I lay there, on the towel on the Fenwick Island beach below my mother’s Bunting Avenue beach house, panting, the surf pounding in my ears, trying not to cry out. Mr. Wilson was stretched out beside me, his torso hovering over mine. He was looking down into my eyes in the dark and was stroking me off with a greased leather-gloved hand. I knew he wanted me to come first . . . before he did what else he was going to do. I relaxed as best I could, keyed up by him jacking me off and was ready just to fire off as soon as it naturally happened. The last time I’d held off, knowing what was coming, but what was coming came anyway, so I might as well just give in to it now. I gave it up, jerking and giving a little groan, as my cum arced up from his gloved hand and splashed down on my belly, leaving me collapsed there, trembling.
Mr. Wilson moved his hand under my balls and entered me with a finger. I moaned and clutched at his hand with one of mine, but not to try to brush his hand away—rather to hold him there. Would there be another finger and then another after that? Would he do again what he’d done before? I turned my body slightly toward him, arched my back, and raised my left ankle to his shoulder.
Do it, my mind screamed. If you want to do it, go ahead and do it. I opened my mouth to say it, but that wouldn’t matter. He’d do what he wanted, and I’d let him do it. He moved his finger in and out, in and out, searching for and finding the prostate. Stroking it with his fingertip. I shuddered, gave him a deep moan, and leaked precum. I was young, eighteen, and fit. I recovered quickly. I could fire off again. The previous night on the beach with Mr. Wilson, I had done so—again and again and again. He said that’s why he liked them my age.
Mr. Wilson laughed and murmured, “Good boy. You’re my sexy boy, Adrian.”
It was late, after 9:00 in the evening, but it was also late in the season. Another couple of days and we—my mother and I and the Wilsons—would be leaving the beach for the season and going back to where we lived the rest of the year. I’d be going to Wilmington, Delaware, where my mother’s family was in banking. I’d graduated in the spring from Tower Hill, a private Wilmington high school. I’d been pretty sheltered there. I’d be off to start at Duke, in North Carolina, in a couple of weeks. I’d been a lifeguard here on Fenwick Island beach this summer.
My dad died in Afghanistan. The Wilsons would go back to Allentown, in Pennsylvania, where Mr. Wilson was a builder of something or other. The money for their beach house next to ours came from Mrs. Wilson’s family. She was older than he—Steve—was, and I know why she married him. He was all muscle and big cock. She looked prissy, but he said he plowed her every night and that she was a tiger in bed.
Mr. Wilson said he was oversexed, and I had reason to believe that. He also said he liked something special in sex. I already knew that he did—and what it was.
Jack, the guy who lived on the other side of us at the beach, lived here permanently. My mother was sort of mothering him, although he was closer to her age than mine, because, like my dad, he’d been in Afghanistan. Unlike my dad, he’d come home—but he’d come home in a wheelchair. He had a caregiver much of the time, but my mother was looking after him a bit too to be a good neighbor and urged me to be a help to him as well at other times. “It’s always good to be a good neighbor and give help where it’s needed,” my mother was always telling me. She said this was a value she hoped I would have learned from this summer at the beach. “You’ll be gone south in a couple of weeks without anyone to guide you along,” she said.
I was looking forward to not have her to guide me along for a while. I guess that’s why I turned to Mr. Wilson, not that I wasn’t already thinking about the ways in which he was to guide me.
Watching out for your neighbor wasn’t all I learned this summer at the beach. I had come here, at eighteen, an innocent virgin. I would be leave as a man’s sex toy, having experienced about everything a man could do with a young man. Right at the moment, Mr. Wilson was helping himself to me, at night, on the beach, below our line of three wooden-bungalow-style beach houses that had all been here on the residential stretch of the Fenwick Island beach since the 1940s.
I’d left the lights on in our cottage so my mother would think I was still there, while she was next door at the Wilsons’, their cottage all lit up now because Mrs. Wilson was having her weekly bridge night with women from the neighborhood, including my mother. Jack’s cottage was dark, but I knew he was in there somewhere. Jack never went anywhere.
The women at the Wilsons’ were being pretty noisy, the sound easily extending down to where Mr. Wilson and I were lying on the beach, in the dark, just beyond where the lights from the two houses reached. Mr. Wilson had moved his gloved hand back to my cock and was jacking me again with an increasingly fast rhythm, and I was moaning and panting and trembling under him, trying my best not to make too much noise, scared that the sound we were making would float back up to the women’s party.
I had turned eighteen in the spring. We moved to the beach in late June. Mr. Wilson, looking good to me in his tanned, hard, muscular body as he did stretches on their deck and ran up and down the beach below the houses, had been teaching me to fuck since mid-July. I’d been thinking about sex—and with men as often, if not more often than with women—for some time. I was ripe for it. Mr. Wilson was brimming over with sex. He saw that I was ready for it from how I greedily watched him working out in his Speedo. It was a piece of cake for him to put me under him and pop my male cheery.
All he had to do was come down to the beach while I was in the lifeguard’s stand, being bored, and hang out and talk and joke with me. Over the month of July, he’d horse around with me, draw me into conversations on what I liked and didn’t and what I might like to do, and then touch me, leading into fondling when we could get the privacy to do it; comparing cocks; sharing hand jobs; and then one evening when my shift was finishing and nobody on the beach still, pulling me into the scrub, putting me under him, him lying between my legs, sexing me up with kisses and his roaming hands, and fucking me. I was ripe for it by the beginning of August.
My mother bore much of the responsibility for that. She’d seen Mr. Wilson as a substitute father figure for me and had pushed me in his direction at every opportunity. He didn’t hide his interest very well. I eventually just gave in, laid down for him, and let him strip, fondle, jack, and fuck me.
From the beginning of August, he had me on some sort of schedule, teaching me about hand jobs, like this one, first, and then about blow jobs. He had his dick in me next. We were near the end of the summer. He was an antsy guy, always wanting to move ahead with the sex. He’d been doing what he was about to do to me for about a week. I don’t know what else he could get into—could teach me to do with a man—before the summer was over. This was more than I had ever imagined that two men did together.
But I wasn’t a man. I was still a teenager, albeit going off to college whether I was ready for that or not.
He put his hand over my mouth to muffle anything I’d involuntarily cry out as he sensed me tensing, ready to blow again as he stroked me off. And then, with a jerk and a shudder, I shot a load, and then another . . . and another. Then he was bringing his mouth down to mine and kissing me while his greased gloved hand released my cock and moved lower.
“Such a lot of cum,” he murmured. “Ah, to be young and so full of cum.”
I panted and groaned, as his gloved fingers pressed into my ass and pushed in again, this time more insistently, deeper.
Coming out of the kiss, he murmured, “You know what to do now, Adrian. Feet flat on the sand, keep those knees bent. Spread the thighs more. We’re taking this downtown.”
“Mr. Wilson,” I whimpered. But I didn’t know what to say next. This wasn’t the first time he had done this and probably wouldn’t be the last time. He owned me and took what he wanted. With a sigh, I spread my thighs further, opening as much as I could, knowing I would have to open a lot more. My tail already was raised; he’d rolled up a beach towel and wedged it under the small of my back before he’d jacked my cock.
He kept his face over mine, looking down into my eyes with his to capture my suffering to come. He ran the fingers of his left hand into the blond curls of my hair and gripped hard, holding my head to the towel and in place so that I couldn’t avoid looking into his face as he did me. He greased and gloved right hand was positioned under my balls, with first one finger and then two, pressing inside me. After he’d come out of the kiss, he’d stuffed my Speedo in my mouth.
“We don’t want them to hear,” he’d said. “Your surