deepened my hunger.

Then he began to fuck my face — not harsh, but with a rhythm and control that made it even more intimate. My head moved with him, lips tight around his cock, our rhythm syncing like waves. His moans grew louder, deeper. He warned me with a sharp inhale and then—

Hot, thick cum exploded into my mouth. I swallowed greedily, loving the taste of him, the salt and sweetness, the essence of years apart. I stood up slowly, stroking my own cock, still slick with spit and lust.

“Your cum tastes amazing,” I told him, breathless.

He grinned in a haze of bliss, eyes heavy-lidded. “Good,” he said, voice rough with arousal — turned on by the way I took every drop.

Still naked, he patted the bed beside him and said he’d grab a towel. I lay down, jerking off beside him while he watched, eyes trailing over every movement. I moaned loudly, my orgasm crashing through me, hot cum exploding across my stomach and chest. We stayed like that for a while — quiet, raw, real — two naked bodies, two old souls reconnecting.

Eventually, I dressed. We went downstairs and talked, just like before. He didn’t put his shirt back on — and I couldn’t stop staring at his chest, still warm, still perfect.

We swapped numbers this time. We’re trying to hook up regularly. He’s attentive, present, generous. He doesn’t just take; he gives. And he always makes sure I get off too.

As you wind down Benedict Canyon Drive, just before it meets Sunset Boulevard, there’s a coffee shop that’s on the way to my office. I stop in there often enough that I don’t pay much attention to the place or the people in it. This day, I had my nose in my phone, checking texts. At first, the guy ahead of me in line was remarkable only because he was being a loud, public asshole. “Oh for fuck sake,” I thought. “First thing in the morning, go be a jerk to a pregnant barista that looks sick even before you decide to treat her like something on your shoe?” And he kept at the woman, berating her for things she could… Never mind, never mind I told myself. Not my problem. Let it go.

I smiled my biggest smile when it was my turn to order coffee. The tag on her uniform said Brenda. I said something mild and friendly, and she was surprised by the contrast with the last customer. She was trying not to cry and smiled back shyly. I put in my order and went to wait by the takeout counter. The place was busy; there were a lot of people crowded into the shop. I wasn’t on the job, I wasn’t on the lookout for anyone, and I wasn’t thinking about work. I was crouched on a bench focused on my messages and personal matters and waiting for my name to be called out. I was minding my own business.

But the guy was an asshole, and as such, he took up a lot of space — and then he started encroaching on my space. I yielded some and for the first time turned to give the man my full attention. Oh, I thought. This is something rare. He was just a boy really, maybe 18 or 19. But so barbered and dressed as though he were someone’s own very special pet. One look around was enough to find who held the leash. She was standing just outside the shop window by a double-parked car, well put together, beautifully tailored, impatient. Asshole got his order and carried it out to the car just as the woman got in the back seat. He handed her a coffee cup and a small bag through the open window, exchanged a few words and then stepped away as the window rolled up and the car drove off.

I had my coffee in hand and stepped out of the shop. I looked up the street to my car, I looked the other way toward Asshole ambling down the sidewalk. I’m not sure what clicked in my head just then, but I set out to follow him. Something began to take shape in my imagination and  by the time we’d got another two blocks along I was sure he wasn’t just another Hollywood gym rat. He was beautifully muscled and perfectly proportioned. His butt rolled as he walked and the summer linen of his pleated and creased trousers hung perfectly from the top of his glutes. He was a clothes horse and fine for the job. Just tall enough to give proper scope to his shoulders and chest and his powerful legs; he had a light graceful gait and a carelessness that bespoke money and belonging.

We walked the broad concourse through Will Rogers Memorial Park’s manicured gardens and out into the Flats for a few blocks until Asshole stopped in front of a wicket gate beside the main entrance to a large estate. Security waiting on the other side opened the gate for him and he was quickly inside; the latch on the iron gate shut with a clang.

I walked past on the other side of the street, noting the address, watching Asshole through the main gate saunter up a brick pathway to a side entrance. Twenty minutes later I was at my car and back to my life. I did not once think of Asshole for the next two days.

My day job is running a small firm with three associates and a secretary bookkeeper; together we offer a discrete turnkey personnel acquisition and delivery service anywhere in the lower 48. There are all sorts of reasons clients want people acquired, but my company has for the most part stuck to acquiring young men for the sex and slave trade — in recent years, often for the burgeoning catch and release clubs. I rarely concern myself with the client’s business. For most jobs, I have an agent that handles the clients, provides me with the details, and pays out half up front and the rest on completion. It’s rare that I even meet the client. 

Two days after encountering Mr. Asshole, I had a meeting with my agent; after an exchange of pleasantries, I was told to find a fish for a “card game” to take place in Bullhead City, Arizona, two weeks hence. This one should be just a bit under six feet, white, 18 to 20, must have washboard abs and well-developed pecs, arms, legs and glutes.

On my way back from the meeting, I stopped in at the usual place to grab a cup of coffee. Asshole was the first thing that came to mind when I opened the shop door. I made nice with Brenda at the cash register, gave her my order, paid for it, and then slipped my card and a $100 bill across the counter. “You remember the unpleasant fellow from the other day?” I asked her. She winced at the memory, and I smiled reassuringly. “If you see him here again, it would be a big help to me if you could read his name off his credit card and give me a call. You’d be comfortable doing that?”

Brenda glanced down at the hundred-dollar bill and then up at me for a long moment and then gave me a sarcastic look that suggested she’d be comfortable sticking a fork in his kidney. She held up a finger and said, “This won’t take a minute,” and disappeared into the back of the shop. Two minutes later she reappeared with a slip of paper. “I handle the cash register receipts,” she explained. “Two days ago, right? At 08:37, a cappuccino, a reg. coffee, two croissants. Name’s Cameron Matthews.” She handed me the slip. I smiled my thanks and put down another hundred.

And once home, I began to weigh my options. On the one hand, we’d usually spend a day or two traveling, scouting junior college athletic fields and college bars looking for candidates. On the other hand, there was Asshole, in some ways made to order; but this would mean poaching wild caught on our home turf, and that was generally frowned upon. This required a meeting of the minds, so the staff were called together for the following day.

Once at the office I gave in the name to our digital investigator. By lunchtime we had a profile on the subject and before dinner we’d installed a small remote camera that covered the front of the house where he was staying — he also had an address in Toluca Lake and we put a camera on that house as well. Over the next two days we found his car and put in a high fidelity bug connected to his hands-free call system and installed a tracking device in the engine compartment. All which made possible, several days later, the smooth transition of Asshole from his comfortable life into the back of a panel truck where it was strapped down to a padded gurney and made to feel very woozy and sleepy and disoriented. The boy’s car disappeared into a chop shop in Long Beach.

Obeying all traffic laws, we made it into Bullhead City on Friday at 08:00 hours to make delivery at the freight dock of a large foundry and machine shop. The gurney was unracked from the van and wheeled through a service door at the back of the dock. Technically, our work here was done. We did have to pick the subject up when the client was done with it and remove it from the scene, but that was still two days away. My associate flew back to Hawthorn that afternoon while I accepted an invitation to breakfast from the client himself.

And this was unusual. As I said, I rarely saw or spoke to clients, but somehow, this one struck me differently. I felt a certain curiosity and the client, Charlie, was friendly and generous. He was a talker and every once in a while said something worth hanging on to. If you put all those separate pieces together it looks like the machine shop and foundry complex were all his. There was a large underground complex of rooms beneath one of his warehouses where the boy was being kept and where tonight and tomorrow night Charlie would amuse a select group of friends. Tonight would be ‘An Introduction and Part One.’ He described in brief the nature of the show and its five acts tonight and four acts tomorrow. “Bring all your appetites,” he told me. “The bar’s open from 6:30 and dinner’s served at 8:00.”

I checked into one of the city’s casino-hotel complexes to clean up, get some rest and a change of clothes. Back at the main gate to the machine shop, I was directed to follow the driveway along the fence and make a left turn when I came to the end. There was a fair number of cars parked near a long blank wall with a single security light and a fire door beneath it. The door was not locked and led to a concrete and steel stairway down. At the bottom there was only one door and that opened into a noisy hum in what appeared to be an uptown, sportsman’s watering hole, complete with a maître d’, wait staff and busy bartenders.

I made my way over to the bar, observing on the way that there was a theater to one side and a large room to the other with work lights and tech people working. Present for this evening’s event were 45 or 50 souls who, for the most part, were crowded around a horseshoe bar talking among themselves. I ordered a drink and listened to scraps of conversation around me as I watched the bartenders deftly do their job.

“Rhys, hi, I’m Larry Gilbert.” Mr. Gilbert put out his right hand and as I clasped it, he took my forearm with his left. “Charlie’ll be along in a little while. He’s asked me to look after you. He is very impressed with your work and very pleased to have you here. C’mon over to my table. I’d like you to meet the director of tonight’s presentation.”

There were half a dozen people at Larry’s table, all of whom were apparently delighted to meet me. One — his name was, I remember, Sigismundo — asked me point blank, “Where did you find this golden boy?” I smiled at him, accepting the implied compliment.

“Well, you know,” I said, “gold is where you find it.”

Another, a silver-haired fellow named Snyder appeared to agree. “And a very fine specimen it is. Had you noticed its toenails are clear lacquered?”

That stalled me for a full second. “That is a detail I confess I have missed. However it does not much surprise me. The rest of it is equally buffed and shiny. I believe it has money. In my experience, it’s the sort that will offer you any sum of cash if only you will let it go.”

“Oh,” said another, “that will be delightful. I look forward to that.” He turned to the director and asked pointedly, “Will that be part of the program?”

“Tut tut Malcolm,” said the director. “Don’t you worry. You’ll have everything you want and more.”

“Was it you who had it shaved?” asked a 60-something fellow in fine Harris tweed.

“Oh,” I said. “It was buffed and shiny when I found it; and nor would I think to shave anything wild caught. It’s your canvass to paint.”

“Yes,” said the man introduced as Harrington. He turned to the director, ”It was wearing alligator shoes. I know they were alligator because I put my nose in them both. I’m going to keep the shoes. We can return the boy barefoot I think.”

“Barefoot?!” said another. “We’ve arranged for it to be left at the Greyhound station in Kingman, Arizona, wearing nothing but a speedo with three $100 bills stuffed in under its balls. That’s part of the contract, right?” he said, looking at me.

“I’m clear on the terms, sir. We deliver.”

“Damned right!” he said. “And we’ll have you back for the next production.” Several of the men slammed their glasses down on the table and repeated in a jagged chorus, “Damned right!”

All this forceful approval from the leaders of the club, as I deduced they were, suggested that their previous supplier of performance subjects was less than satisfactory and that even as yet unused in performance, the boy was still seen as an improvement over what had come before.

Just then, a small noisy crowd surrounding Charlie entered the dining room and slowly made its way toward our table, gladhanding and smooching friends as they came. Charlie signaled to the maître d’ that it was time for dinner and then put a hand on the director’s shoulder and turning toward me said, “I’m glad you and Merryweather have met. You should talk business before the evenings out.” And then he moved on with his posse to his table.

I didn’t know what business Charlie had in mind, but I started the conversation by asking Merryweather about the performance tonight. “Tonight’s production,” he replied, “is called Shock Table. This is the third production in this year’s dinner theater season and the theme tonight is Samba. This year is our 27th season.” Merryweather looked around the table and said, “Everyone at this table was at our first production. I think no one here’s been to every production since then, but we’ve all been involved one way and another in almost all of ‘em.

“Originally, the shows we put on were strictly for our own private entertainment,” Merryweather continued. “But it didn’t take long for the membership to grow and soon other clubs came to know of us. Over time, we came to a sharing arrangement with one and then another of the more active clubs in Nevada and Arizona. Pretty soon a network of clubs developed and our members were welcome at all the network clubs as they are welcome at ours.

“And, as for the wild-caught boys, we only wanted ‘em for two or three days. In the early days, when we were done with ‘em, we had to relocate ‘em — usually to interstate rest stops — but after a while, we could pass ‘em on to any of the clubs that asked for ‘em.”

While Merryweather busied himself with his knife and fork, Harrington took up the narrative. “The business side developed pretty quickly. After just a few years, the Network was formed and took up scheduling the boys’ performances within the circuit and worked as a clearinghouse for managing balance of payments among the member clubs, and certification of ownership when clubs opted to keep any particular wild-caught boy.” Harrington signaled to have his wine glass filled.

“One other important service the Network serves is that it rates every boy that’s put on the circuit,” he explained, “and sets their performance rate, sets the number of their performances per week. We’ve invited a pair of evaluators from the Network to be here tonight and tomorrow night. The boy you’ve provided will be evaluated according to the Network’s standards and requirements. The boy will be measured and tested and graded in a number of categories. All that will be analyzed and finally cooked down to three discrete scores, the first indicating the subject’s overall erotic potential — in short, how hot the whole package is. The second score indicates psychological suitability for performing on the circuit — which boils down to: can it be trained to be led about on a leash and put to work three or four nights a week? And the third score states the boy’s overall skill level and so, its willingness to learn new work.”

Malcom put his fork down, taking over from Harrington. “As you’ve heard, our chief purpose in all of this is to provide for our own entertainment. But oddly, and unexpectedly, we’ve made good money from it over the years. For example, let’s say your boy is graded well, even as a rookie wild-caught, and the Network auditors score it at 08/06/06, you’re talking income to the club of potentially $50,000/month for five years. That’s more than enough to cover our bar bill. And then, any additional wild-caught contributions we make to the Network circuit are just money to keep the lights on and the staff paid. So, you see, there’s the potential for a substantial increase in the monthly cash flow from the Network were there an increase in the number of new, high scoring wild-caught, and I think that’s the business Merryweather wants to talk to you about.” Malcolm looked across the room for a moment and said, “Gentlemen, I believe we are starting now.”

From the far end of the room came a man dressed theatrically in gold shoes, blue tights, a red vest and yellow jacket stepping slowly and deliberately, leading this evening’s performance subject naked on a leash attached to its leather neck collar. The boy was led up onto a low stage in the middle of the dining room where stagehands chained up its ankle cuffs to rings in the floor. A shiny vertical steel pole ran up behind the boy; its hands were cuffed together behind the pole.

The boy was furiously looking in every direction, turning its head almost wildly, saliva drooling from the edges of the bright red ball gag strapped around the back of its head. Looking at the boy now, taking in all the features in detail that made up its beautiful face, I was struck by how frightened it was. And not just the face, but the spine, the shoulders, the neck, all showed submission in defeat, anything to appease its master. And this was sublime, that the director should start with the boy here, already in defeat.

The master of ceremonies pirouetted around the boy, examining its bonds and measuring the distance between the ankles. From the wings, a stagehand brought out a nice thick and bumpy eight-inch dildo mounted on an adjustable tripod that he placed just in front of the boy. There was scattered applause from the dining room. If the boy had been frightened before, it was even more so now, now that it understood what was to come next. The emcee whispered in the boy’s ear and stroked its cheek lightly with the back of his finger.

The boy shook its head violently and made noises behind its ball gag that certainly meant only “No. No. Let me go!” The master of ceremonies danced in front of the boy and made much of the dildo, moving his head all round it and touching the tip with his tongue and smiling up at the boy. “No, no, no,” it grunted and shook its head. “Yes, yes, yes,” sang the emcee. One of the diners threw the emcee a butter pat wrapped in foil which he ostentatiously unwrapped, then smeared with his palm over the entire silicone cock, slowly and just in front of the boy’s face.

“Yes,” said the emcee to the boy. “You’ll slide this in all the way, and then just go up and down and up and down until I tell you to stop. Now bend your knees. Show me how you can go up and down.” The emcee smacked the back of one knee with his riding crop and unbalanced the boy. “If you do as you’re told,” he rumbled in the boy’s ear, “and work to give the audience some measure of joy, I’ll let you go back to your hearth and home.” The emcee took out a red rope and tied it snugly about the boy’s junk. “But if you disappoint them… if you disappoint me… Well, you will leave here in plastic bags. This will be your only warning. See if you can’t bring us some joy.”

And with that, he placed the dildo so it just pressed into the boy’s soft hole. “Now then,” said the emcee, “Up and down, up and down.” The boy continued to shake its head as though denying what was happening even as it tested the dildo a quarter inch at a time, bending its knees just slightly, feeling its way, figuring out how.

It was a delightful scene. I unwrapped my own pat of butter and rubbed it over my mouth, then slid in a piece of lobster between my lips as I watched the dildo slide ever more into the boy’s virgin hole. Its grunts and moans and the thrashing of its head and neck stirred my groin as I delighted my pallet now with oysters and pieces of warm, buttery meat.

One of the most pleasing sights to my mind is a beautiful boy with a cock all the way up its ass, its head thrown back, eyes rolled back, the abs relaxed and that long low gurgling that bubbles up saliva past the ball gag. The boy’s skin shined brightly, covered in sweat. The light from the spots and footlights made its skin silver and red; darkness picked out the neat rows of its abs and the alluring curve of its pecs. Its face, twisted in agony and regret, told the whole story of Merryweather’s accomplishment. The boy had deflowered itself, had fucked itself out of its own virginity, all because a dancing clown in blue tights told it to.

After a while, the boy was allowed to sit still on the dildo and rest; it panted and groaned for a long while and drooled on itself while the diners finished up their meal and staff began to clear the dining room. The diners, in pairs and small groups, slowly moved into the bar and after a while, into a theater with club chairs and small side tables looking down on the stage.

The boy was brought in to the theater, again led on a leash by the emcee, this time with its hands free. Centered in the proscenium stage was a slightly raised carrousel with two posts; mounted on the top of each were leather ankle cuffs, angled slightly upward. Set back from the posts was a low padded bench. The boy was made to lay its back and head on the bench; the neck collar was fastened to the bench, the ball gag removed, the wrists drawn under the bench and clipped together, and the ankles buckled in to the cuffs on the posts.

The emcee opened the second act praising the boy for its good behavior and ready cooperation. He patted the boy’s face and drew across its cheek the business end of an oil-slicked vibrating e-stim prostate plug. “You’ve done well with your first assignment; good behavior gets its reward.” He inserted the plug into the boy’s butt with practiced ease as he continued to address the audience and the boy as well, saying, “But rewards create obligations. Since you’ve been given a reward, you must now show your appreciation and obedience and you must cum. That is your job now. He then held up the remote control and said simply, “Let us begin.”

It was clear from its continuous jerks and twitching and the contortions of its face, that this was unexpected and new and not yet entirely to its liking. Every one of its parts moved at once, from the curling and uncurling of its toes to the flexing of its hips and large leg and abdominal muscles. “Oh God! Oh God!” it repeated again and again in muffled tones. After some time, the boy heaved in a great breath and shook like a dog, barking out “Ungh, ungh, ungh…” and appeared near to losing its mind.

The emcee held up the remote to the audience and made an exaggerated motion indicating he was turning down the intensity of the e-stim plug. The effect on the boy was immediate. For one thing, it stopped spastically jerking its neck into its collar, stopped contracting its glutes and thrusting its hips wildly. Though the control was set lower, the plug still vibrated, still delivered rhythmic shocks to the boy’s prostate. The boy continued to groan in a slow measured way that matched its movements, liquid and delicious. And finally, now calmed down somewhat, its cock had grown to its full potential. And this is how they left the boy under warm surrounding light to the delight of the audience. It was a good boy and this was its reward.

Wait staff worked the little tables in the theater, clearing glassware and setting drinks as the boy squirmed and moaned, bucked and strained. Conversation among the audience was general, people came and went. The stagehands were working during this time, setting up for the next act. Now and then, members of the audience would approach the boy. One fellow put his mouth over the tip of the boy’s cock. “Oh, oh,” he said to his companion after only a moment of savoring engorged cock. “I can definitely feel the pulsing shocks.”

The boy lay tight and excited, riding the low vibration and twitching at the repeating shocks to its prostate. Now that the stage was set up and near ready, very gradually the emcee bumped up the vibration’s amplitude and frequency and the boy responded. Its hips moved with some determination, its cock jumped more frequently, its fingers curled as though searching for purchase and finding none. Its breathing gained force and then the grunting. The emcee timed the boy’s climb to climax perfectly and shut off the plug just before the boy expected to cum, provoking an animal cry of despair that came out as, “No! Noooooo…” and a bubbling cloudy little stream of precum ran down its tall, hard, twitching cock.

The emcee removed the prostate plug from the boy’s ass amid scattered applause while stagehands got the boy loose from its bondage and up on its feet with its wrists locked behind. The emcee put his hand behind the boy’s head, rubbing the short hairs and then taking hold of its collar. “What do you say?” he asked the audience. “Shall we give it another chance?”

There was an immediate loud and mixed response. Some in the audience called for summary punishment, others, equally loudly for leniency and another round. The emcee encouraged the audience for some time until one side seemed to prevail. He put his face just in front of the boy’s and said, “It’s settled. You shall try again. Cum or be punished.” Loud approbation and loud protest erupted from the audience and went on for some time.

The boy was led to another pair of vertical posts about waist high and maybe three feet apart, also mounted on a rotating platform. Its wrists were buckled into cuffs that hung by a single chain link on the outside of each post and its ankle cuffs were linked to the floor of the platform, drawn back from the posts so that the bonded one must bend forward and support itself awkwardly on its wrists, its back more or less parallel to the floor. It could bend its knees but the emcee made sure with the leash and crop that it wouldn’t get its knees to the floor. He walked around the boy, gentling and stroking it, patting and rubbing its skin and talking smooth and quiet words as its terror increased. “It’s simple, child. Do what you’re told.”
The boy looked at the emcee in confusion and fear. The emcee called out to the audience, “What should it do?”

The audience roared in rough unison, “Cum!” And then from every corner, one over another, everyone had his own suggestion for the hapless rooky and everyone shouted at once. During this hubbub from the audience, a stagehand slipped on a vibrating cock ring about half way down the boy’s cock and then having secured that, strapped in a tongue depressor gag, buckling it snuggly at the back of its head.

“You puzzle me child,” said the emcee, seizing hold of the boy’s hair and raising its face near his own. “Just how virgin are you? Hmmm? I’ve seen your cock get hard. But just look at it now,” he sympathized. “Have you ever been lying in the dark by yourself and laid hands on your soft cock and squeezed it and rubbed it up and down and stroked it and made it feel oh so good and after a while it got hard? Have you ever done that?” The boy made the smallest possible nod of its bound head and without making any sound.

“And when your cock got hard, did you ever stroke it faster and faster and then shoot cum out of your cock?” The boy looked at the man who held him and grunted. “Well very good,” said the emcee. “Then you’ll know what it means when I tell you to cum. You have one hour, and before that time is expired, you need to shoot cum.” And with that, the emcee released his hold on the boy’s hair and held up the remote, making an exaggerated motion to the audience that indicated the vibrator was being turned on. And it must have been turned on to High, as the boy responded immediately by trying desperately to shake the thing off its cock. Nor did it take long for the boy’s cock to respond.

The hips and abs were active, and the hams were just so nice to look at. The boy was stressed and uncomfortable and its legs were doing a lot of work. Its shoulders glistened with sweat and showed in the lights the cultured beauty of its muscles in shadowed relief, probably each one individually crafted. And they strove, all of them together, to get free — a disorganized concert of the muscles that involved the whole body in changing combinations and repetitions of movement and flexing, jerking and thrusting and shaking. And then the emcee turned the cock vibrator down to Low.

The effect on the boy was immediate. It stopped its awkward thrusting and heaved a great sigh through its nose, in, then out, but continued bouncing its glutes left and right, bouncing up and down on the balls of its feet. The boy was taking stock, trying to relieve the muscles that were overused. The wrist chains rattled at the posts. The emcee watched for a while in silence and then came up, caressing its butt, its back, its flanks. “Keep going and you’ll get there. You have one job now. Concentrate on that. Cum or be punished! Now get to work!”

This was meant to be hard for the boy. Where before, it let the cock ring do the work, let it make it hard and ready to cum, now, it had to cum with only a minimal stimulation and nothing else, and in less than an hour; Jeezus! how much less than an hour? And punishment? This must also have weighed on the boy’s mind, for it began after a short pause to rock its hips slowly, rhythmically, as though fucking something that would after a while bring it to climax. And it kept at it this way for quite a while. The emcee toyed with its nipples now and then, but this seemed to disturb the boy more than help it. From time to time, the emcee turned up the vibrating cock ring a notch higher, and the boy responded by increasing its fucking rhythm, increasing its breathing. The sweat increased too and the grunting began after about the third or fourth increase in the vibration intensity.

It was clear after a while that the boy had found its groove, blocked out everything that wasn’t its cock and was now completely deaf and blind to all but its dedication to an eruption of cum just ahead. The boy was now sweating profusely, panting and frantically pumping its hips, grunting out muffled shouts, building to a crescendo. A loud buzzer sounded, the emcee turned off the cock ring and announced, “Oh no, time’s up.” The emcee put the back of his hand to his forehead and leaned back. “Quelle catastrophe!” he gasped. “Take the boy down and bring it to me!” he demanded of the stagehands.

The boy was removed from its bonds and taken down from the carousel and walked to the center of the stage where the emcee stood. Ropes descended from the flies and were attached to its wrist cuffs. Short chains clipped the ankle cuffs to the floor leaving the boy’s backside facing the audience, stretched out in a great X. “We now address the affront to our authority. The boy was told to cum and given the wherewithal to do that. It did not cum. There is but one answer to defiance. I call upon the Punisher to extract our ‘pound of flesh.’”

There was a solid round of applause as the Punisher entered from the wings, waving to the audience. He crossed to the boy and roughly held its chin in his hand. “For your open defiance, for your refusal to obey, you will be punished. You have failed an order and that is unacceptable.” The Punisher was handed a wooden paddle with holes in it. He touched it gently to the boy’s butt and said, “When I see your soul leave your body, I will stop.” He took the gag from the boy’s mouth. “Let us hear from your screams how serious we are.”

Although, that’s not how the boy started. It stammered and drooled out wads of spit and phlegm and then started off with, “Oh my God, no. No. No. You have to let me go. Please God let me go. I have money, I’ll give you whatever you want. Please, please let me go.” The Punisher walked around the boy and laid a solid smack on the right cheek and then quickly, the same on the left. “Oh!” the boy cried in confusion. “No. No. Please, please let me go, please,” as it twisted and writhed in its bondage.

The Punisher continued to belabor the boy’s cheeks with his paddle, sometimes up like a cricket bat to catch the underside of its butt or sideways like a baseball bat, there was no square inch that escaped the paddle, and after a while, when the Punisher had got every square inch of the boy’s butt glowing dark red, he switched to an e-stim spiked paddle that sent the boy into a transport of agony. The screams were genuine, throaty and prolonged and seemed to rise in pitch with every strike.

A half hour of this rendered the boy a blubbering, sobbing mess, exhausted from screaming and the pain. Finally, the Punisher left off with his beating, letting the boy hang limp and shuddering, rolling its head from side to side, drooling and sobbing, drifting in and out of present attention.

A stagehand brought the Punisher a red and black leather whip with half a dozen little tails. He brandished the whip with some skill and made it whistle through the air before it bore down on the boy’s back just below its shoulders. The boy jerked out of its revery with a shout and a groan of despair, realizing that it would have to endure even more than it could stand. “No, no, no, no…,” it demanded, uselessly. The strikes were harder the more it complained, and they went on regularly and relentlessly and covered all the skin on its back. Each snapping hit raised a red starburst welt that merged with another until the shoulders and back were one mass of bright red suffering flesh.

The boy was heaving in air and sobbing between strikes, barking at each strike; its knees collapsed at one point, and it hung there from its wrists, dead weight. The next strike merely twitched the shoulders a bit, the head bent forward and immobile. A stagehand poured cold water over the boy’s head and patted its cheek and said soothingly, “Wakey wakey my little cream puff, you’ve still a long ways to go.” Still, with its head bent down, it shook the water off its hair, got its weight off its wrists and back onto its feet.

The next whiplash brought the boy’s head up as it made a pain-filled “Ahhhh!” And then again and then again, the crack of the whip against its red and tortured flesh brought half the audience to their feet clapping and shouting their admiration of the boy for taking so much and the skill of the Punisher who measured each stroke and missed none.

After some while, the Punisher left off his assault and coiled up his whip, walked to the proscenium and announced, “The punishment has been meted out. The boy is once more restored to order; may it serve faithfully and wholeheartedly.” This brought the rest of the audience to their feet and a new round of applause and shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!”

Stagehands got the boy loose and over to a padded gurney where it was laid face down and covered in ice packs. There was an intermission of one hour and the bar got busy once more. I got a drink and then wandered backstage to see what I could of the boy close up. Crew were just removing the ice packs from the boy’s butt as I arrived, washing the skin with chlorhexidine and then applying aloe vera. This will have somewhat reduced the burning sensation I suppose, as would the ice packs still on the boy’s back. I found a chair in a corner that let me observe the crew’s ministrations in preparation for sending it back for the final act of tonight’s theater piece.

A leather blindfold was fitted around its face and buckled up at the back of its head, the mouth left for the moment uncovered. Thigh straps were buckled on and arm bands and a greasy, electrically conductive ointment was spread on the boy’s nipples and copper clips applied. This caused the boy to jump and shake and twitch its shoulders trying to throw off the clips. And this was before any electricity lit up the clips. Clearly its nips were sensitive and it didn’t like the clips at all.

“Oh my God! Please, please,” the boy pleaded. “Please let me go. I have money. I can pay you. I can get you money. Tell me what you want. Please…” The boy was blind and couldn’t tell what caused it so much pain and certainly misunderstood its starring role in this dramatic piece. But it was desperate to get out of this situation. “Please,” it pleaded in a rising voice, “please, I can pay whatever you want.” The emcee quickly danced over to the boy and put his hand gently over its mouth.

He spoke energetically in a stage whisper that everyone could hear, “Shhhh. Not so loud. Do you want everyone to hear? Hmmm…?” The emcee looked to the handlers who were putting on a weighty magnetic ball stretcher. The two pieces of the steel doughnut snapped together with an audible click and a gasp from the boy as the full weight of the stretcher pulled its balls tight, swinging easily like a pendulum. “How much money are we talking about, hmmm…?”

The boy’s answer came in two parts, the first as, “Unngh, unngh, gaah, oh God, oh God!” head thrashing and abdominal pumping and the bending of its knees. I’ll say as an aside, the boy had extraordinary legs. The flex in the dish of its inner thighs was breathtaking. I was torn between watching that and the confusion and growing fear on the boy’s face as it considered which concerned it more, its nips that were on fire, or its balls that were being squeezed. The second part of the answer came out in gasps as it endured both, “I’ll give you… the password… to a DDA account… at Chase.”

“Ooooh,” cooed the emcee. “And how much is in this account?”

“I don’t know, maybe $70,000. You can have it all. The password’s ‘soccerBoi2006’,” the boy said. “Please, please let me go.”

“Well…, ‘maybe $70,000’ is a pretty offer,” said the emcee, “I’m sure it’s an honest offer, but I think you’ve come in a bit low. Here’s my counter offer: You will stop talking and you will do what you are told.” He signaled to a stagehand who applied silver chloride electrodes to the boy’s cockhead and balls and to the under part of the legs close to where they form the groin. Another placed a thick magnetic steel donut ring at the base of the cock and balls. Conductive gel was smeared on a steel sound and slowly pushed deep into the cock and fastened in place; a steel e-stim vibrating torpedo was slid up its ass.

The boy was lifted onto a leather padded table about knee-high from the floor. It was on its back, its legs were butterflied, where the soles of its feet were touching each other, its knees tied down and its ankle cuffs tightly chained together. The wrist cuffs were secured so that the arms were straight and the fists just wide of the butt. The neck collar was made fast with ropes so it could not rise from the table.

The thin wires extending from the electrodes, the cock ring, the sound, the nip clips and the torpedo were all collected into a controller that was itself connected to a computer console. A large flat screen displayed the values for ten data points at each of six sites so the audience could see at any given moment which parts of the boy’s anatomy were being lit up and with what function and intensity.

          WAVEFORM: TAMBORIM
          MODE: Biphasic Asymmetric
          INTENSITY: 34.3 mA
          FREQUENCY: 92 Hz
          PULSE WIDTH 320 µs
          VOLTAGE: 67 V
          LIMB RESPONSE: Positive
          EYE MOVEMENT: Active
          PAIN SUPPRESSION: Off
          SESSION TIME: 00:02:10

Spots shone down on the shock table where the boy was pinned down like a frog in an anatomy class. The house lights went dark and the electro-stim control board display glowed. The emcee circled the table, checking all the bindings. He reached over and rolled the boy’s balls and wiggled the sound in its cock, causing the boy to flex almost all the muscles it had and made it groan too. He made sure the clips on the nips were secure and then stopped by the boy’s ear.

“Can you hear me boy?” the emcee asked in a stentorian voice. The boy made as much of a nod as his bindings allowed and made a noise that may have meant yes. In a more confidential tone, he continued, “You have little to do for the next while, but to enjoy the show as much as all of us. And for just as long. But,” the emcee looked to the sky for a sign, “for how long, hmmm? How long will you just lie back and enjoy the show? Well, really, as long as you like. We can go on for hours and hours if you like. All night long and into the morning if it suits you, for this is after all, your performance and all about you.

“It’s all about you,” repeated the emcee with a grand theatrical gesture. “And it’s up to you. You’ll let us know when you’ve had enough, hmmm?” The boy shook its head like a dog and made a puling sound. “Well, hmmm, I’ve said you mustn’t talk. You’ll be punished if you talk. Hmmm, hmmm, let’s think about this.” The emcee put his hands behind his back and paced back and forth along the shock table, apparently lost in thought.

“Well,” he said finally, emerging from his revery, “I have it. When you’ve had enough and you’re ready to bring the show to a close, all you have to do is cum. Just shoot a rope or two into the air and we’ll know you’re done. We’ll get you down from here, get you a little snack and then off to bed. You can do that?  Hmmm? There’s no rush, you can savor the caresses and the rhythm of the shock table for as long as you like. And that’s how you’ll let us know you’re done. Shoot cum and the show is over. How’s that?”

The emcee came to the front of the stage and introduced tonight’s “Electrician.” With a warm round of applause, a man dressed all in black came to the fore. Bows were made, salaam, blown kisses, waves, more bows to continuing applause. Finally, the Electrician went to his bench and adjusted his rolling seat, got on his headphones, typed in a series of codes on his keyboard to make ready. The display panel flashed out SAMBA and then showed six boxes, each labeled with the name of a samba instrument, one for each body target. He raised his hand and pointed at the emcee — ready to go.

The emcee bowed to the Electrician then went to the boy’s balls, caressing them gently with his fingernails, just enough to surprise it and make it flex its hips. All the air came out of its lungs as the test current went to its balls. It froze for a moment, then heaved in all it could and then squeaked out a slow leak of air. Next, the emcee put all five of his fingers about the glans, just barely touching the edges of it. Then came a hard sharp current to the glans that made the boy flop within its confines and scream full throated this time.

And then the emcee just pointed his index finger to the boy’s proud beauty with the sound fixed in place. This is what the audience was waiting for, testing the sound, what the club members have dubbed the ‘Roman Rocket,’ wherein a mid-range pulse quickly increases both in frequency and amplitude up to what must seem to the subject like eleven on a scale of ten, and the effect of it is felt very keenly along the entire length of the sound. The really strong boys show best; their muscles bulge and quiver, pop and vibrate, usually with a lusty scream of resistance.

But this boy was a little different. As the ‘rocket’ went up, the boy flexed the muscles in its legs that would have brought its knees together if they weren’t tied down. Its moaning protest began low and in harmony with the frequency of the shocks the sound gave to the length of its cock. And as the frequency and intensity rose, so did the tone of the groan rise. So did the boy’s knees shake in their bonds faster and faster until they were vibrating as fast as the arms and head, and the sounds it made were really just strangled gasps over and over. But the boy seemed to be riding that feeling into exquisite pain as though on a runaway horse it could not slow or turn. And it continued to squeeze out strangled noises until the current was cut off. Boisterous applause came immediately after with much stomping of feet and calls of “Encore! Encore!”

The emcee patted the boy’s face gently and gave it some praise and some encouraging words and time to regain its regular breathing. He rubbed the boy’s stomach and the inside of its legs and ran his fingernail along the side of its abdomen to produce a reflex in the external oblique. All looked well with the bindings and the boy as well. The emcee once again pointed to the Electrician who pointed back, ready to go.

The nipple clips were tested next, left then right, back and forth with increasing frequency and intensity. The boy hadn’t liked the clips to begin with and now with hard sharp charges to its nips, it acted as though this was a major problem. It bucked like it hadn’t anytime before. Its ankles shook furiously and made its chains sing. Its chest heaved in ragged gasps as its hard abdomen rocked in counterpoint. Again, the strangled noises in its throat and a violent shaking of its head spraying saliva and sweat.

After a while, the Electrician moved from the nips to the torpedo. This began as a slow vibration that gentled the boy noticeably. And as it relaxed by degrees, feeling the soothing vibrations from the torpedo all the way up its ass, its cock responded in the expected way: after a short time, it stood straight up large and hard. And then the test charge to the torpedo came, a flash of lightening, so surprising that the only response it produced in the boy was a loud “Ha!” and nothing else.

This was among the loveliest of the scenes in the performance. The boy slowly rocked its head from side to side to some internal beat that may have been in sync with the working of the vibrator. Its hips had enough play to flex upward with occasional, restricted pelvic thrusts, urging its now towering cock into the air. It moaned, but more like along with a tune. Its teeth weren’t sunk into the gag, the jaw muscles were resting, the forehead was smooth, the legs for the moment, quiet. Only the abs and glutes were working and it looked to me like it had just discovered what the emcee had meant about cumming. As the boy got more and more into a rhythm with the increasing vibrations, it may well have thought this ordeal would be easy.

The Electrician let the boy ride the torpedo’s pulsing vibrations for a bit longer, watched the fingers rigid and splayed out, the heels tapping each other, its cock waving in time to its rocking pelvis. The Electrician stood and raised his arm, “And now, we’ll build the full complement of the samba ensemble, adding each instrument, one after the other.” He put the torpedo at a low and slow substantial discharge at beats 2 and 4 like a surdo drum, fundamental, with the shocks coming off the main beat given by the vibrator, creating a driving syncopated groove that was played on speakers as it played out on the target body parts. The boy responded quickly to the change, grunting the while, “Uh, uh, uh,” on the off beat.

The Electrician let the boy get used to the beat for a while, then set a rhythm of shocks to the boy’s very sensitive glans — this was the caixa — typically a snare drum in batucada ensembles. The caixa plays a bright, sharp staccato and drives the rhythm with fast syncopated patterns. It is essential for the 16th note flow with accented notes that create swing and groove. The boy’s back arched as it began spastically shaking its hips and barking out “Ah, ah, ah, ah…,” contributing vocally to the rhythm and the building percussive sounds that matched the shocks.

Now the Electrician brought in the agogô for the cock sound, to add a bright high-pitched melodic percussive element. The agogô is made of steel and rings out when hammered with alternating strokes (high-low-high-low) in syncopated shock patterns the whole length of the cock shaft. This torture rang above the others when struck in time with the surdo and caixa, rising in intensity until the boy completely lost the beat and began gurggling and then screaming, once again shaking uncontrollably.

The Electrician brought it all back down until the boy stopped screaming. He kept the surdo drum’s rhythm going; you could see it resonating with the hip movements. Then, for the balls, the tamborim was turned on. This is a small high-pitched frame drum that is the most attention grabbing instrument in a samba band. It produces a high, sharp “crack” or “ping” and is used especially for syncopated rhythms. And this is exactly how it hit the boy’s balls. Its jaw opened wide and its navel nearly touched its spine. “Oooh… Huff…, aaaah…” came out involuntarily and the head shook from side to side.

And then, the pandeiro for the nipples, a drum played with the dominant hand using a combination of thumb, fingertips, heel of the hand, slaps and taps. And the Electrician’s console did all that. It is worth noting of the Electrician’s skill in this performance that he had the boy making different sounds with each different samba instrument as it was applied. When brought into play, the pandeiro had the boy making throaty shouts like “Hark… O God!… hark!” over and over as though singing.

With different combinations of body targets and different levels of intensity and pace and rhythm, the Electrician kept the boy dancing and sobbing and screaming and fighting and straining against its bonds for the next two hours. And contrary to what the emcee had told it, the boy didn’t get to choose when to cum — that was the work of the Electrician who, feeling good about the boy chose to bring it to climax in a very deliberate way. He’d had the cock sound pulled out and turned down all but the surdo drum, then brought up the caixa, slow and low and rising by degrees. The current to the glans drove the boy almost hysterical, but it managed to hold on to itself and find the tow rope that would pull it over the top. Its hips swung within their tight bonds, the vocalizations came, first a low continuous moaning that rose to a series of “Uh, uh, uh…,” and finally one strangled short “Aaaah!” as it shot an astonishing rope of cum literally six feet in the air.

__________

There are actually two codas to this story. The first is about the boy. The Circuit’s auditors were very much impressed with the boy and its performance, and while they wouldn’t submit their report for another week, they were clear that it would be rated high, details to come. This was enough to get Charlie’s “board” to agree to put the boy on the Circuit. So, I didn’t need to return it to the wild, and which freed me from that moment. I did not attend the Saturday night performance; as I’ve said, I rarely get involved with clients on a personal basis. I had Charlie’s people talk to my agent to discuss terms and conditions for supplying boys on a regular basis. And thus, it was a profitable weekend adventure.

The second coda has to do with Brenda. It was a matter of a single morning’s work for the firm to extract Asshole’s money from its bank account, after all, we had its wallet and password. It was somewhat more work to anonymously set up a trust account that could be used for Brenda’s child. There was actually $87,426.18 in the boy’s account, all which is now in her trust. And so, it was a profitable adventure for everyone.

** Hey guys. Yep it has been awhile. Life has been full and fun lately.  New man in my life. YAHTZEE.  A man who truly gets off that I have a muscle fetish and allows me to use it both ways,  any way,  anytime I desires. ”  This week I am flying solo, un-supervised plus bored and horny. So I decided to write a quick one, Oh, and my man has the sexiest feet ever. I need to work some hot foot scenes into this story.

I am rusty, give me some slack. If you are more worried about grammar or some shit,  I would bet two jacked up muscle heads would be of no interest to you anyway. 

---

The double split on my bicep peaks is freaking ripped.  I trace the ridge with my left finger. Feeling the hardness. Getting off on the veins and cuts. Flexing hard I am concentrating on every fiber, willing each strand of muscle to expand, fill with blood and peak to its massive potential. And they do, on command as I twist my wrist back and forth making it dance. Flexing in the mirror after a hard work out is gratifying, at least to me it is. Hell, when you take hours a day, every day, every week for years upon years to build this finely sculpted mass of muscle, of course I enjoy getting off on the results.

 Fuck that! A thought pops into my head.  I half chuckle out loud. Yea, at least I admit my lust for muscles. My muscles in fact.  I freely confess that I built these muscles for attention, even if some of the attention is mine, and I get turned on. Look at any social media site, and you try to tell me that all those millions of flexed gym selfies, biceps exploding all over the world wide web, and these guys try and pass this ego driven mania as healthy. ‘I work out for my health’ Ha. Blah blah blah, then put on a baggy shirt and keep it to yourself.

NO. These guys are a lot like myself, yet they cannot admit to the dark desire to attract attention. Be ogled. Lusted after. Me, I relish it. Mind you, it comes at a price. Long arduous hours in the gym. Religiously, daily. A routine etched into granite that I do not deviate from. Then the hours of food prep, eating on timely schedule, no deviation. Of course, a cheat day here and there, but to be supremely ripped at 225 lbs. and in my 40’s old on top of that, it takes unrelenting dedication. Even the horniest of muscle fetishists are bored after the first few weeks of dating their “dreamy Muscle fuck toy.” They realize the fetish is hot, yet the dedication even as a supportive onlooker is exhausting.

 I had accepted that fact many years ago, the fact that if I am addicted to body building and my muscles, I will be trading in any meaningful relationship with a good fuck here and there would be the bane of my existence. Guys who enjoy fucking a raging bottom muscle daddy, just wanted a thrill, not the commitment it takes to keep me pumped up into the fetish of their lust. Oh, I can get laid just about anytime I like. Put on a tight tank top and a pair of denim shorts to show my ASS-ets off, and I attract cock. Lots of it. But many times, I just wind up alone, at home. Oiling up, flexing for my own satisfaction. I do not mind. I keep telling myself.

 Then I met Nick. ‘Nick the Dick’ as I named him in my phone after the first night we met. Damn, I smile and grin to myself remembering that first night we met. The first night, that turned out to be 3-day fuck-fest.   I even missed a training session I was so enamored. I smile. I always do when I think of Nick.

 “Well, GAWD DAMN DADDY” the southern drawl was as sexy as the man who is approaching me. 

 “Aw shucks” I attempt a fake shyness. Opening my arms exposing all of myself, adding a slight tightness and flex for his benefit.  “But thank you”

 Jonathan always throws a great pool party. This one no exception. So, standing here in my black speedo, enjoying the admiration of this handsome fucker, I remind myself to thank Jonathan for the invite.

The forward stranger sidles up close, whispering in my ear, “Do you realize how fucking hot it will be when your muscles are dripping in sweat while I fuck the living daylights out of your hot ass?”  I loved it. My nipples immediately went erect, goose bumps covered my shaved bare skin and I think I even quivered at his direct approach. None of this monkeying around, beating around the bush acting interested in my life. Yada Yada Yada. No, this guy went direct. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to fuck me. He wanted to fuck my muscles. I loved it. “And by the way,” he opens the front of his bathing suit to show me a very impressive dick, “I am a grower, not only a shower.”

 Finding myself speechless is a new feeling for me, but here I am wide eyed, slack jawed yet enjoying the compliments being hurled my way.

“If I am wrong” he steps back a foot or two, he gestures as if he is leaving. “But if I am right, my name is Nick.”  He offers his right hand as an introduction.

 “Hello Nick” I reach for his right hand, introduce myself. “Marc” I trail off enjoying the sight of this very handsome, hot man. Swarthy Latin maybe Mediterranean charm. Bronzed perfect shin, dizzying dark brown eyes that seduce the unsuspected. Perfect teeth, and dimples that almost had me bending over, begging for cock on the spot.

 “I am parked out to the side, white Jeep, top off.” My mind finally catches up to the blood rushing through my body, to my cock and to the spine-tingling sensations my tight hole is already twitching over. I turn, heading for the door, knowing full well he is following me. Two can play this game, I thought as I swished my speedo covered ass towards the door. I knew he was hot on my trail.

 The sex. MIND BLOWING.  The brutal, raw connection. The intense passion. His lust for my body, my muscles, my desire to please him to get his big dick. We were both delighted in lust.  Finally, a man who just wanted to fuck me because I had built a body to be worshipped. And a man who totally got turned on that I was in lust with his big dick. Not so much him. I am sure he was a great guy, but that fucking cock. I was gaga over the size. Its girth. The weight. And the sheer hardness. All I had to do was flex a bicep and he was rock hard ready to fuck. Again and again for the entire week end.

 Chatting over a nice hot breakfast on Sunday morning, our conversation veered into many other subjects other than Sex. Or muscles. Or his huge cock. I started feeling pangs of familiar pasts – this guy got his muscle fetish satisfied, but Monday morning he would wake and return to his mundane routine, not willing or able to endure my grueling schedule. He has no clue what it takes to look like I do. No clue as to what it takes to keep this body jacked up into competition shape lean muscle mass. No clue that I do all this selfishly, just to get him hard so he can fuck me.

 But I grin and charge on, damned if I do not give him something to really remember what it is like to fuck his muscle wet dream. And I enjoy the rest of our sex filled weekend.  I take him down to my home garage gym, relentless heat and south Florida humidity only enhanced my work out. I wanted to flex and preen and lift and display what my muscles really look like while I got a short but intense work out.  He was enrapt with every rep. asking questions. Seriously thought-out questions. His keen interest was way beyond that of a horny big dick just wanting to fuck a hot muscle daddy.  He had knowledge. He understood the rhythm behind my madness. He appeared as interested as I was in the development of my body.

 And yet, within the next hour he had me bent over the bench press bar, fucking me like a wild man. Mirrors all about, our reflection echoed around the room. Grunting wild sex abandoned noises bursting through the walls into the serene neighborhood I live in.

 “On your knees you hot fucker” he commands after a wild fuck on every piece of equipment in my garage gym.  “FLEX” he stammers out between clinched teeth.  “Your biceps.”   I barley get into position before a hot splash of cum covers the entire peak of my right arm. Gush after gush erupts and I keep flexing.

 “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUuuccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkKKKKKK” he is lost to his own orgasm.

 My cock starts to boil. My nuts scrunch up. My biceps quiver. I look up into his eyes, then start licking his hot serum off my muscles. Licking my biceps, sucking up his delicious cum is too much for me. I start shooting. Hands free. Just looking at him, flexing every ounce of strength that I have left to turn him on and I cum.  Boy, how I cum.  I lace both hands behind my head, and enjoy the pleasure we both are experiencing.

 MUSCLES for COCK. A very simple equation, yet so complicated.

 Sunday afternoon fades into Sunday evening. As if we are both experiencing the same faded thoughts of what the new week would look like. Lots of hot memories. Nothing more, nothing less. I got my rocks off several times, and I am pretty sure I rocked his muscle fetish more than any man before me. Not too shabby I think as we both drift off for the nights sleep before the new week sets in.

 

Briiiiiinnnnngggggggggggggggggggggggggggg,, Ringggggggggggggg,  Ddddddddddddding,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,”What the fuck?” I am jarred awake by   the 4:30 am alarm.  Usually, I find that sound exciting. My routine, my rhythm, my daily grind that is ingrained in every fiber of my body clicks in. Yet this morning. I am in a fog. What the fuck.   I shake my head a wake. Then I smell. First the bacon. Then the coffee.?

 I stumble out of bed, naked and tousled from a long night, while my mind reminds me why my ass and every muscle in my body is sore. I smile as I lumber down the stairs. And there he is. Nick. ‘Nick with the big dick.’ 

 “Hey babe.” Nick gives me a quick kiss. “I am not sure of calories, or macros, or protein, or any of that.”  he rubs my shoulders while planting a sweet kiss on my bicep. “But I cooked everything I could find in the fridge and I hope this is enough fuel to engage those beautiful muscles for your morning workout.” 

 “I have got an eight o’clock meeting and I am running late.”  He runs his knuckles up my right bicep, “But, thank you for this amazing week end.”    He kisses my lips softly.  “Call me if you need some more of this big dick.”   And with that, Nick waltzes right out the front door.

 “Wait,” I call out before he gets out the door.  “Do something for me, will you?”  I ask to take his photo licking my biceps to inspire my morning routine.  “Only if I get a pic of you on your knees with my big dick in your mouth.”  Once again, we both get “It.”  

After we shoot a few salacious pics, I tell him indeed id love some more of his cock. In fact, I freely admit, I would like a lot more of your cock, my ass already feels empty. 

 He reaches up to kiss me, “Daddy. Be careful there. Because you could spoil me rotten and I may never leave.”  

 “Me too” I happily agree, and give him one more double bi flex just as he closes the door.

 “You are cruel” he laughingly exclaims loud enough for me to hear him through the door.

My breakfast taste especially good this morning. Mainly because my ass was still full of cum from the handsome man who cooked it for me.

 Today is leg day, and I nail it. With repeated glances at the pics we took this morning, I am inspired to put in the work. Put in the dedication and extra effort.  Good grief, I got a damn crush on this guy; I shake my head. I was proud of myself; I had not texted him a dozen times like a horny teenage girl. But I wanted too.

 After 2 hours of brutal leg work, my oak sized thighs were fried. My calves exploded up into horseshoe shaped ballons. I slipped my shoes and sox off and did some flexing right there in the gym mirrors. Not caring if any one looked, but I did take a few photos, my veins were exploded. My skin still glistening with sweat and so tight it looks like the skin may burst.  The calf photo came out amazing.  I could not help myself. I sent it to Nick.

 Within seconds my phone dinged with a message back from Nick. “Holy crap. Muscle daddy. I love that photo. And the next time I have those amazing calves on my shoulders; I am going to eat them up.”

 “How about tonight?”  I reply with no hesitation, “My calves could use a good massage and TLC.”  I send with a wink emoji.

 “My ass too” followed immediately.

 To which a picture of his big dick landed in my messages. It looks as if he unzipped at his desk just then and snapped a quickie. That was the first photo I added to the ‘folder’ labeled Nicks big dick.

 “Oh, hell yes.”  I begin my celebration early.

 At last, the doorbell rings. My heart races and I take a deep breath.

“I think this should be your new uniform.”   Nick obviously approves of the choice of clothes I chose. After changing several times like a nervous teenager on a first date, I decided on a simple black jock.

 I give Nick a wink and turn my upper body half sideways. Starting with the wrist on my right hand, I slowly tense and curl it up. Just the wrist at first, even this simple action of flexing my wrist up causes every muscle to perk up to attention. Intentionally slow for effect while concentrating on inflating each muscle with as much blood as I could. My left fist resting on my hip, my right leg pushed ahead of my left. I keep flexing. My elbow is still next to my obliques, but rising and forming the massive peak. Inch by inch I raise it higher. I am so far into the zone I do not even look over to see if Nick is watching. When I get into the perfect right arm bicep pose, I turn my head to see Nick. Pure lust driven euphoria. “Marry Me.” He calmly stated.  “Marry me right now.”  He pulls me in for the hottest most passionate kiss I have ever had. “And I am not kidding.”  He circles around my body with a whistle escaping his lips. “I have never met any man like you before.”  

 “Awnnhhh” my corny imitation of a buzzer.   I point a shaking finger up and down his body.  “And?”

Not even skipping a beat, seconds flat, he is stripped naked, obscenely grabbing a handful of his junk, “Will you fucking marry this big dick, would you? You hot, juiced up, muscled up horny piece of ass.”

 And that was 20 years ago, almost to the day.

Everything Beneath at Jasper Lake

The cold wakes me first, that sharp, thin-air chill that seeps through the insulation of even the best outdoor gear. Then the weight. Hayden’s arm is slung over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. And then, unmistakably, the press of his morning wood against my ass, trapped between us under the Cat’s Meow’s synthetic lining.

I shift suddenly. Hayden groans into my shoulder, his hips jerking forward in reflex.

“Mmm. You awake?” His voice is gravelly with sleep, fingers already skating under my shirt.

“Yeah, I’m awake,” I yawn, turning slightly within the confines of the Cat’s Meow. The press of his morning wood is noticeable. I pause for a moment, remembering Brendan in the other tent, just across the clearing, trying to discern any sound from that direction. “Hey, Hayden?”

“Yeah?” he whispers, his lips nuzzling the back of my neck.

“You wanna… get some gluck gluck again?” I ask softly, remembering the intensity of last night in this very bag.

Hayden’s grip on my waist tightens. “You mean…?”

“Yeah,” I confirm. “But… not in here.” I glance upwards towards the mesh of the tent, imagining Brendan’s headlamp flickering to life or wondering if he heard us last night.

He stops for a second. “Outside? It’s freezing, Joey.” His breath hitches slightly.

“I know,” I reply, a plan forming in my mind. The image of him shivering but still eager is appealing. “But Brendan’s right over there, and he might wake up too.” I pull away slightly, the coolness seeping into the space Hayden’s body left. “And… I have a thing for you in that Eddie Bauer puffer.” I remember him wearing it all yesterday: the light blue nylon, almost a match for the interior of my old Cat’s Meow.

Hayden chuckles softly against my hair. “You’re such a tease, Joey.”

“Maybe,” I concede, already pulling away the top Cat’s Meow draped over us. “But seriously. Just the jacket.” The contrast of the warm, puffy jacket and whatever else he might (or might not) be wearing underneath… It’s a delicious thought.

He pulls back a little further, a spirited glint in his voice even in the dim light filtering through the tent. “Nothing else?”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see. “Just the jacket. Come on, let’s go before Brendan wakes up.” 

I shimmy carefully out of the sleeping bag first, trying not to jostle the whole tent. My legs are cold the second I’m free of the warmth, and I fumble around for the clothes we kicked off last night. I find Hayden’s blue Nike shorts first and slide them back on, the mesh lining brushing against my still-sensitive skin. Then I grab my loose purple Catapoxi fleece and tug it over my head.

Hayden sits up behind me, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his blonde hair a messy halo in the predawn darkness. He’s put on his puffer jacket from last night, the nylon crinkling quietly as he shuffles around me.

I glance over at him and grin. “Told you, just the jacket.”

He rolls his eyes but smiles, pulling the zipper up slightly.

 

Before we crawl out, I reach toward the foot of the tent and grab the packable throw blanket I stuffed back into my pack last night. It’s thin but better than kneeling straight onto cold ground. Hayden watches me fold it under my arm with a curious look.

“For ground cover,” I whisper, flashing a quick smile. “You’ll thank me.”

He chuckles under his breath, and we unzip the tent slowly, trying not to make too much noise. I peek out first, and Brendan’s tent is zipped up tight: no movement, no light. Good.

We step out into the cold morning air. It bites harder than I anticipated, gnawing at my legs, but I ignore it. I pull Hayden away from our campsite, threading us through a patch of dense trees just beyond where the other sites are scattered. The ground is uneven, cluttered with roots and rocks, but it feels private back here, shadowed and tucked away from the main trail and anything else.

I spread the throw blanket out on a relatively flat patch of dirt and needles, and Hayden smirks at me like I’m some genius. He steps onto it barefoot, his puffer jacket barely brushing the tops of his thighs, and I step next to him, feeling the chill fade a little beneath my feet.

He catches my eye, still smiling a little, his cheeks pink from the cold, and for a moment, it’s just us and the sharp, pine-scented air.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but there’s something tender under it, like he’s already giving in.

I get on my knees and crawl even closer, sliding my hands up under the front of his jacket, feeling the contrast of his warm skin and the slick, cool lining inside.

“And you like it,” I whisper back as his erection grows in my hand.

Hayden groans as I take his about 6 inch cock and tuck it inside his jacket, gliding the soft, sensual blue nylon material across his shaft. “Have you ever done this before with your jackets?” I ask.

“No.” Hayden groans as I guide his cock between the folds of his jacket, the blue nylon whispering against his shaft with every stroke. His breath comes in ragged clouds between us, mingling with the scent of pine and cold earth. “Fuck, Joey,” His voice cracks as I increase pressure, the puffer material gliding like a second skin over his heated flesh.

I smirk up at him, watching his eyelashes flutter. “Told you the jacket was sexy.” My thumb swipes over his tip, rubbing the nylon and down insulation across his cockhead. The contrast of slick fabric and his rigid length makes my dick twitch in my borrowed shorts.

Hayden draws my head closer and he yanks the puffer’s hem up with his other hand, just enough to free himself, resulting in his dick popping back out and ready for me to take into my mouth. I lick it gently, tracing the contours of his head with my tongue. He gasps softly, his hand tightening in my hair as I take him into my mouth. His shaft is already slick with pre-cum, and the taste of him sends a thrill through my body. I swirl my tongue around the head before sliding down, taking more of him in, feeling his cock throb as I suck. 

Hayden’s knees buckle, and he collapses on the throw blanket, pulling me with him. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, and we both sink to the ground, the cold forgotten as I continue to bob my head back and forth along his shaft, my cheeks hollowing with each suck. His groans echo through the quiet forest, muffled by the fabric of his puffer jacket as he shifts under me.

The sensation of Hayden’s cock pulsing in my mouth is electric as he reaches his climax, the warmth of his cum spreading over my tongue. I swallow as much as I can, but the sudden intensity of it all makes me pull back slightly, spitting out the last bit onto the crumpled throw blanket. Hayden’s eyes are squeezed shut, his chest heaving with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hand still clutching a fistful of my hair. I watch him, the light blue nylon of his Eddie Bauer puffer jacket stark against the dark blue throw, and I feel a smug satisfaction at having brought him to such a height of pleasure right out here in the open.

Just as I lean in again, running my hand slowly down the slick nylon of Hayden’s jacket, a faint sound cracks through the quiet—something sharp, like a branch snapping underfoot. I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Hayden’s eyes pop open, and we just stare at each other for a second, barely breathing. Another crunch follows, closer this time, and the raw heat between us evaporates into cold panic. Before either of us can move, a figure steps through the trees, and the fragile spell between us shatters like thin ice.

“Jesus Christ,” Brendan yells.

I whip my head around, still on my knees, and there he is, mere feet away. In a silver-and-black Buffs practice jersey, black Gymshark joggers, and carrying a roll of toilet paper. His expression is pure, unadulterated shock, eyes darting between Hayden’s half-exposed cock, still splayed out over the puffer jacket and leaking over it, and me between his legs.

Hayden yanks his jacket down — too late.

Brendan blinks. “Uh.”

The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Brendan’s grip on the toilet paper tightens, his knuckles whitening. His jaw works like he’s trying to form words, but nothing comes out.

Hayden clears his throat first, shifting awkwardly on the blanket. “Uh. Morning, Brendan.”

Brendan’s eyes flick down again, to where Hayden’s jacket is still rumpled, then back up to my face. His expression is indiscernible, but his voice is tight. “What the hell are you guys doing up here?”

“We, uh… didn’t think you’d be up yet,” I offer weakly, with my stomach lurching so hard I think I might throw up.

Brendan scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, I don’t think I need to take a dump anymore.” Then his gaze darts between us again, lingering on Hayden’s disheveled state. “Fuck, what the hell, guys?”

The forest air turns leaden between us. Brendan’s grip on the toilet paper slackens as he takes an abrupt step back, his hiking boots crushing a brittle pinecone underfoot. The sound cracks through the silence like gunfire.

Hayden scrambles to his feet, trying to cover himself with the throw underneath us. “Brendan…” I call to him.

Brendan’s jaw works like he’s trying to form more words, but nothing comes out. Then, finally, a low, rough laugh. “So this is why you’ve been so eager to hang with Joey. How long has this been going on ?”

Hayden exhales sharply through his nose. “Since you and I got back from camping, where you did the same thing…”

Brendan’s eyes widen. “That was weeks ago.” He looks at me for confirmation, and I nod mutely. The muscle in his jaw twitches. “And you didn’t think to tell me. I’m guessing this is why you want to break up with your girlfriend?”

The accusation hangs in the air. A Stellar Jay shrieks from a nearby Douglas fir, its blue feathers flashing in the dawn light like a taunt.

Hayden moves forward, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “It wasn’t about keeping it from you. We didn’t know what it was yet.”

Brendan scoffs, shaking his head. He shifts the toilet paper roll from hand to hand. “Bullshit. You’ve been sneaking around right under my nose. I thought we were friends.” 

The morning chill suddenly penetrates my bones. Hayden tries to close the gap between him and Brendan. “Brendan!”

“Don’t.” Brendan holds up a hand. “Just… don’t.” For a long moment, he stares at the ground between us, then mutters, “I’m gonna take a piss. Don’t follow me.”

As Brendan stalks away, the toilet paper roll dangles forgotten from his fingers.

I swallow reflexively, watching Brendan disappear into the trees. The taste of Hayden still lingers on my tongue, souring suddenly. Did I push this wedge between him and Brendan? Did I see an opening after I found out about their camping trip and take it without thinking about who’d get hurt?

Hayden exhales beside me, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” I mutter.

Hayden and I stand frozen for a long moment, the weight of what just happened pressing down on us like the cold morning air. Brendan’s footsteps fade into the distance, leaving behind only the rustle of branches and the distant call of a jay.

My throat dry, I take in a deep breath. “We should…get dressed before someone else sees you.”

Hayden nods, his face pale. He grabs the throw blanket from the ground and shakes it off before wrapping it around his waist. We walk back in silence, the crunch of twigs beneath our feet the only sound between us. My mind races: What is Brendan thinking? Is he pissed at both of us? Hurt? Is he gonna bail on the trip?

When we reach the campsite, Brendan’s tent is still empty, his Cat’s Meow twisted on the pad, and its zipper is wide open.

Hayden exhales shakily. “He’s not back yet.”

I nod, rubbing my arms against the chill. “We should start breakfast. Maybe… maybe he’ll cool off and we can talk to him and see what he’s thinking over coffee.”

Hayden doesn’t look convinced, but we both crawl into our tent to put our pants on. I grab the camp stove from my pack, setting it up on the flat rock we’d been using as a makeshift table. My hands are steady, but my stomach is in knots.

What if he’s leaving?

The thought hits me like a punch. Brendan could hike back to the trailhead and leave all the stuff for us to deal with and find our way home.

Hayden must be thinking the same thing, because he glances toward Brendan’s tent again, his brow furrowed. “You think he’s gonna bail on us?”

I shake my head, but I’m not sure. “I don’t know.”

We work in silence, purifying and boiling water for coffee and cartons of hashbrowns. The routine is familiar, but the tension is thick. Every rustle in the trees makes me look up, hoping to see Brendan walking back.

But he doesn’t.

Hayden pours two mugs of coffee, handing one to me. His fingers brush mine, but there’s no spark this time, just worry. “We should go look for him,” he mutters.

I nod, taking a sip of the bitter brew. “Yeah. After we eat.”

Just as I say it, a branch snaps somewhere beyond the campsite. Both of us whip our heads toward the sound.

Brendan steps into the clearing, his expression faint. His Buffs practice jersey is disheveled, his brown hair sticking up in places like he’d been running his hands through it. He stops a few feet away, arms crossed.

No one speaks for a minute until Hayden clears his throat. “We made coffee.”

Brendan’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond. He just stands there, staring at us like he’s trying to figure something out.

I can’t take the silence anymore. “Brendan, are you ok?”

“I’m not gonna bail,” he cuts in, voice rough. “We drove out here together, we’re staying.” His boot grinds into the dirt, his jaw working like he’s chewing on glass. 

Relief floods through me, but it’s short-lived.

Brendan’s eyes flick between us, his expression hardening. “But we’re gonna talk about this.”

Hayden and I exchange a glance.

Brendan finally moves again, grabbing his mug from his pack. Hayden quickly pours him some coffee. Brendan takes it, but doesn’t drink. He just holds it, the steam rising in the cold air.

Hayden tries to explain first, his voice low and placating. “Look, Brendan, it wasn’t… we didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”

Brendan lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, surprise!” He finally meets Hayden’s eyes, and I see a flash of hurt. “Kind of hard to miss, Hayden.” He then turns his gaze to me. “And you, Joey? I guess I’m the one who was the third wheel.”

“We are close, Brendan,” Hayden interjects quickly.

Brendan’s gaze sharpens. “We are? Or are you just… sleeping with everyone you meet now?” The implication hangs heavy in the air. He’s not just upset about what he saw; he feels like his friendship with Hayden has been undermined, and that I’m responsible for it.

I try to explain from my perspective, wanting him to understand it wasn’t about deliberately excluding him. “Brendan, it just… happened between Hayden and me. It wasn’t planned. We’ve been talking, and… things progressed.” I avoid mentioning the specifics of our conversation at my apartment or what I knew about that first sleeping bag, sensing that would only make things worse.

Brendan sets his coffee mug down hard on a nearby rock. “Progressed? While we were all supposed to get to know each other more on a camping trip? Did it ever occur to either of you that maybe I’d feel a little… left out?” His voice is laced with a genuine hurt that resonates more than outright anger. “I thought we were all here to hang out, enjoy the mountains together. Not for some secret thing to be going on behind my back.”

Hayden looks down, shifting his weight. “I was going to tell you, Bren. I just… I didn’t know how.”

Brendan raises an eyebrow, skepticism etched on his face. “Oh, really? When were you planning on that? After the weekend? After you finally cut Ava loose?” The sarcasm is biting. “It’s not just about what happened this morning, guys. It’s that you didn’t feel like you could be honest with me. I thought we were better friends than that.”

The weight of his words settles over us, heavier than our backpacks. He’s not wrong. We haven’t been honest, and his hurt at being excluded from this new dynamic is palpable. The focus isn’t solely on jealousy; it’s on the broken trust within his friendship with Hayden.

I stare down at the coffee cooling in my hands, unsure of what to say. There’s no good excuse. Not really. Just this tangle of feelings, timing, and everything happening faster than we knew how to manage.

“I’m sorry,” I say, finally looking up. “You’re right. We should’ve said something. We weren’t trying to leave you out.”

Brendan crosses his arms, his jaw working. He doesn’t respond right away.

Hayden takes a step toward him, careful and deliberate, like he’s walking out onto thin ice. “Bren, I value our friendship deeply,” he says, voice soft but steady. “After what happened on our first trip, I had so many questions about myself and how I feel about Ava. I felt ashamed to bring it up with you because maybe we were just drunk. But then I met Joey, and I realized it wasn’t just the alcohol.”

Brendan’s face flickers, just slightly. A twitch in his brow. A tight swallow. Like something in Hayden’s honesty is getting through, even if it hurts to hear.

He exhales through his nose, sharp and uneven. Then, without looking at either of us, he moves to stand. His knee catches the rock beside him, and his coffee mug tips, clattering once before spilling across the pine needles. None of us moves to pick it up.

“I need a minute again,” he mutters, his voice low. “Just… give me some space.”

Without another word, Brendan turns and heads toward the far edge of the lake, his back stiff, shoulders squared like he’s carrying all our guilt with him.

Neither Hayden nor I move.

We just sit there, staring at the still lake water, letting the silence say the rest.

The minutes crawl by like hours.

Hayden doesn’t speak. He just crouches beside the now-empty tin mug, his eyes fixed on the dark patch where the coffee soak into the dirt. I stay seated on the log, cradling my cup even though it’s gone cold. The silence between us isn’t heavy, it’s careful. Like we’re both waiting to see which way the wind will shift.

Every now and then, I glance up toward the trees where Brendan disappeared. I try not to imagine him heading back to the Bronco, his pack already strapped up, tires kicking up gravel on that narrow road out. I can’t shake the guilt twisting inside me, the kind that tastes like burned marshmallows and regret.

Then, finally, I hear it, footsteps. Not fast or angry. Just… steady.

Brendan walks back into camp ten minutes later, the muscles in his face pulled tight like they’ve been clenched the whole time. He’s holding a handful of rocks, which he tosses absently by the stove like he just needed something to do with his hands.

Neither of us makes a sound at first. It’s Brendan who breaks the silence, voice lower than before but more controlled.

“I’m not gonna pretend that didn’t mess me up,” he says, eyes flicking between us. “But I’ve been thinking.”

Hayden straightens. “Okay…”

Brendan meets his gaze, then mine. “You’re right. You didn’t owe me an explanation from day one. And I know I can’t control what happens between you guys.” He pauses. “But what sucks is not being told. Not knowing until I walked into it. Literally.”

I open my mouth, but Brendan holds up a hand. “I get it. Feelings happen. But I felt like I was the only one who didn’t know what was going on, and that sucks when we’re supposed to be friends.”

“You’re right,” I say, before Hayden can. “We screwed up.”

Brendan exhales, shoulders deflating just a little. “I don’t want to argue. I just… need some time to recalibrate. Figure out how to be around both of you without feeling like I’m intruding.”

“You’re not,” Hayden says without a beat. “You’re not intruding, man.”

Brendan gives him a look. Not angry. Just honest. “Let me be the one to figure that out.”

He sits back down on the log opposite us, this time careful to keep his mug upright. He doesn’t ask for more coffee. He just stares out toward the lake, silent again—but not gone.

I take out my phone amidst the silence. Hayden looks over my shoulder at me playing around with my hiking app.

“Is that where we’re going today?” He asks, breaking the silence.

I nod, tilting the screen so he can see better. “Yeah, the continuation of the Diamond Lake Trail to Jasper Lake. It’s about six miles round trip from here, some decent elevation gain, but nothing crazy.”

Hayden leans in a little closer, his shoulder brushing mine. I feel the warmth even through my fleece, but I don’t lean back into him. Not right now. Not with Brendan sitting a few feet away, eyes fixed on the lake like he’s trying not to listen but definitely is.

I clear my throat. “Should take us maybe three hours, give or take? Depends on how long we hang out by the water.”

Brendan finally speaks up, not looking at either of us. “What’s the grade like?”

I glance at him. “Mostly moderate. A few switchbacks in the middle section, but it’s shaded part of the way.”

He nods, fingers drumming once against the side of his mug. “Cool.”

It’s not overly enthusiastic. But it’s something.

Hayden catches my eye and mouths, cool, with a half-smile like he’s trying to keep things light. I don’t smile back, but the corner of my mouth twitches. We all know it’s going to take more than a hike to fix this, but at least we’re still going.

I slide the phone back into my pocket and start packing up the stove. Hayden offers Brendan a Cliff Bar from his pack, and he gladly takes it. The air still feels thick, but it’s moving now, like maybe we’re hiking forward from this, one careful step at a time.

Hayden and I quietly clean up around the stove while Brendan stays seated on the log, sipping the last of the purified water, eyes fixed on the distant ripples across the lake. 

Eventually, I zip up the tent after putting away the stove, brushing pine needles off my pants, and glance at the time on my phone. It’s still early. “So,” I say carefully, not quite looking at either of them, “we still down for the hike to Jasper Lake?”

There’s a pause. Hayden nods first, then Brendan shrugs. “Might as well,” he mutters. “We didn’t come all the way up here to sit around like moody teenagers.”

We each pack light, just water, some snacks, and layers in case the wind kicks up at elevation. I stuff my rain jacket into the top of my pack and clip the bear canister closed, leaving it tucked under the vestibule in case we get back late. Brendan refills his water bladder in silence, while Hayden double-checks the trail map on my phone. I throw a glance toward the trail sign behind camp and then back at our little site.

There’s a pair of guys near the lake’s edge, standing knee-deep in the cold water with fly rods arcing above them. They’re older, probably locals, and they’ve got the quiet, practiced rhythm of people who know what they’re doing. I step over to them as they pull another cast through the air, the line slicing clean across the reflection of the treeline.

“Hey,” I call gently, not wanting to startle them. One of the guys turns toward me, smiling behind a silver beard.

“Morning,” he says.

“Hey,” I repeat, a little more confidently. “My friends and I are heading over to Jasper Lake for the morning. Would you mind keeping an eye on our tents? Just in case.”

The guy nods, lowering his rod. “Sure thing. You boys camped just up the way?”

“Yeah,” I say, pointing. “Two tents at the last site.”

“No problem,” he replies with a smile. “We’ll be out here most of the morning.”

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it. I head back toward camp, where Hayden’s got a daypack slung over one shoulder and Brendan is adjusting the straps on his fleece. Neither of them says anything as I rejoin them.

“I got somebody to watch over the tents,” I say, slipping my day pack onto my back.

“Cool,” Hayden says, giving a small nod. He glances toward Brendan. “You good?”

Brendan doesn’t answer right away, just looks toward the trailhead and exhales. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

And just like that, we head uphill, three sets of boots crunching over pine needles, gravel, and silence.

We’re about twenty minutes up the trail when Brendan finally speaks again.

The sun’s made it high enough now to catch the dew dripping off the lodgepole pines, and we’re walking single file, with Hayden up ahead and Brendan just behind me. The air is crisp, sharp with the smell of wet bark and cold earth. My boots crunch lightly on the gravel, but even the sounds of nature feel muted under the weight of everything we haven’t said.

“So,” Brendan says, and I hear the shift in his tone before the words even hit. “How did this… start? Between you guys?”

Hayden slows in front of me, glancing over his shoulder. I stop too, half-turning to look at Brendan. His face isn’t angry, just calm. Controlled. Like he’s ready to hear the answer even if he doesn’t like it.

I look at Hayden, unsure. Part of me doesn’t want to open this door right now, not with the trees pressing in close and the lake still out of reach. I chew the inside of my cheek, but Hayden meets my gaze and nods slightly, like he’s telling me he’s got this.

“It started right after that trip,” Hayden says evenly. “The one where you and I…” He breaks off for a second, then pushes through it. “Where we messed around in the tent.”

Brendan’s jaw tightens just slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Hayden shifts the weight of his pack. “I wasn’t sure what it meant after. I thought maybe it was just a drunken curiosity. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you, about what it meant for Ava. We didn’t talk about it, even on the way home, so I thought you didn’t feel the same way.”

He pauses again. I hold my breath, watching Brendan closely.

“And then I met Joey again,” he says. “Back at the rec, then his apartment, we got to talking, and I don’t know… things clicked. It was easy with him.”

Brendan doesn’t move.

Hayden glances at me again, then back at Brendan. “Joey already knew about what you and I did. He knew before he met you.”

I stiffen. My heart jumps in my chest, waiting to see how Brendan reacts.

His brows knit, but not with the fury I expect. He just exhales, like the confirmation stings in a way he’d suspected all along. “So he knew you had a girlfriend and that we did stuff too?” His voice trails off, not accusatory, just quietly stunned.

“Yeah,” Hayden says, firm but not defensive. “Yeah, I guess maybe Joey saw that as his opening? He didn’t care about the weirdness of it. He just… saw me.”

Brendan doesn’t say anything for a while. We just stand there on the trail, the cold creeping up again now that we’ve stopped moving.

Brendan stares at the ground, kicking a loose pebble with his boot. It skitters off the trail, vanishing into the brush. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat. “Okay. Fine. But don’t expect me to act like this doesn’t suck for me.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Or to cover for you with Ava.”

That’s it. Not approval. Not acceptance. Just an acknowledgement. A signal that he’s still processing, but he’s not storming off.

Hayden starts walking again, and I fall in behind him. Brendan follows after a second, and for now, that’s enough.

We continue for another hour, climbing switchbacks that cut across wide, open slopes with barely any tree cover. The alpine meadows stretch out around us, golden and brittle from the dry season, scattered with granite boulders and scrappy tufts of grass. The sun’s still low enough to throw long shadows across the trail, but there’s no real shade—just sky and stone and wind.

The trees from Diamond Lake faded behind us a while ago, the trail opening up completely as we gained elevation. Up here, everything feels more exposed. More honest.

Jasper Lake finally appears ahead, nestled in a shallow basin below the ridgeline. It should feel dramatic, but the sight stops us for a different reason.

The lake is low. Like, scarily low.

Shoreline that should be underwater stretches bare and cracked, with driftwood scattered like bones on the dry lakebed. The water that’s left still manages to shimmer under the light, catching a quiet reflection of the ridge to the south, but it feels… thin. Like the lake is struggling to stay alive.

We’re not the only ones here. A couple of hikers sit along the eastern shore, looking equally quieted by the sight. Off in the distance, two people are coming down what must be the Devil’s Thumb trail, steep and jagged as it folds into the basin. That side of the loop looks brutal. We definitely took the right route.

We find a flat spot near a boulder and drop our packs. There’s not much to say at first. Maybe it’s the view. Maybe it’s everything from earlier still lingering.

Hayden pulls out a granola bar and tosses me one, then another to Brendan. The silence stretches, broken only by the wind skimming over the dried-up lake bed. Brendan picks up a rock, turning it over in his hands before hurling it toward the water. It lands with a hollow plunk, too close to the shore to even splash.

“Should’ve brought a fucking fishing pole,” he mutters.

Hayden and I exchange a glance. Neither of us laughs.

Hayden shifts, glancing at Brendan. “Can I ask you something?”

Brendan doesn’t look up right away. “You can try.”

Hayden exhales, the wrapper crinkling in his hands. “Do you regret it? That night we got drunk and fooled around?”

The question lingers for a beat. No weight, no drama. Just honest.

Brendan finally looks up, squinting into the wind. “I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes I think, yeah, I wish we hadn’t. It changed things. Made everything messier.”

“But,” Brendan continues, “I also don’t think it was just nothing. It was something. Maybe not in the way it is with you and Joey. But it was still… emotional, I guess.”

His eyes meet Hayden’s briefly, then flick to me. “So no, I don’t regret it. I regret what happened after. The not-talking part. I guess my not bringing it up made you think you couldn’t tell me about Joey.

Brendan doesn’t say anything more, and none of us pushes it. We just sit there, the wind coming off the lake cool and dry, brushing over the brittle grass and cracked shoreline. The sun’s higher now, glinting off the exposed stones that would be underwater in a fuller year. Everything feels a little raw: us, the lake, the sky. Like we’re all still figuring out how to hold what’s left.

Something tickled Eric’s nose, and his eyes fluttered open. The morning sun, filtered through the blinds, cast stripes across the hairy chest Eric had his face up against. A muscular arm was still around him like a comforting weight. That’s when he remembered where he was, and with whom.

Eric let out a satisfied sigh, aware that he had slept like a log in the comfort of another man’s arms.  And not just any man. It was Kyle. Eric couldn’t help but smile. He shifted, just enough to see Kyle’s peaceful face. His breath was even, his hair was back to its tousled look.

It felt… right. After the events of the night, being here, tangled together on the couch, was a quiet balm. Kyle stirred, a low groan escaping his lips, and then his eyes lazily opened, dark and warm. A sleepy smile spread across his face, and he tightened his arm around Eric. 

“Morning”, he mumbled, his voice rough.

“Morning”, Eric whispered back, his own voice a little shaky.

Eric used his free hand to touch Kyle’s chest, slowly, his fingers running through the hair. He contoured the collarbones, caressed the skin of the neck, and reached for the shoulders. He couldn’t get enough of how the muscles felt under his palm.

Kyle let out a sigh, content like a cat being scratched just right. The hand that was wrapped around Eric stroked whatever skin it could reach. They cuddled for a while, enjoying the warmth of their bodies and the touch of each other.

Eventually, Eric’s stomach rumbled, pulling them back to reality.

Kyle chuckled. “Well I had a snack last night, so I’m good.” He winked. “But we should get you fed.”

Eric remembered and felt his cheeks burn. He felt a bit guilty about their interaction having been pretty one sided the night before, and vowed to correct that at the first opportunity.

They untangled themselves, a bit awkwardly for Eric. He kept a bit of the blanket on his body as he sat up, self-conscious about being naked in the light of day, without the haze of arousal.

Kyle got up, comfortable in his body, his perfect cock and low hanging balls at eye level. He stretched his arms up, arching his back, every muscle on display. Eric couldn’t do anything but stare. Kyle went to the closet in the corner of the small apartment, and fished out some loose sweat shorts.

That’s when Eric noticed the little things: there was no bedroom, and the pillows and throws were carefully placed around the couch. So this wasn’t just a sofa – it was Kyle’s actual bed. That understanding added a whole new layer of intimacy.

“I can make us an omelette”, Kyle offered as he headed to the kitchen.

“Sounds great. Anything I can do to help?”

“No need. I make it often, I got it down to a science.” Kyle assured. “Coffee?”

“Yes please”, Eric yawned.

He got dressed while Kyle was busy brewing the beans, choosing to leave his shirt open to show that he wasn’t completely going back into hiding. He sat at the small kitchen table just as Kyle brought him a steaming mug.

“How was your sleep?” Kyle asked.

“Surprisingly great.”

Kyle, cracking eggs into a bowl, arched an eyebrow. “Surprisingly?”

“No no, not like that”, Eric added, giggling. “Just that I haven’t spent the night this close to someone in a long time, and I didn’t know how much I missed it.”

A slow smile spread across Kyle’s face. “It was some of the best sleep I’ve had recently. You’re really warm, it’s like having my own personal heater. It was great.”

Eric grinned, realizing that for the first time in years, someone saw his body as a feature, not a flaw. Something in Kyle’s eyes planted a seed in Eric’s mind: maybe his own perspective was the one that needed to shift.

“So”, Kyle said as he chopped tomatoes. “What kind of work do you do in a newsroom? Are you on TV and you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m the executive producer. I take care of my team so they can do the work they were hired to do.”

“That’s impressive. Mr. Bossman”, Kyle joked, giving a quick, faked salute with the spatula he was holding.

Eric shook his head with an amused smile. “More like the supervisor. I get all of the trouble, and none of the glory. It’s like herding cats.” They both chuckled. “What about you? What kind of work do you do?”

“In a warehouse, lifting and moving stuff, and dealing with my foreman. Basically, I’m a human forklift”, Kyle replied with a grin and a shrug. “It’s tough work, lots of guys end up looking like they wrestled a bear, but it pays the bills. Being a personal trainer, though? That would be the real fun stuff because I love fitness and helping people so much. Plus, I would get to boss people around, which is always a bonus”, he added, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“No complaints, that’s for sure.”

Kyle laughed quietly, expertly flipping the omelette in the pan. “What do they say in all those videos? ‘Don’t forget to like and subscribe!’”

“I could leave a review”, Eric snickered. “5 stars treatment. Would recommend.”

Kyle gave Eric a playful wink. “And there’s more to me than just my cheerful disposition. Music is my life, and I’m also a huge fan of sci-fi and fantasy movies. Mike and I practically grew up on the Alien series. Don’t tell anyone, but I used to pretend my cat was a facehugger. Some fantasy books too, when I’m not busy saving the world, or, you know, lifting heavy things.”

“Ah, so you’re a nerd”, Eric said, attempting to sound serious, but mostly trying not to swoon.

“You can say that”, Kyle teased, setting a plate with a mountain of delicious food in front of Eric. “Though I prefer ‘aficionado of intellectual pursuits with a penchant for the fantastic.’”

They spent the next hour or so, easy conversation flowing between them, discovering shared interests. 

Eric learned that Kyle was the youngest of 4 kids, his family still living in his hometown an hour away. And that he grew up wanting to be a wrestler, but an injury forced him to quit after high school. And that his biggest pet peeve was when people didn’t know how to form a basic lineup, like at the grocery store or the movie theatre.

They talked about their favorite movies, shows and books, their dream travel destinations, even their preferred types of pizza.

It was exhilarating, discovering that this connection, this spark Eric felt with Kyle, wasn’t just about physical attraction or the comfort of his presence during a workout. It was deeper, like he was meeting up with a best friend he didn’t know he had.

He hadn’t realized how starved he’d been for this, for someone to truly see him, beyond the surface and the long-carried insecurities. Eric was used to making himself invisible, to hide his likes and his passion for fear they’d be used against him. 

With Kyle, it felt like he was finally shedding his defenses, breathing easy for the first time in ages.

A peaceful silence had settled between them as they savored the last bites of breakfast and the warmth of their coffee. When the plates were cleared, Kyle leaned back, stretching languidly.

“Alright”, he said, his eyes twinkling, “after all that work, I’m thinking a shower might be in order. Unless you prefer to keep that charming ‘just-woke-up’ aroma?” he teased gently.

Eric chuckled, feeling a blush creep up his neck. “A shower sounds good.” He suddenly felt the stickiness of sleep and the lingering scent of last night’s passion.

“Great”, Kyle said, pushing himself off the chair. “Bathroom’s just there.” He pointed towards a door near the kitchen. “Help yourself to a towel from the shelf above the toilet. And…” he paused, heading towards a small cabinet, “I think I have a new toothbrush in here somewhere.” He rummaged for a moment before pulling out a small, still-packaged toothbrush. “Ah, here you go. Make yourself at home.”

Eric took the toothbrush, recognizing the simple, thoughtful gesture. It wasn’t just a place to sleep; it was an invitation to truly be there. “Thanks,” he said with a soft smile.

*****

 

Eric slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The small space was clean and functional. He started with his teeth, to get rid of the morning breath and the coffee. He felt a twinge when he put his toothbrush in the empty space in the holder, next to Kyle’s.

Eric then grabbed a towel, undressed and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash over him. He scrubbed away the lingering scents of last night, feeling truly refreshed and clean.

Just as he was about to turn off the water, the curtain rustled, and Kyle stepped in behind him. Eric jumped, startled, but then relaxed as Kyle’s warm body pressed against his back. Kyle’s arms came around him, pulling him gently closer, and Eric leaned back into the embrace.

“Mind if I join?” Kyle murmured, his voice a low rumble against Eric’s ear, sending shivers down his spine. Without waiting for an answer, Kyle took the soap from Eric’s hand and began to lather it, his strong fingers working it over Eric’s shoulders and down his arms.

The water poured over them, mingling with the steam as Kyle’s hands moved with a tender, deliberate touch. He worked the soap down Eric’s back, then around his sides, his thumbs tracing the shape of Eric’s chest. Eric closed his eyes, humming softly, completely lost in the sensation. Kyle’s touch was firm but gentle, and Eric felt every muscle in his body relax.

Kyle’s head dipped, and he kissed Eric’s wet shoulder, then his neck, trailing soft kisses up to his ear.

Eric shivered, turning slowly in Kyle’s arms so they were face-to-face under the spray. The water ran down Kyle’s sculpted chest, and Eric reached up, tracing the muscles he’d admired so much. Kyle’s eyes, dark and intense, met his, and Eric felt a familiar rush of desire.

“You feel so good”, Eric breathed, his fingers tangling in the wet hair on Kyle’s chest.

Kyle’s hands cupped Eric’s face, tilting it up. “You too.” Kyle’s gaze dropped to Eric’s lips, then back to his eyes. Eric leaned in, pressing his mouth to Kyle’s.

It was a slow, deep kiss, infused with the steam and the scent of soap, the taste sweeter than Eric had ever hoped for, laced with comfort and  growing affection. Kyle’s lips were soft, warm, and utterly captivating.

Eric’s hands slid from Kyle’s chest, wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Kyle responded instantly, his arms tightening around Eric’s waist, pressing their bodies together. The kiss deepened, becoming more insistent, more hungry.

Kyle broke the kiss and took a step back, handing the soap back to Eric with a knowing smile.

He took the soap hesitantly, but then got right to washing Kyle, his touch gentle but sure. He took his time, washing him thoroughly. Eric got him to raise his arm so he could clean the armpits, and that sight made his knees weak. He couldn’t resist inhaling the intoxicating scent, wanting to savor it before the soap washed it away.

His hands moved down, then found Kyle’s soft cock, making sure every inch of him was clean, tracing every line like he was learning a map by heart.

Kyle turned around, so Eric focused on lathering up his muscular shoulders and defined back. His hands found Kyle’s perfectly round ass, and he hesitantly soaped up the crack, a thrill running through him at the boundary he was testing.

He massaged the hairy legs, trying to avoid tickling the feet. Once he was done, having explored Kyle’s body in a way he hadn’t last night, Eric stood back, a satisfied smile on his face.

Once they were both clean and rinsed, they dried off, still in that charged silence that said a lot.

Kyle then grabbed Eric’s hand, softly but without any hesitation, and led him back to the bed, to continue what they had started.

****

 

Kyle pulled him down, their cold skin meeting the warm bedding as their mouths merged and their hands continued to explore each other’s bodies. Eric straddled him, melting into the embrace, his arms framing Kyle’s head, their tongues going deeper with every kiss.

But this time, Eric decided it was his turn to give Kyle the attention he deserved.

On all fours, he kissed his way down to the perfect pecs, licking the perky nipples. Eric pressed his face in, sucking it, his hand working on the other side, causing Kyle to exhale sharply and a deep moan to rumble in his chest.

He continued his journey down, a trail of kisses and licks, until Kyle’s hard cock brushed hotly against his cheek. Eric had seen a glimpse of it erect yesterday before the focus turned to him, but now, up close and throbbing, he could truly appreciate its delicious length and heft.

Long, at least 8 inches, fairly thick, with a smooth shiny head that was shaped, Eric observed with amusement, like the xenomorph Kyle was coincidentally such a big fan of. He hid his smile, gripping the warm shaft, and kissed slowly all around it. He then paid careful attention to the heavy balls, drawing out Kyle’s ragged breaths.

Eric opened his mouth, his lips pressing around the leaking tip, tasting it. Sweet and salty, he discovered with a soft moan. He went a bit deeper, taking more of Kyle’s cock, feeling the gentle pressure of Kyle’s hands in his hair, stroking him, encouraging him down.

Eric quickly realized that he really was out of practice, and that he wouldn’t be able to take it all the way down. So he stopped where it felt comfortable, right before he’d gag, and just started sucking. His tongue, all slick and eager, twirled around the head on the way up, and his lips tightened on the way down, pulling a soft moan from Kyle.

“Oh my god, Eric, yes”, Kyle hissed.

Eric’s head bobbed as he quickened the pace, slobbering all over Kyle as he gripped the base with one hand and tugged in a rhythmic fashion, the other softly playing with the balls, feeling their warmth and weight in his palm.

Eric looked up, and Kyle was staring right back, mouth slightly agape, hands hooked behind his head, making his muscular biceps bulge. Eric couldn’t quite comprehend the sight: was he really blowing the hottest man he had ever seen? A powerful wave of desire surged through him. He wanted Kyle so intensely, wanted to make him feel good, to give him pleasure, to taste him, to be consumed by him.

But the hunk had other plans. Without a word, Kyle grabbed Eric’s arms, pulling him back up, leaving his mouth suddenly empty and wanting. Kyle brought him into a deep, wet kiss, their bodies aligning perfectly, Eric moaning with each flick of their tongues.

Without pulling their lips apart, Kyle spun them around so that he was on top. He scooched his knees in under Eric’s legs, lifting them slightly to get a better angle. Eric felt Kyle’s weight settle over him, a delicious pressure, and a shiver of anticipation ran down his spine as Kyle’s hips shifted, grinding their cocks together.

With a growl, Kyle straightened up slightly, his gaze locked on the meeting of their bodies. Eric felt Kyle pump his hips forwards, slowly pushing his own cock inside the circle he’d made with his fingers around them, the friction causing Eric to gasp.

The pleasure was interrupted by that little voice in his head. He had lusted over Kyle’s body when he was on top, but now, he was in full display, and his own body would certainly elicit a different reaction. He felt incredibly vulnerable.

Like on cue, Kyle’s gaze moved up along Eric’s belly, his chest, and finally met his eyes. But they were filled with passion and a hunger that made Eric’s heart flutter. Kyle dove for Eric’s lips, pressing their bodies together, their breath short.

Kyle’s hand moved down, towards Eric’s hole, now available with his wide open legs. Eric felt the fingers rub the entrance, lightly at first. It sent a rush of need through him.

Eric exhaled loudly, interrupting their kiss. Kyle took advantage of his freed mouth to bring his hand up and make his fingers wet, before going back to exploring. He pushed one in slightly, his eyes searching Eric’s, his other hand working his own cock lightly.

“Fuck you’re tight.”

Eric smiled. “Yeah, it’s been a while.” It suddenly hit him that he hadn’t had sex since his ex. So more than two years ago. And even then, he hadn’t been allowed to do much. No wonder he felt so clumsy.

“We don’t have to…” Kyle offered.

“I want to. I’ll just need patience. And a lot of lube”, Eric joked.

Kyle chuckled, looking excited. He bent over to grab a little storage box from under the bed and pulled out a bottle of lube. He coated a finger, and moved back in, spreading it around Eric’s hole.

He pushed one finger inside, slowly, his gaze locked on Eric’s.

Kyle shifted to the side so he could bend down and take Eric in his mouth while still working with his finger. Eric moaned loudly when a second finger made its way inside.

 “Yeah baby”, Kyle purred, encouraging.

Eric melted into the careful, patient rhythm of Kyle’s touch. He was whimpering in pleasure after a third finger was added, feeling his breath shorten.

He knew he wouldn’t last long. But he couldn’t finish first again. So he grabbed Kyle by the shoulders and pulled him up into a kiss, wrapping his legs around his waist.

Kyle kissed back, one hand positioning his cock at the entrance, the other hooked behind Eric’s neck. After adding a bit more lube, Eric felt the slow, warm push of Kyle entering him.

Eric took a breath against the pain, and tried to relax. He stopped kissing, but their faces remained close, their breath mingling, staring into each other’s eyes. Kyle’s were steady and reassuring, as he waited for Eric to relax around him.

When he did feel a bit more comfortable, he used his heels to push Kyle in a bit further. He wanted it all.

“You feel so good”, the hunk whispered.

Eric felt Kyle’s body completely pressed up against him, warm, hard, his full length inside of him, throbbing. He could feel his own muscles start to relax, as he exhaled loudly, his hands bracing on the big arms. He nodded quietly, the pressure turning into pleasure.

Kyle got in a more comfortable position, and started to move his hips, going out, then back in. Eric whimpered, the though of the muscle hunk actually taking him was bewildering. Kyle went slowly at first, but in response to Eric’s moans, at an increased pace.

He fucked him tenderly, his hands never leaving a part of Eric’s body. “Fuck you’re driving me crazy”, Kyle moaned.

They kissed more as Kyle continued pushing himself further with every stroke.

“Oh, Eric…” Kyle murmured, his voice thick, the sound almost lost in their shared breaths.

Kyle fucked harder, and grabbed Eric’s cock to jerk him off as he filled him. Eric was squirming with pleasure under him. But he couldn’t be the first, again.

“Oh God, Kyle. I’m close. If you continue…”, Eric breathed.

“Come with me”, Kyle commanded.

Eric clenched, in the hope of taking Kyle over the edge. After a few pumps, Kyle’s mouth opened, Eric saw his eyes widen, and heard his breath catch.

“Oh shit!” Kyle cried out as he climaxed inside, his hips slowing, his whole body twitching. Eric, his goal accomplished, was finally able to give in to the wave of pleasure he’d fought to resist. He joined Kyle in release, his body convulsing as thick ropes of cum hit his chest and belly, under the hunk’s satisfied gaze.

After catching his breath for a moment, Kyle gently lowered himself onto his side, facing Eric. They lay sweaty and tangled together, the air still humming with intimacy. Eric held his gaze, Kyle’s eyes filled with a soft, lazy contentment, and kissed him gently, their mouths lingering, savoring the moment.

****

 

A comfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the slowing thud of their hearts. Eventually, Kyle stirred, pressing a soft kiss to Eric’s temple. “Feeling good?” he murmured, his voice husky.

Eric just hummed, burying his face deeper into Kyle’s chest. “Better than good. Amazing.”

Kyle chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through Eric. “Me too.” He ran a hand through Eric’s hair. “As much as I’d love to stay here all day, I’m thinking we should plan lunch. And I bet you could use some energy after that workout.”

Eric giggled. “You’re not wrong.” He pulled back, propping himself up on an elbow, a soft smile on his face. “So, what’s on the menu? Can I help this time?”

“Nah, I’m thinking we venture out,” Kyle said, swinging his legs off the couch and standing, grabbing a pair of underwear. “There’s a great little cafe a few blocks from here. Best sandwiches in town.” He turned, catching Eric’s still-lingering gaze. “Unless you’d rather just stay in?” There was a playful glint in his eye, a hint of a challenge.

Eric felt a pleasant warmth spread through him. The idea of stepping out, of being seen with Kyle, felt overwhelming, but also liberating. “The best sandwich in town, you say? I’m in.”

They got dressed. Eric felt lighter, more confident than he had in years as he pulled on his clothes. He caught Kyle’s eye as they were about to leave, Kyle holding the door, looking impossibly handsome even in a simple t-shirt and jeans. They shared a quiet smile.

The air was crisp and bright as they stepped out of the apartment building, the city already buzzing with life.

They walked easily side-by-side, Kyle’s arm casually brushing Eric’s, their conversation light and easy. Eric felt a thrill at the casual intimacy, the way Kyle would occasionally glance down at him, a warm smile on his face, or reach out to nudge his arm playfully. This felt so natural, so right. He found himself laughing more freely than he had in a long time.

They were turning onto a busier street, heading towards the main drag, when Eric saw someone familiar in the distance.

Armand.

He was standing outside a small coffee shop, his blonde hair perfectly coiffed, dressed in a sharp blazer despite the early hour, scrolling on his phone. His expression was bored, almost disdainful, until his eyes landed on Eric and Kyle. His head snapped up, and his jaw went slack. The bored expression was instantly replaced with a flicker of something sharp and unpleasant.

Eric’s stomach clenched. He hadn’t expected to see Kyle’s friend this soon, after he’d made it pretty clear the night before that he thought Eric wasn’t good enough for Kyle.

Kyle, sensing the shift in Eric’s demeanor, squeezed his arm gently. “Everything okay?”

Eric nodded. “It’s nothing.”

Armand, already recovering from his surprise, straightened up, a thin, almost-smile stretching his lips. He started walking towards them, his eyes darting between Eric and Kyle, lingering on Kyle with a pointed, assessing gaze.

“Well, well, well,” Armand drawled, stopping a few feet away, his voice dripping with false cheer. “Hello Kyle. Looks like I should have stayed longer last night. I see you could have needed a chaperone.”

His eyes darted to Eric. “Fancy seeing you here. And… still with Kyle, I see.” His dismissive eyes raked over Eric, lingering on his body.

Eric felt a blush creep up his neck, a mix of embarrassment and anger.

Kyle stepped in. “Come on Armand, cut it out. Eric’s great. You don’t have to act so protective.” He sounded exasperated.

Armand merely chuckled. “But had I not left early, I wouldn’t have met this wonderful guy at the club. We got to… talking. And he told me all about you.” He paused, his gaze fixed on Eric, a knowing glint in his eye.

“What?” Eric’s mind reeled. What could Armand be getting at?

Just then, the door to the coffee shop opened, and a man walked out, looking around, a smug expression on his face. He was tall, almost handsome, with a lean muscled build. He spotted Armand and approached them.

Eric’s blood ran cold.

“Kyle, this is Dominic.”

Eric barely recognized Dominic, he looked so different. They hadn’t spoken in over two years, not since their divorce. Not since Dominic had lost a lot of weight and become… different. He had become the bully Eric had feared all through his teens.

Armand’s cold smile remained fixed as he gestured vaguely towards Eric and Kyle. “Dominic, this is Kyle, the one I was telling you about. And his… new friend. I believe you two know each other?”

Dominic’s eyes landed on Eric with a flicker of disdain, before his face settled into a practiced indifference. “Oh. Eric. Fancy running into you here.” His voice was flat, devoid of warmth.

“Dominic,” Eric said, his throat tight, feeling small and exposed.

Dominic then turned to Kyle with interest, ignoring Eric. “Armand and I bonded over something truly profound at the club last night,” he said, giving Armand a conspiratorial wink. “We discovered we both absolutely loathe Celine Dion.”

Armand giggled. Eric felt like he had been punched in the gut. He was right back in high school.

Armand turned to Kyle, his smile returning, sweet like honey. “Some people don’t change, no matter how much they pretend. There’s a lot Eric doesn’t talk about. A lot he keeps hidden. Doesn’t he, Dominic?”

Dominic offered a small, knowing smirk, but said nothing, simply enjoying Eric’s discomfort.

Kyle’s hand found Eric’s, squeezing it. “I think we’re done here, Armand. And you too, Dominic.” His voice was firm, his eyes narrowed. “Walk away, both of you.”

Armand’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes hardened. “Just a friendly word of advice, Kyle. Some people carry more baggage than you can imagine. And sometimes, that baggage is just too heavy. Maybe you could settle with someone who is lighter. In more ways than one.” 

He gave a final, knowing smirk, then turned and strolled off with Dominic falling into step beside him, leaving Eric trembling slightly next to Kyle, the quiet threat hanging in the air.

Eric couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Dominic’s unexpected reappearance in his life hurt more than he thought, pulling him back into a past he’d tried so hard to escape. The only thing that mattered was getting away.

Kyle grabbed his shoulders, his voice laced with concern. “Are you ok? I have no idea what that was about. Armand has always been intense with the people I date, but this is something else.”

Eric could only shake his head, his gaze darting around, searching for an exit, a way out. He didn’t want Kyle to see him like this, broken and vulnerable. 

“I… I need to go. I’m sorry,” he stammered, pulling free before Kyle could ask more questions. He mumbled a quick goodbye, not daring to meet Kyle’s eyes, and then he was walking, fast, almost running for the safety of his apartment. Hiding was his default setting, and in that moment, it was the only defense he had left.

(To be continued)

S & M

Stephen smiled and said, “I feel like I’m being fed to the lions. Ok, let’s do it.” They headed for the bedroom door. Stephen suddenly stopped, “Shouldn’t we put something on before we go out there?” Steven said, “Good idea. These towels need to be washed anyway”, he threw a towel to Stephen before wrapping one around his own waist. As they stepped out of Carl’s bedroom, they heard a familiar voice, “I feel like I’m in the movie, Groundhog Day” Tim was standing at the doorway to the kitchen. Chris said, “This seems like a recurring theme or something.” Elijah’s voice chimed in from somewhere in the kitchen, “What, do they need to use the washing machine again?” Stephen’s face was instantly red as he scampered to the bathroom saying, “Oh, God. Just let me die right here.” Steven was right behind him, laughing.

They emerged from the bathroom with fresh towels wrapped around them. Steven popped his head into the kitchen, “I think we will need to use the washing machine. We did go through several towels each.” Jeremy smiled, “I need to do a load of towels anyway. Just toss them in the bin in the laundry room with the rest of the towels. I hope we didn’t scare Stephen too much.” Stephen stepped in the doorway, “No, it’s taking a little getting used to, but it almost feels like what I’d expect a frat house to be like.” Elijah said, “And this is pledge week, which means initiation and hazing hasn’t even begun.” Stephen’s face went white, and his mouth formed an O shape. Jeremy laughed, “He’s yanking your chain, Stephen.” Elijah had a huge grin, which suddenly disappeared, “On a serious matter, how the fuck are we not going to make you both turn every time someone calls Steven?” Tim agreed, “Yeah, this can get a little confusing.” Steven and Stephen looked to each other and Steven said, “I know, right.” Stephen said, “I get it. Why don’t you call me Myers then? We had the same issue in my high school math class with two guys named Stephen, yeah, the other one was with a V also. The teacher started calling us by our last names. Mine, of course, is Myers, but you can still call Steven by his first name. Elijah grinned, “Myers, I like that, but I like S & M even more.” Everyone began laughing, but Tim caught another meaning there, “Yes, you do, Elijah.” Elijah’s jaw dropped as everyone but Steven and Stephen got the inside joke. Steven said to Stephen, “I think we’re missing something here.” Tim said to them, “Yeah, you are. I just turned Elijah’s words on him. It’s a long story. I’m sure you’ll hear it soon enough. Both Steph(v)ens grinned, knowing at least Elijah ended up the butt of the joke. Chris eventually said, “Ok, so we’re going to call you Steven and Myers now.” Travis said, “Yeah, but Elijah likes S & M.” “Fuck you, Travis”, Elijah said with a grin and a one-finger salute. Stephen (Myers) asked, “So, what’s all this about Elijah liking S&M?” Jeremy intervened, “It’s a long story we’ll tell you some day.” Elijah said, “Yeah, maybe some time in the next century.” Chris just gave Elijah a knowing look. Steven said, “Let’s go throw something on before Elijah here goes all sadistic on us.” As they headed into Carl’s bedroom to get dressed, they heard Elijah say, “I should bend you over my knee and spank that butt of yours, Tim.” Travis said, “I like it when Tim gives you some of your own medicine, now I wouldn’t mind seeing you spank Tim though.” Tim looked at Travis, “Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

As Stephen pulled his towel off, Steven pressed up behind him, reached around and began playing with his cock while his own wedged itself in between Stephen’s firm butt cheeks. Stephen leaned his head back and turned it toward Steven and they kissed. When they broke their kiss, Stephen said, “I wish we had more time.” Steven released Stephen’s cock as he said, “Me too. Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I just couldn’t resist after you took off the towel.” Stephen turned to face him and said, “It’s ok. I love the feel of your body against mine”, then leaned in for another kiss as they ground their hard cocks together. Suddenly, a knock on the bedroom door. Tim said, “Hey, lovebirds, breakfast is ready.” They broke their kiss and Steven smiled, “Thanks. We’ll be right out.” They slid on a pair of briefs and Steven opened the door. Stephen looked over at Steven, “Is that all you’re wearing?” Steven shrugged, “Yeah. That’s what everyone else is wearing. You could put more on if you want.” Stephen said, “I really should but then I don’t want to feel out of place. Fuck it”, he followed Steven out wearing only his blue with white eagle, American Eagle, briefs.

After tossing their towels in the laundry bin, Steven and Myers joined the others at the kitchen table. They each had a plate of scrambled eggs, waffles, bacon, home fries, and sausage links in front of them. There were fresh strawberries and blueberries as well as butter, maple syrup, and whipped cream also for the waffles. Myers said, “Wow! Do you guys always eat this much for breakfast?” Jeremy said, “Just on Sundays, sometimes on Saturday, depending on our schedule.” Just then, Carl popped his head in the doorway, “Looks like I’m just in time.” Stephen froze, feeling naked in front of Carl. Carl noticed him, “Hey! Stephen. I see you’ve joined our little family of friends and whatnot.” Stephen blushed and said, “Um, yeah. Hello, Carl.” Elijah said, “He’s now Myers, so that we don’t have to pronounce Steve in two different ways to differentiate between them.” Tim said, “Wow, you said differentiate. That has more than two syllables, Elijah.” Everyone laughed but Elijah who was giving Tim the evil eye, “You’re lucky we’re eating, Tim.” Carl filled a plate and joined Jeremy at the counter. Elijah finished off the few strawberries and blueberries that were left. Everything else had been consumed. They all helped clean up the dishes while Jeremy went in to start a load of laundry.

Chris had just started the dishwasher when they heard a scream and then laughter. As they looked into the living room, Elijah was tickling Tim. Tim began pleading, “Help! Travis, help me!” Travis grinned and said, “Ok”, but instead of helping Tim, he began tickling him too. Tim was struggling to fend them off as everyone else watched and smiled. Tim was yelling, “Stop! Stop it! Please!” Elijah said, “Ok, but only because you said please.” Instead of releasing Tim, Elijah folded him over his knees. He held his wrists with one hand and gave him a smack on his butt with the other. Tim yelped. Travis came over and said, “Let me help you with that.” He grabbed Tim’s brown Calvin Klein briefs and pulled them down beneath his butt cheeks, then gave Tim a swat across his left butt cheek bringing another yelp from Tim. Elijah gave him a few more swats, eliciting a yelp from Tim each time before allowing him to stand back up. Elijah said, “Looks like somebody else might like a little S&M”, indicating Tim’s stiff cock sticking straight out. Tim just grinned as he rubbed his butt cheeks before pulling his briefs back up. Stephen stood watching with his mouth wide open. Steven whispered in his ear, “I might enjoy a little of that myself.” Stephen nodded as he tried to hide his own hard cock. Tim walked over to Travis and gave him a whack on his butt. Travis yelled, “Ow! I guess I deserved that.” Stephen then realized there were several stiff members straining at the fabric containing them. Stephen whispered to Steven, “I think I must have died. I think I’m in heaven.” Elijah came in the room with the blanket that had been on Carl’s bed and a stack of towels, “What did I miss? It sounded like someone was getting paddled.” Carl said, “Elijah just spanked Tim and from what I saw, he must have enjoyed it.” Elijah grinned, “I think as much as I did.”

Suddenly, Elijah was grabbed from behind, pinning his arms at his sides for a moment. Tim then jumped on him as well. Elijah got his arms free but he had his hands full with both Tim and Travis on him. They wrestled for a bit and it seemed like Elijah was starting to get the best of them, until someone else grabbed his wrists and pulled them over his head. Elijah yelled, “Hey! What the fuck!” Then someone grabbed his legs and he looked down to see Chris and Carl each holding a leg. Looking up, he saw Jeremy grinning at him while holding his arms. Tim and Travis began tickling him but found him to be not as ticklish as Tim. Travis grabbed Elijah’s red Jockey briefs (Actually, they were Jeremy’s) and pulled them down. Carl indicated to Tim with a motion with his head toward the sofa. As Elijah struggled, Tim went and sat on the sofa. The other guys picked up Elijah and brought him over, then forced him to bend over Tim’s lap. Elijah yelled, “This isn’t fair!” Tim smacked Elijah’s left butt cheek, “Fuck”, Elijah yelped! Then his right butt cheek. Another curse from Elijah. Travis got a few smacks in also. By the time Tim stopped, both of Elijah’s butt cheeks were bright red. When they let Elijah up, Tim scrambled over the back of the sofa and he and Travis ran downstairs. Elijah stood up, grinning, “You two better run.” Elijah rubbed his butt as he walked over to pick up his briefs. He turned and grinned at the others, “I’ll remember this, fuckers.” Stephen and Steven were both just staring with their mouths gaping open at the stiff cock protruding from Elijah’s crotch and the firm mounds of his muscular butt cheeks. Elijah looked over at them and said, “At least you two didn’t help them.” Steven said, “Now I see why they said you like S&M”, indicating Elijah’s stiff cock. Elijah grinned and said, “Yeah, I could use some help with it if you’re offering.” Steven looked to Stephen who looked back at him wide-eyed, as if asking him if he was for real. Carl said, “I need my room for a few minutes.” Jeremy said, “Come on, Chris. Let’s finish the laundry.” They left the room, leaving the three of them alone. Elijah asked, “Well, you gonna help a friend out or what?” Steven asked Steven, “Is he serious?” Steven grinned, “Yeah. It’ll be fun. Come on.” Steven walked over to Elijah. They grinned at each other, then Steven slowly dropped to his knees. Steven took Elijah’s cock in two fingers and lifted it up, then began licking his balls. Elijah looked down at him and smiled, “That feels awesome, Steven.” Elijah then looked over at Stephen, who looked frozed in place, just staring at them, “Come on, Myers. Don’t you want to join us.” Stephen began a zombie-like walk toward them as if answering to a siren’s call. Stephen stepped over and dropped to his knees beside Steven. Steven smiled at him and then they both began licking either side of Elijah’s cock from base to tip. Elijah smiled down at them, “You two look so fucking hot doing that. It feels awesome.” He put a hand on the back of their heads, not forcefully, but fondly. They looked up at him as they licked him like an ice cream cone. Then Steven began licking his balls while Stephen took Elijah’s cock in his mouth. Stephen’s right hand found its way to Elijah’s left butt cheek. He was amazed by how firm it was. His cock throbbed at the thought. Maybe someday, after all, Steven had said he had fucked all three of them. Suddenly, Elijah was lifting them to their feet. Elijah smiled at Stephen, “Get a good feel, Myers?” Stephen turned bright red. Elijah said, “No worries. I enjoyed it. My turn.” Elijah dropped down and slid each of their briefs down around their ankles. Then he began stroking Steven’s cock as he took Stephen’s in his mouth. After a minute, he switched, stroking Stephen while sucking Steven’s cock. After taking both of their cocks in his mouth and finding it to be sexy but too much of a mouthful, he had them lie on the floor in a triangle. He sucked Stephen, while Stephen sucked Steven and Steven sucked Elijah’s cock. They switched positions and continued, oblivious of the sounds around them. Stephen was the first to Pump his seed into Steven’s mouth, moaning loudly on Elijah’s cock as he did. Elijah was rewarded with Steven filling his mouth with his creamy baby batter. Finally, Stephen jumped slightly when the first rope of Elijah’s cum hit the back of his throat. He struggled to swallow, allowing some to seep from the corner of his mouth. As they caught their breaths, they got on their knees and moved to a three-way, cum-swapping kiss. When they broke the kiss, applause erupted around them. They had an audience. Jeremy and Chris were standing in the entry to the kitchen. Carl was at his bedroom door, and Tim and Travis were in front of the door to the basement. Stephen turned bright red once again. Elijah grinned at him and said, “Well, pledge, you passed your first step of initiation.” Stephen put his hands over his face and said, “I wish I could just melt through the floor.” Everyone laughed and Carl said, “I always thought you looked hot in that uniform, but I like what I see now, better.” Tim said, “Well, we’re already running a lot later than we wanted. It was nice meeting you, Stephen. Are you going along over to the Reynolds?” Stephen asked, “Who are the Reynolds?” Elijah said, “Sure he is, right, Myers?” Jeremy said, “That’s our landlords. They’re a nice elderly couple. We do yardwork for them on Sundays.” Stephen asked, “How long will you be there? I have to be at work around four.” Steven said, “I’ll take my car. That way I can take you home to change and then drop you off at work.” Stephen said, “I also don’t have anything to wear to do yard work. All I have is my uniform.” Tim said, Quick, come downstairs. I’m sure Travis or I have something you can wear. You look about our size.” Stephen followed Tim and Travis down to the spare bedroom. They didn’t have time to give Stephen a tour, but Stephen did notice the nice furniture and the paited wall in the other room looked awesome. He’d have to ask Steven about it. Tim found him some old shorts and a T-shirt to wear, then Tim and Travis headed out.

Stephen came up wearing an old pair of khaki shorts and a Linkin Park T-shirt. Jeremy said, Let me get the last load out of the dryer and fold it, then we can head out. Stephen said, “That wall down there looks like an actual sunset. It must have cost a fortune to have someone paint that.” Chris grinned, “It was done for free.” Stephen asked, “For free? Seriously? Did Taylor’s dad get someone to do it for you?” Carl said, “No, Jeremy gave Travis some paint and let him go at it. When we went down later, that’s what we found. We had no freakin’ clue he would do that.” Elijah said, “Speaking of Taylor’s dad, he came over to see the wall Travis painted, then had Travis do some other work. He and Jerome even collaborated on a painting similar to the wall downstairs, but as a sunrise instead.” Stephen said, “Travis must be pretty good if Mr. Bradford wanted to show his work in his gallery.” Carl smiled, “You saw the wall, but wait until you see the paintings he did of Tim. They were supposed to have brought them back, but I’m not sure where they are.” Jeremy and Chris emerged, carrying stacks of folded laundry. Chris handed a stack to Carl who took them into his bedroom. The rest, they carried into Jeremy’s room. When they returned, Jeremy handed Stephen a stack of folded clothes, “Here you go Ste, I mean Myers. I hope you don’t mind that I washed your uniform for you and not just your briefs.” Stephen smiled and said, “Thank you, Jeremy. I won’t have to run home to change before going to work now.” He set the clothes down and gave Jeremy a hug, then hugged Chris also.

They headed over to the Reynolds’ house. When they arrived, Henry came out of the shop to greet them. Jeremy said, “Henry, good to see you again. You remember Steven, don’t you?” Henry said, “Of course, your friend from back home. How are you, Steven?” “I’m doing fine, sir. How are you?”, Steven replied. Henry smiled, “I can’t complain.” Jeremy then said, “Henry, this is our friend, Stephen, though we’ve decided to call him by his last name, which is Myers, to avoid confusion.” Henry shook Stephen’s hand and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Stephen Myers. Is it Stephen with a PH or Steven with a V?” Stephen smiled and said, “It’s Stephen with a PH, sir. It’s nice to meet you as well, sir.” Henry smiled, “Polite, too. Please, call me Henry. I’m a simple man, and there’s no need to be formal.” Stephen said, “Yes, sir, I mean, sorry, Henry.” Henry laughed and patted Stephen on the shoulder. Carl said, “Well, we’re going to get to work, Henry. Anything in need of repair or just the usual yard work?” Henry laughed, “The boys have been keeping things in good shape, but thanks, Carl. As soon as they’re here, they ask about fixing things before even thinking of going into the shop. They’re a Godsend. Well, I’m going inside to let Martha know you’re here. I’m sure she’ll want to throw something together for you, and I’m sure she’ll want to meet your friend, Myers as well”, he gave a wink and then turned to go to the house. Everyone but Stephen had a knowing smile, then Jeremy said, “Myers, I’d like to show you what Tim and Travis do when they’re here.” He led Stephen into the shop and Stephen’s eyes opened wide as he saw the small tables and knick knack shelves hanging. He said, “Those star symbols, I’ve seen them somewhere before. I take it the TnT stands for Tim and Travis?” Jeremy said, “It does. Taylor came up with that as their trademark.” Just then, Tim stepped in from the other room, Hey, Steven and , um Myers. I’m still getting used to that. Welcome to Granpa Henry’s shop.” Stephen asked, “He’s your grandfather?” Tim smiled, “No, but him and Granms Martha treat us like their grandchildren, so that’s what we call them. They really like it. Want to see the furniture?” Stephen asked, “There’s more?” Tim grinned, “Yeah, the larger stuff is back there. We need the space in here to work. Come on back. We’re working on another bedroom set.” Stephen’s eyes lit up, “That’s where I saw those star symbols, the furniture in the bedroom downstairs.” Tim smiled, “Yes, Travis and I built it as a thankyou gift to Jeremy and Carl. The stuff we’re building now has our TnT trademark on it also.” They came into a larger room where a bed frame and headboard similar to the one in the downstairs bedroom was. There was also a dresser and wardrobe. All had the distinct star symbol with a TnT in the center of each drawer as well as at the top of each piece.” Travis came in and said, “Hi, long time no see”, with a grin. Stephen said, “So, you’re both an artist and a craftsman.” Travis grinned, “Yeah, I don’t plan on being a starving artist. I need something to fall back on.” Tim smiled, “We’re selling this stuff for extra college money. It was Granpa Henry’s idea. He convinced a wood mill outside of town to donate scraps and sometimes whole pieces.” Jeremy said, “Well, we better get outside and get to work. I’m sure Carl and Elijah could use some help.”

They went out and Steven showed Stephen around a little, then they both started weeding while Jeremy trimmed the hedges. Elijah was edging while Carl mowed. Tim and Travis came out a few minutes later and pitched in.

At one point, Elijah pulled Jeremy and Chris together and asked them, “You guys aren’t angry with me, are you?” Jeremy and Chris both looked confused. Jeremy finally asked, “Angry about what?” Chris agreed, “Yeah. What should we be angry about?” Elijah said, “Well, after I goaded Steven to come over to suck my cock, I was hoping I had started something, but instead, you and Chris left the room to finish laundry, and Carl disappeared into his room. Tim and Travis wanted to get to the Reynolds’, so I understood why they left. I was hoping that after the three of us started, that you guys would join in, but you didn’t. I thought maybe you got mad at me because I initiated that.” Jeremy smiled, “Elijah, I needed to finish the laundry and Chris wanted to help. I thought it was great that you decided to welcome Steven slash Myers to our family of friends and the best way to do that was through his date, Steven. Chris and I would have loved to have been a part of it, but we did have to finish the laundry before going over to the Reynolds. Why do you think we cheered for you at the end? Did we look angry? I’m glad you had some fun with them, that is unless you’re not telling us something. Is there a reason for us to be angry?” Elijah smiled and said, “No. Thanks. I feel so much better now.”

They were just cleaning up when Henry and Martha brought out a tray of drinks and another covered tray. Once they put everything away and washed their hands in the sink in the shop, they came over to where the Reynolds were waiting. Mrs. Reynolds said, “I made some mint tea for you and some fudge brownies. I hope you like chocolate.” Henry said, “Martha, I’d like you to meet another friend of Carl and Jeremy, this is Stephen Myers. They call him Myers because of the other Steven in the group.” Martha smiled and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Stephen Myers. I can see why two Stevens could be a problem.” Stephen offered his hand. and she stepped right in and hugged him. He grinned and hugged her back, then suddenly yelped, “Oh!” Stephen looked to Henry, wide-eyed, who gave him a wink. Martha laughed mischievously as she let Stephen go, then began handing out the drinks as the guys each grabbed a brownie. Martha grabbed the empty brownie tray and took it into the house. Henry gave Stephen another wink before following her inside. Stephen then turned to the other guys and in a whisper so the Reynolds wouldn’t hear, said, “She pinched my butt!” Then he realized the others were grinning at him. Jeremy said, “It’s kind of your initiation and welcome. She does that to all of us, except now Tim and Travis seem to get a pass.” Travis said, “Granma doesn’t pinch her grandkids’ butts.” Elijah grinned and gave Travis a friendly punch in his arm, “Kiss ass.” Stephen asked, “What about Mr. Reynolds? Doesn’t he get upset?” Jeremy said, “No. He actually appreciates that we don’t mind it. He says it always makes her day. It puts her in a good mood for the rest of the day. Who knows, she may even get frisky with Henry later.” Travis said, “Oh, please. I was just talking about them being like my grandparents and now you’re putting sexual pictures of them in my head.” Tim said, “Yeah, I agree with Travis. No more of that, please.”

As soon as Steven and Myers finished their drinks, they said they needed to leave. Steven wanted to get Stephen to work in time. Carl said, “Let me tell the Reynolds. You have to say goodbye.” Steven said, “Of course. Thanks, Carl.” Stephen blushed a little, knowing what he was in for. Carl stepped inside and soon returned with the Reynolds. Henry said, “It was good seeing you again, Steven. It was nice meeting you, Myers, and don’t be a stranger. Thank you for helping around here. You boys are always so good to us.” He gave Steven and Myers a hug and then Martha smiled and said, “Like Henry said, thank you for your help. It was nice meeting you, Stephen Myers. I hope to see you soon.” She gave him a hug. He didn’t yelp this time. He just jumped a little. Then she turned to Steven, “Thank you, Steven. We don’t get to see you much, like Josh and his boyfriend, Matt.” She then hugged Steven. Stephen smiled when he saw her pinch his butt too.

After getting in Steven’s car, Stephen asked, “So, she knows that Josh and Matt are boyfriends?” Steven replied, “Yeah. I’m not sure how much they know about everyone else, but from what I’ve heard, the Reynolds don’t care what the guys do with each other as long as they don’t destroy the house. I think it was Jeremy who told me that Henry had a gay friend at one time. He didn’t care that he was gay. He remained his friend regardless.” Stephen said, “They seem like a very nice couple. They do remind me of my grandparents on mom’s side.” They were quiet for several minutes, then Steven glance over and noticed Stephen’s eyes were watery, “Stephen, what’s wrong?” Stephen wiped his eyes and tried to smile, “Sorry. I’ve been on one date with you and I’m already feeling sad that I may not get to see you for a while, with our schedules and all. I’m really going to miss you.” Steven now teared up some, “I was really glad you agreed to walk with me after you got off work. I think we really connected. I mean; to be honest, I was hot for Jeremy the first time I saw him. I mean, who wouldn’t be, but it was different with you.” Stephen laughed, “Yeah, I’m no gorgeous Greek god.” Steven said, “No, you may not be a Greek god, but you are gorgeous. But that wasn’t it. There was something else that I can’t put my finger on that attracted me to you. I won’t be cliché and say, love at first sight, but something about you, other than your perfect looks drew me to you. I guess what I’m trying to say, is that I’m going to miss you too. Fuck, I think I just rambled a bit there.” Stephen laughed, “Well, unlike me, at least you took a breath between sentences.” They both laughed. As they pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and stopped, Stephen said, “Let Tim and Travis know that I’ll return the clothes they loaned me after I wash them. I had a really lit time with everyone, but mostly with you. It was fire. Call me when you find out your schedule.” Steven said, “I will. Call me tonight when you get home from work.” Stephen said, “I will. I really hope we can make this work somehow. I better go. I’ll be cutting it close, having to run in and change. I lo, look forward to talking to you tonight.” They kissed amid their tears and held each other tightly. They eventually broke their kiss and smiled sheepishly as they wiped their tears from their eyes. Stephen looked at the time and said, “I need to go. I’ll call you as soon as I get home. Drive safe, Steven.” Steven tried to smile as he said, “I’ll be waiting for your call. Thanks for a fantastic date, Stephen.” Stephen stopped at the entrance to the restaurant; he turned with a huge smile and then waved before heading inside. Another tear ran down Steven’s cheek before he started his car and headed back to Jeremy and Carl’s place.

End of Chapter 93

He Saw Me With Another Man. Ten Minutes Later, His Cock Was In My Mouth

All characters in this story are 18+
All acts are fully consensual

Last night, I hooked up with a French guy named Elliot; soft, sweet, romantic. He walked me home at sunrise, kissed me goodbye like we were something real. What I didn’t know? Dylan, my best friend’s older brother, saw everything from across the street. And now he’s at my door. Pissed. Possessive. Ready to remind me who trained my throat in the first place.

___________________

I had barely dropped Elliot’s hoodie over the chair when the knock came: three sharp pounds that rattled the doorframe.

I opened it and Dylan was already pushing his way in. He looked like he’d just come back from hell, still in his workout gear, chest rising fast, sweat clinging to the curve of his throat. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me. Looked at the hoodie. His eyes followed the shape of me; bare legs, morning hair, the smug little glow I must’ve still been wearing from last night.

He shut the door behind him without breaking eye contact. “Who the fuck was that?” he asked.

My throat tightened. “What?”

He took a step in,. “Outside. Curly-haired French guy.”

“He’s Elliot” I said quietly.

“Oh, really?” Dylan laughed. “Did Elliot fuck you good, Troy?”

I blinked. “What?”

He stepped closer. “Is that where you were last night? With him?”

My breath caught. “Yeah, I spent the night.”

“Did. He. Fuck. You?” Dylan asked again, biting each word like it tasted bitter.

I swallowed. “No.”

He tilted his head. “No?”

“We… kissed. Cuddled.” My voice dropped.

Dylan laughed, then immediately sobered. “So you’re dating him now?”

I hesitated. “No. Not exactly. We’re taking it slow.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Taking it slow, huh?”

He stepped closer. My back hit the wall. “So that mouth’s still unclaimed?”

I flushed. “Dylan…”

“Then that hole still belongs to me.”

“You’re gonna blow me in his hoodie,” he muttered. “Might even shoot my load on it. Bet he’d love that.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. The moment was already spiraling into something else.

His hand found the back of my neck, steady and firm, pulling me into him like he couldn’t wait any longer. His mouth met mine in a hungry kiss; all heat and tension.. like he was trying to say everything he couldn’t with words. His body pressed against mine, warm and solid, and for a second, it felt like nothing else existed but the pull between us.

He kissed me like he was mad at me. Like he’d missed me. Like he hated himself for both. No words. Just heat. Tongues. Teeth. The sting of his stubble against my jaw. The hiss in his breath when I reached down and found him already hard in his gym shorts.

I dropped to my knees before I even thought about it.

His cock was heavy in my hand. Thick and swollen, veins pressing to the surface. He was already leaking when I licked the head, slow and teasing, just to hear him curse under his breath.

I opened my mouth and took him in….inch by inch until the back of my throat gave way. Until I felt my eyes water. Until he was pushing deeper than I remembered, deeper than I’d ever taken anyone.

Above me, he groaned. A guttural, aching sound.

“Fuck, Troy,” he exhaled, voice raw. “Your mouth… fuck.”

He started moving…slow thrusts at first, his fingers tangled in my hair, guiding me like he had all the time in the world to ruin me. I gagged once, twice, but he didn’t stop. He just growled and kept going, praising me with moans and broken gasps.

“You were struggling yesterday,” he murmured. “Could barely take half of my cock in your mouth… Look at you now….taking me like it’s your job. Guess your throat is getting used to my cock now…”

His hips jerked forward suddenly, hitting the back of my throat. I gagged again, harder, eyes streaming now. But I didn’t pull away. I let him use me, let him rut against my face like he owned it.

He did.

He pulled out with a wet pop and gripped himself, breathing hard. A string of spit and precum still connected us. His cock twitched in his fist.

“We are not done.”

He pulled me up and spun me around. Bent me over the couch with one hand on my back, the other yanking down my sweats. He dropped to his knees again behind me. I felt his breath; hot and fast against my ass and then his tongue. Slick. Hungry. Sloppy.

The way he ate me out wasn’t gentle. It was messy. Loud. Dominant. Like he was trying to mark his territory.

Glawk.

Glawk.

Glawk.

Wet, greedy slurps echoed in the room… spit dripping, tongue working, filthier by the second. It didn’t sound like kissing. It sounded like consumption. Like worship. Like he was devouring something he believed belonged to him.

He spread me open, shoved his face in, and let out this low, guttural growl when I arched back into it. “Mmm, yeah,” he breathed. “This hole’s still mine.”

His fingers joined his mouth, working my hole open, two fingers then three, scissoring inside me as I moaned, face buried into the cushions, gripping the armrest like I was about to break it in two. He stood again, stroking his cock behind me, wet head slapping against my hole, teasing the rim but never pushing in. “You want this, Spaghetti Noodle?” he asked.

I was breathless. Shaking. “Y-Yess. I do, Dylan.”

“You want my cock inside you while you wear his hoodie?”

“Yes, please. I do.. ” I nodded frantically.

He circled the head of his cock around my hole, just barely nudging against it…teasing, threatening. My breath hitched. I felt him twitch. Then, just as quickly, he pulled back.

“Whose hole is this?” he asked, his voice low, rough with control.

“Yours, Dylan,” I panted, already trembling. “It’s yours.”

He pressed forward again, the heat of him slick and leaking, barely kissing my entrance before pulling away once more.

“I didn’t hear you.” His tone was sharper now. “Do you want this?”

“Please, Dylan,” I whimpered, hips arching toward him. “I want you so fucking bad.”

And just when I thought he was about to give in, finally push inside me…I remembered.

“Dylan…fuck…wait. My sister. She might be back any second.”

He didn’t stop. Just hovered there, his cock hard and heavy, smearing pre-cum right where I needed him most.

“I locked the latch from inside,” he murmured, bending lower, his mouth near my ear. “She won’t walk in. Not unless you want her to.”

My head dropped back. My hole clenched.

He laughed under his breath and tapped his cock against me, slow, deliberate slaps that made me flinch with want.

“You were gagging on it yesterday,” he whispered. “Struggling. But I’m gonna train that throat. Just like I’m gonna ruin this hole.”

His cock slapped against me again…slow, heavy, rhythmic.

Thwack.

“Look how this hole twitches.”

Thwack.

“You think Elliot could fuck you like this?”

Thwack.

“No. He probably kisses you on the cheek and asks how your day was.”

Thwack.

“I am gonna fuck you so good you are going to forget his name.”

He slapped the tip of his cock against my entrance again. Circling. Coaxing.

I moaned into the couch, desperate. Barely able to hold still.

And just when he lined up to push in….

KNOCK. KNOCK.

“Troy? “

Knock.
Knock.

“Troy…My keys aren’t working”, said Becca.

I froze.

My sister Becca was home. Her voice was right outside the door.
And Dylan’s cock was still nudging against my hole… leaking, twitching, ready to ruin me. One more second and everything…everything…was about to explode

---

This scene is from my ongoing series My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan. It’s a messy fuck triangle between Troy, his best friend’s possessive older brother Dylan, and a sweet French photographer named Elliot.

If you have been liking the story so far, consider checking out my Patreon for early access to future parts, bonus scenes and much more. Next8 parts are already posted on there.

Hidden in the Ionian Sea, the tiny island of Antipaxos shimmered under the sun like a forgotten jewel. It was no secret that it belonged almost entirely to one man: Andreas Cantacuzino. His family had owned the island for generations, and their imprint—both physical and spiritual—was carved into the olive groves, the whitewashed chapel atop the cliff, and the winding paths that led down to the private cove. To the outside world, it was a billionaire’s sanctuary. To Andreas, it was equal parts fortress and refuge.

Tall with broad shoulders that once bore the effortless grace of youth, Andreas still presented an imposing figure at forty with relatively few regrets. Yeah, Andreas knew he had physical faults and human failings but he still made decisions in his own life. 

The island’s breeze tugged at his linen shirt, half-unbuttoned, revealing a chest hardened by years of swimming and carrying stones up slopes just to prove he could. From a distance, he looked like a man who owned the world. Up close, the picture blurred.

The estate was ringed with layers of security—drone surveillance swept the skies regularly while a team of South African ex-military guards manned the compound hidden behind a wall of olive trees. The guards rarely smiled. They weren’t hired to smile. In the shallows of the private beach, nets lay concealed beneath the waves, an invisible curtain keeping outsiders from floating too close. This was a place meant to be untouched, pristine, and above all else—controlled.

That was the part Andreas had always found comfort in: control. He managed his business empire with precision and discretion, never indulging the media, never confirming or denying rumors about wealth, power, or lovers. He was, in almost every way, a textbook case of masculine authority. Although in the quiet of Antipaxos, surrounded by the sound of cicadas and the hush of the waves, he was beginning to question the narrative he’d written for himself. Maybe he wanted more?

The first doubts crept in after his last health screening. Nothing life-threatening, the doctors had said—just markers, elevated enzymes, subtle signs that the body wasn’t bouncing back the way it used to. He felt it, too. The aching knees after a morning swim. The tiredness that lingered longer than it should. The way his hands trembled ever so slightly after too much wine. These weren’t things he liked to talk about. Not with his staff, and certainly not with the few friends he allowed into his world.

More unsettling were the moments of silence when his mind drifted. There had been fleeting sexual experiences in his youth—things never named, never spoken of. He’d filed them under curiosity and locked them away. In his world, masculinity was non-negotiable although he never wanted to be seen as predatory with anyone. His father, stern and immovable, made sure that Andreas behaved like a gentleman with women and that his word was his bond with men. Even now, years after his father’s death, Andreas carried the weight of expectation like a second skin.

He told himself he was straight or στρέιτ. That’s what he’d always told others. . He had the affairs  to prove it, the disinterested flings with models and heiresses. Still, there were moments in the early hours of the morning—unexpected and sharp—when something inside him stirred in unfamiliar directions. These weren’t crises exactly. More like questions echoing in a marble hall. What if? Why now? Who would he be if no one was watching?

Then there was his son, Nikandros. Raised in the baroque stiffness of a Bavarian estate by Andreas’ estranged ex-wife and her blue-blooded family, the boy—now nearly a man—spoke more German than Greek and looked at his father like one studies a painting in a museum: with distant admiration, tinged with discomfort. Their visits to each other were polite but cold, each careful not to break the porcelain of their relationship.

Andreas sometimes lay awake at night wondering if he’d failed the boy somehow. Whether the walls he’d built to keep others out had also kept his own son at bay. Nikandros was smart, observant. Andreas knew he couldn’t fake invincibility as a man and as a father forever—not with Niko. Perhaps that’s what scared him most. That one day the son would see through the father. Maybe Niko would come to hate his father?

On the surface, Andreas had it all. Wealth that measured itself in islands and superyachts, freedom to disappear from the world on a whim, lovers who never asked for more than he was willing to give. Although under the sun-drenched facades of Antipaxos, his thoughts wandered into quiet unrest. The life he’d built—this perfect, fortified dream—was beginning to feel more like a museum of himself.

He still swam every morning, still barked orders to his staff with the clipped authority of a captain used to being obeyed. To anyone watching, he was the same Andreas. In reality, he was starting to linger a little longer at the edge of the sea, squinting into the horizon as though expecting it to answer him. What was it all for? The silence of Antipaxos had become deafening.

No one knew, not really, how hard it was to be Andreas. To be the sum of tradition, strength, and desire—while never letting the seams show. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted to understand if there was a life beyond the image. Was there space for softness, for vulnerability? Could he allow himself to be curious, even afraid, without shattering the identity he’d spent decades crafting?

The questions stayed unanswered. For now. He wasn’t ready to confront them fully. Every day, they pressed a little closer, like water against rock. Not enough to cause collapse. Just enough to wear down the edges.

The fishing boat brought an end to his thoughts and grumbled to a stop just off the narrow dock, its old diesel engine hissing as if grateful to rest. A plume of smoke drifted toward the dry rock face that bordered Andreas’ private cove blurring the view for a moment before the heat burned it away. The odor of fuel and sun-cooked fish clung to Tony Stevens like a second skin.

He’d missed the sleek motor launch sent by Andreas to collect him—blame it on nerves or poor directions—but here he was, stepping barefoot off a fisherman’s boat, clutching a folder under one arm and his balled-up shirt in the other. His face was flushed from both sun and embarrassment, dark dirty blonde hair damp and clinging to his brow in a way that made him look younger than his eighteen years. Andreas was a little worried by the fact that Tony looked so young.

Tony had sharp features softened by youth, eyes that shifted quickly as if always calculating how he was being perceived. His frame was lean, toned in the unpolished way of someone who played sports but didn’t live in the gym. There was a charm to his awkwardness, like he knew he was handsome but hadn’t yet figured out how to use it.

Heat pressed down from all sides. The stone beneath his feet radiated back the day’s fury, and even though Andreas waited under a canvas awning stretched across the terrace, the air was thick, barely breathable.

Tony climbed the steps slowly, hoping to buy time to cool down before he spoke. His hand slipped a little on the brass railing from the sweat that ran down his arms. He was conscious of the way his shorts clung to him, how unprofessional this all looked. The papers he carried—copies of a confidential shipping agreement with partners in Limassol—were slightly curled at the edges now, creased from the sea breeze and his tight grip.

Andreas didn’t stand to greet him. He remained in a white linen chair, shaded by the awning, a tall glass of something cold and citrusy sweating beside him. He wore dark sunglasses and a loose-fitting shirt open to his chest. Though his body bore the weight of his forty years —he radiated the authority Tony had seen in two previous boardrooms and shareholder meetings. There was something Grecian-statue about Andreas, if statues could narrow their eyes and measure you with a glance.

“You found the scenic route,” Andreas said in Greek-accented English, voice low and amused. Mildly mocking.

Tony forced a grin, squinting against the sun. “Missed the launch. The guy with the fishing boat said he knew the way. I didn’t want to be late.”

“You’re late,” Andreas replied coolly. “You brought the papers, I assume?”

“Right here, sir.” Tony held them up, his hand betraying a slight tremor. He took the final few steps onto the tiled terrace and passed the folder over, trying not to flinch as their fingers brushed.

Andreas took his time flipping through the pages. The only sounds were the buzzing of insects and the faint whir of a drone overhead—standard security patrol. His guards, who lived in a hidden compound further inland, rarely made appearances unless summoned, though Tony imagined they were watching everything from cameras tucked in the rocks and trees. Andreas had no problems with people watching him.

Tony wiped his forehead and glanced toward the horizon. The water sparkled like shattered glass. Off in the distance, a speedboat darted past the outer edge of the bay, only to veer away once it reached the invisible line where underwater nets blocked further passage. Privacy here wasn’t just a luxury; it was an obsession.

“It’s forty degrees in the shade today,” Andreas said without looking up. “You’ll want to stay hydrated.”

“I’m trying,” Tony mumbled. His throat felt parched. “Didn’t want to be disrespectful, showing up shirtless.”

Andreas set the papers down beside him. “I’ve seen worse than you on this island.”

This wasn’t how things usually went on Antipaxos.

Typically, it was older men—stiff-collared attorneys or silver-haired executives—who ferried documents to the island, not younger men just out of adolescence. Men who understood boundaries. Men who knew the rules, if not always how to follow them. Tony was different. Eighteen,  an adult, but he looked small somehow. Slender and lightly freckled, with a kind of unguarded openness that made Andreas uneasy. 

Andreas couldn’t afford a scandal. Not here. Not with his name. The thought of his face splashed across Greek tabloids—Καθημερινή or worse, some smug corner of Proto Thema—next to some wild, unfounded headline made his skin tighten. Greek Shipping Tycoon Preys on Intern? No thanks. All it would take was one moment of carelessness, a misread gesture, and he’d be explaining himself to lawyers.

Tony might be smart, but he was also young, eager, malleable. Andreas knew the optics. He was no predator—and he had no intention of letting a snot-nosed kid ruin the empire he built with his own callused hands. Still, Andreas was looking at the intern and he liked what he saw.

Tony didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure why Andreas had insisted on meeting him in person to sign these documents—something his assistant could’ve handled in Athens or even through a secure digital platform. There were rumors, of course. Interns talked to each other. They said Andreas liked to watch people squirm. That he enjoyed their discomfort because it told him something honest. Tony wasn’t sure what kind of honesty his sweat-soaked torso and flushed cheeks were revealing.

He tried to reset the conversation. “Mr. Cantacuzino, I just wanted to say I’ve really appreciated the opportunity to intern at your company. I’ve learned a lot working with the logistics team in Piraeus.”

Andreas ignored Tony and raised an eyebrow. “Do you read Ta Nea?”

The question caught Tony off guard. “Sometimes. I mean… when I’m trying to follow shipping news, yeah. I also check Kathimerini. My Greek’s not perfect, but I do my best.”

“Good.” Andreas poured a second glass of the citrus drink and held it out without standing. Tony took it gratefully. “If you want to succeed in my world, you need to know how it speaks. Not just in English. Not just in data.”   Andreas liked the way Tony spoke halting Greek learned from Greek school back on Long Island.

Tony nodded, unsure whether this was encouragement or a test. “Yes, sir.”

The drink was tart and bitter, not alcoholic, something local, not meant for tourists. It stung going down. He resisted the urge to gulp it.

“There’s talk you’re looking for a permanent spot,” Andreas said, his voice casual.

“I’d like that, yes.” Tony stood straighter, still shirtless, feeling exposed, vulnerable and overheated but trying to summon poise.

“How far are you willing to go to earn that place?” Andreas deliberately didn’t look at Tony focusing on the paperwork.

The question hung between them, not quite suggestive, not entirely innocent. Tony hesitated. His heart pounded harder now, not from the heat. “I’ll work hard. I’ll prove myself.”

Andreas didn’t leave much to chance. Before the intern even set foot on the island, his South African security team had already handed over a discreet but thorough profile. Tony Stevens—bright, likable, sometimes a promiscuous homosexual—wasn’t exactly the picture of wide-eyed innocence. In fact, his name rang familiar in a few circles: Gay bars in the Gazi district of Athens, a private party or two in Mykonos, some whispered anecdotes from company staff about late nights and early exits.

There was no scandal, no danger in Tony—just a clear pattern. Tony liked men. He liked sex and didn’t pretend otherwise. His romantic life, if it could be called that, resembled more of a carousel than a courtship. Apps, chance encounters, a flirtation at a gallery opening that turned into an overnight visit. Never unkind, never dishonest—he simply moved through people the way others browsed a playlist.

Andreas found himself neither scandalized nor surprised. He’d lived long enough to know that appetite didn’t make someone immoral, and in Tony’s case, it might’ve been the opposite—his openness, in a way, was disarming. Still, it complicated things. Charm like that could open doors or set fires, and Andreas wasn’t entirely sure yet which one Tony would  do.

The silence that followed was pierced only by the distant cry of a goat from the hills above. Tony took another sip, unsure if he’d passed some invisible test or just walked into another one.

A breeze rolled in from the sea, and for a fleeting second, Tony felt relief. He still didn’t know where this conversation was going—or what Andreas really wanted—but he’d made it this far. Whether that was a good thing or not, only time would tell.

Andreas got up from the lounger suddenly and with determination as if he made a decision,  throwing the crumpled papers to the floor. He placed an elegant murano glass paperweight on them. Andreas nodded his head giving the international symbol for “Come on!”

Tony followed Andreas toward the pool on a higher terrace. Each step felt deliberate, ceremonial, processional, almost, as if by walking together they were entering some quiet pact neither of them had yet defined. The villa sat high above the beach, elegant but not overbuilt, with a sense of Greek restraint rarely found in estates of such wealth. The pool shimmered ahead—perfectly rectangular, tucked in just beyond a grove of ancient olive tress—its water a deep turquoise mirroring the sky. The mosaics on the floor were suggestive to say the least. Dionysos in informal moments. Andreas was reminding visitors that he was a sensual man, a man of passion. Something that contrasted with Andreas’ outward behavior.

Tony tried to keep his breathing steady. The heat had soaked into his skin hours ago, and his body still hadn’t caught up. His chest was bare, his feet dusty from the dock. He kept his eyes forward, willing himself not to look too often at Andreas, though the older man’s presence was nearly gravitational.

“You did well,” Andreas said quietly, not looking back. “Most interns wouldn’t risk arriving on a fishing boat covered in diesel.”   Andreas’ face cracked a little, smiling. He liked teasing interns. A weakness of rich men.

“I really didn’t mean to miss the launch,” Tony replied, voice thin. “I just—I got confused, I guess. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You didn’t.” Andreas glanced over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth turning upward. “You’re honest and that’s rare.”

They reached the poolside, the tiles hot underfoot. Andreas took a seat at one of the chaise lounges, draping a towel across the cushion. He didn’t offer Tony a towel. He didn’t have to. The invitation to follow had already been given in the form of a glance, a barely perceptible nod.

Tony sat a few feet away, folding his arms over his knees. He could smell the salt on his skin, feel the tightness of dried sweat. Every nerve in his body felt like it was auditioning.

Andreas poured a bit more of the citrus liquor from a poolside bar into two glasses and handed one across the divide.  This time it had a hit of ouzo in there. “Still nervous?”

“I guess I thought this would feel more like a meeting,” Tony said, accepting the glass. “You know—papers, pen, maybe your assistant breathing down my neck.”

“That’s not how I do things. I prefer quiet. Distance. The world out there”—he gestured with the glass toward the sea—“never stops making noise.”

Tony took a slow sip, the unannounced ouzo catching at the back of his throat. Tony wasn’t yet Greek enough to like the aniseed taste of this very Greek liqueur. He couldn’t quite meet Andreas’ eyes. “I think I get why people want to be around you.”

“That sounds like flattery.” Andreas’ cocked his head a little in what was his signature stance when he was questioning. Andreas wasn’t sure about the flattery, it was less honest somehow, learned, rehearsed and Andreas wanted the here and now.

“It’s not,” Tony said quickly. “It’s… just the truth.”

Andreas leaned back on his elbows, his body relaxed but his gaze sharp. “What truth are you chasing, Tony? What do you think you’ll find here?” 

Tony found himself thinking that rich men had the ability to talk like this when every day guys just need to pay for their apartment and pay the bills.

The question caught Tony off guard. He hesitated, tracing the rim of the glass with his thumb. “Honestly? I don’t know yet. I want to belong to something that matters. Not just any job—something real. Something that feels bigger than me.”

“That’s a romantic idea.” In a way, Andreas was teasing Tony, challenging him, testing.

“I guess I am a little romantic,” Tony admitted with a laugh. “Is that bad?”

“No. It’s just… dangerous for one as young as you.”  Andreas was amused at the idea of Tony being romantic. After all, he had seen the security report. In Andreas’ opinion, Tony was no romantic.

Tony looked at Andreas then, really looked. There was a depth behind Andreas’ words that made him feel like he’d stepped into something vast and dark, a place with no railings to prevent a fall. Still, he didn’t want to pull back. Not yet.

“You ever feel like you don’t quite fit where you came from?” Tony asked. “Like everyone sees you a certain way, and if you try to change the shape of yourself—even just a little—they look at you like you’ve gone mad.”

Andreas considered him for a moment, the flicker of something unspoken in his expression. “All the time,” he said. “It’s getting worse every day!”

The admission landed between them like a dropped stone. Tony’s heart thudded louder. He’d assumed men like Andreas were born certain. Impeccably confident. Untouched by doubt or awkwardness. Now he wasn’t so sure. That uncertainty made Andreas feel more human—and somehow, more dangerous.

“I don’t even know why I want you to like me,” Tony said, mostly to himself. “I just—I think about it more than I probably should.”

“Do you think I don’t like you?” Andreas asked, not smiling.

“I don’t know,” Tony replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I think you’re watching me like I’m some… puzzle. Like you’re trying to figure out what I’ll do if you push a little.”

“Maybe I am,” Andreas said, not denying it. “Maybe I’m trying to see how much of your reaction is you—and how much is rehearsed performance.”

Tony looked down at his hands. His knuckles were pale from the tight grip on his glass. “Then I guess I don’t know what’s real either.”

They sat in the silence for a beat too long. Somewhere near the edge of the olive grove, a drone buzzed low before lifting back into the blue. It wiggled its flight flaps and that was a sign it was being flown by the South African guards. Andreas waved a little too vigorously. It was the sign from Andreas to flick off the security grid for the poolside and cabana. Andreas didn’t mind the camera to a point.

“Naked swim?” Andreas said, standing and letting the towel drop from his lap.

Tony blinked. “Now?”   He wasn’t surprised at the idea of the rich guy offering a naked swim but he was surprised that Andreas suggested this now.

“Why not?” Andreas was already moving toward the steps at the edge of the pool. “You’re already drenched in sweat, and the water’s perfect.”  Andreas thought that Tony had been thinking about the possibility of getting naked. “He’s been considering his options since he arrived.” Andreas thought.

Tony stood awkwardly. His legs felt rooted. Something about being in the pool with Andreas—without context, without clothes—made everything feel more intimate. More exposed.

“You’re overthinking again,” Andreas said gently, reprovingly.

“I do that a lot,” Tony replied. “Comes with not knowing much,”

The shower stalls stood behind a curved wall of pale stone just off the pool’s edge, partially shaded by overhanging vines that clung to the pergola above. Two spouts, set into the stone like minimalist sculptures, poured cold spring water brought from under the Island  in twin streams. The floor beneath them shimmered from the day’s heat, dotted with leaves and the occasional glint of real gold cubes set into the mosaic flooring.

Tony stepped toward the first stall, the air brushing against his skin. He hesitated a second, caught between modesty and impulse. His fingers slid beneath the waistband of his linen shorts, easing them down over sun-warmed thighs. He didn’t look around. That was the game—acted indifference. The shorts were kicked away with a soft slap, and he stepped out of them lightly, movements casual, almost languid. He was aware of his arousal in that moment—not exactly, but aware that he had an erection. The sun carved soft shadows along his back and down the arches of his calves. He reached up, adjusted the faucet, and stepped under the burst of cold.

The shock of it made him inhale sharply. It wasn’t just about washing off sweat and diesel—it was about shedding a layer of nerves. Water ran down his chest, tracing over the faint tan lines across his shoulders, carving rivulets down his spine. His head tilted back as he rinsed the salt from his hair, letting the droplets scatter like glass from his chin.

From the corner of his eye, he saw motion. Andreas stepped into the adjacent stall, gazing firmly ahead. He didn’t say anything. His fingers moved to the drawstring of his shorts, tugged once, then again, and then they slipped to the floor in one practiced motion. He stood for a moment—unguarded, fully exposed and fully erect then stepped under the cold stream.

The water struck Andreas’ broad chest and cascaded down his torso. His body was older, yes, but well kept, solid, deeply rooted in itself. Hair, silvered in places,  His shoulders flexed slightly as he rinsed, movements exact, economical. The two men stood almost shoulder to shoulder but separate, each beneath their own column of falling water.

Neither turned toward the other. Neither wanted to be caught looking.

Tony pressed his palms into the stone in front of him, cool against his skin. He kept his eyes forward, pretending to focus on the trickle of water making its way along a groove in the tile. Every fiber of him was awake as he stood there. He could hear the cadence of Andreas’ breath, the splash of water at his feet. It would have taken nothing—less than a glance—to break the spell. Neither of them moved to do so. They washed with a Korres product, “Santorini Vine”. The scent was intoxicating.

It wasn’t fear that kept them from looking at each other. It was reverence, almost. That fragile space where admiration for the other man held its breath and resisted the urge to become something else. They both showered in silence, not quite side by side, but not entirely alone.

Andreas turned off the shower with an insolent snap. Tense, frustrated and expectant. He turned towards the pool so that for the briefest moment Tony could see his erection. Andreas was taking a cheap thrill exposing himself to Tony before entering the pool.

Tony followed, stepping carefully and slowly down the wide marble steps into the water which rose slowly over his calves and thighs. Tony stopped before he got too deep and he allowed his erection to remain above the water, visible to Andres but just for a moment before he entered the water. Tony enjoyed exposing himself to Andreas even if for an instant.   The heat slipped away instantly, replaced by the shock of cool clarity. Andreas swam a few lazy strokes to the far end and leaned against the edge, watching.

Tony drifted in the shallows, barely moving.

“This is better,” Andreas said.

Tony was teasing, “Than what?”

“Pretending.” Andreas wasn’t pretending now. This was the authentic Andreas, naked and with the security switched off.

Tony turned, meeting his gaze. His throat felt dry despite the water. “Are we still pretending?”

The older man smiled. “That depends on who you are when no one’s watching.”

Tony didn’t answer. He just floated toward Andreas, slow and unsure, each ripple carrying him closer without quite letting him touch.

The sun softened its grip on the afternoon, casting long golden streaks across the pale stone of the terrace as Tony and Andreas lingered in the pool. The heat still clung to the air, but the edges had started to dissolve, leaving behind a kind of radiance that didn’t so much burn as glow. It was the hour where everything slows, when time feels like it might stretch out indefinitely if no one breaks the spell.

There was no posturing, no seduction—just the quiet, vulnerable ease of someone craving relief from the heat of the day. Tony’s body moved through the water with a fluidity he didn’t know he had, and he let the silence wash over him. He didn’t feel watched exactly, but he sensed a presence—aware, still, attentive.

Andreas’ body was heavier now than it had been in his prime, but he wore it without apology. He swam with calm, confident strokes, each movement deliberate, economic. His gaze drifted toward Tony now and then, not overtly, not in any way inappropriate—just taking him in. There was something almost paternal in the attention, though that too didn’t quite fit. It wasn’t ownership or desire. It was recognition.

Their movements were slow, unhurried, like a conversation without words. Tony floated toward Andreas, cautious but drawn. The older man rested with his arms stretched along the pool’s edge, chin tipped slightly upward, eyes tracking the shifting light overhead. Neither of them had to speak to feel the shared current flowing between them.

Tony couldn’t help but glance at Andreas’ form—broad chest dusted with salt-and-pepper hair, the curve of his shoulders, the soft tension in his jaw when he exhaled. There was a kind of gravity to him, a dignity that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with how he moved through the world. It made Tony ache in a way he didn’t understand, not with longing, but with the desire to be seen, to be understood without speaking.

Andreas, in turn, was watching Tony in the fractured reflections of the water’s surface. The intern’s body was all lean muscle, sun-warmed skin, a gaze that flickered with both hope and hesitation. He admired how Tony held himself, unaware of his own beauty, unaware of the effect he had just by existing in the same space. 

There was masculinity in the air—not aggressive or performative, but still potent. They had both arrived at this moment from different ends of a long, winding road. Andreas, with his practiced detachment and battle-worn solitude. Tony, with his desire to belong, to be seen for who he might become. Their bodies weren’t speaking desire so much as vulnerability, mirror reflections of uncertainty dressed in strength.

Tony broke the silence first, his voice barely louder than the breeze. “I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable like this. I mean, being naked. With you.”

Andreas gave a small smile, not indulgent, just honest. “Neither did I. I don’t swim like this with many people and certainly not with men”

Tony blinked, his surprise evident. “You? You seem so at ease with everything.”

“That’s the illusion. Comes with age. I’m still learning how to be at ease with myself.”

They floated a little closer, not touching, but close enough that their arms cast overlapping shadows beneath the water. A dragonfly hovered near the edge of the pool, then darted away into the cypress trees.

Tony tilted his head. “What do you see when you look at me?”

Andreas was quiet for a moment. “Potential. Restlessness. A mirror.”

Tony swallowed, unsure what to do with those words. Part of him wanted to press further. The other part feared what might be revealed. He let himself sink until the water lapped just beneath his chin.

“I look at you and think, maybe that’s who I want to be, or maybe who I’m afraid I’ll never be.”

Andreas turned slightly, shifting so that he faced him more directly. “You don’t have to be me. That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“To be fully yourself,” Andreas said. “To know where your edges are, so you stop being afraid of them.”

Tony nodded slowly. “That’s hard to do when no one gives you permission.”

“You don’t need permission,” Andreas replied. “You need courage.”  As soon as he said the words Andreas felt like a fraud because he wasn’t always himself and he did censor and edit his life,

For a long while, neither of them spoke. They simply floated, skin glistening in the honeyed light, water stirring around them in slow, lazy ripples. No lines had been crossed. No gestures extended beyond what the moment allowed. Still, something unspoken had been exchanged—admiration perhaps, or the quiet acknowledgment that seeing and being seen could happen without needing to possess.

As the first shadow from the villa stretched long across the pool’s surface, Andreas lifted himself up from the pool onto the edge and sat with his feet in the water. Tony stayed where he was, arms folded across his chest, looking up at him—not asking for anything, not retreating either. They held each other’s gaze for a beat too long and let the moment pass without comment. They were showing themselves to each other, enjoying the experience, teasing each other.

It wasn’t desire in the traditional sense. It was something older, slower. Something that didn’t need to be named to be felt.

In that space between words and movement, they shared a kind of quiet reverence. For themselves. For each other. For what they didn’t yet understand.

Once or twice Andreas had got out of the pool making for the poolside bar and now the empty ouzo glasses rested on the stone ledge by the pool. The bottle lay half-drained beside it, sweating against a linen napkin. The cicadas had grown quieter now, their hum slowed by the soft wind rolling in from the sea.

Andreas moved along the poolside with casual certainty, hips relaxed, spine long, shoulders still squared despite the weight of time on them. His legs, muscular and firm, carried him across the heated stone. The sun bronzed every plane of him—each scar, each muscle softened by life and wine. His back, wide and lean, flexed subtly with each stride, glistening as the water evaporated in patches.  The buttocks were firm, muscular. There was no performance in the way he walked, just the quiet proof of a man who didn’t seek approval.

Tony watched from the middle of the pool, still half-submerged. His breath caught as he saw Andreas disappear quietly into the shaded entrance of the cabana. A trail of wet footprints marked the path, irregular and fading quickly in the heat. The air felt heavier suddenly, weighted with the quiet suggestion of something unfinished. The space Andreas left behind seemed charged, as if his presence still lingered in the shape of the light.

Tony drew himself from the water slowly. Each step out of the pool reminded him of the warmth that had cocooned him inside it—now replaced by the prickling contrast of a slight breeze against wet skin. Droplets rolled over his chest and stomach, catching in the curve of his buttocks, sliding past the faint line of hair beneath his navel. His body, still lean from high school soccer, carried the kind of understated strength that didn’t announce itself. His shoulders were square but not bulky, arms wiry rather than thick. His back was smooth save for the sun’s new claim—pink along the shoulder blades.

Tony walked slowly across the terrace, barefoot and uncertain. Every footfall felt deliberate, every wet print a quiet question: should he follow? Was it a real invitation or was it something Tony imagined? His jaw tightened with indecision, the kind of indecision he was used to hiding behind jokes or deflections. This time there was no one to perform for.

His heart pounded with a strange combination of fear and wanting—not lust, exactly, not something that needed release. This was deeper. It was curiosity drawn out under sun and shadow. He wasn’t following a man into a room. He was following the shape of something unspoken, something fragile, something real.

Tony reached the slightly open door of the cabana. Inside, the air conditioner hummed in the ceiling, casting cool relief into the soft shadows of the space. Linen curtains stirred slightly. The room smelled of lemon balm and cedar, the clean scent of wealth. It was dimmer here, the outside world reduced to golden slats of light slipping through the shutters.

He stepped past the threshold wondering how many women Andreas had brought here. Tony didn’t think that Andreas had a history with men, he was too tentative always testing the landscape. Maybe this was his first experience for years.

The floor chilled his soles instantly. The shift from sun to shade raised goosebumps along his arms. Water dripped down from his jaw, slid along his neck, curled around his collarbone.

He followed the prints—broad, steady marks across the polished stone—toward the inner room. His own steps landed between them, smaller, hesitant.

From behind the thin veil of an ajar door, the hiss of water filled the quiet. A shower was running, its sound sharp and clean, cutting through the soft hush of the cabana’s air. Tony stood just outside, uncertain whether to speak or wait, his body electric with sensation and stillness. He didn’t know what would happen next. He didn’t want to presume anything. All he knew was that he wasn’t ready to walk away.

He leaned lightly against the doorframe and closedhttps://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Toby_to_cocksucker_52985.html his eyes, letting the cool air trace the edges of his damp skin. Behind the doorway, water hit stone walls and the floor in steady rhythm. Every drop seemed to echo with questions he wasn’t ready to answer yet.

The door remained open.

Tony stayed there, just inside the line between decision and desire, waiting in the hush of his own heartbeat.

_____________

Try a story about a groundsman at an all male adult College 😀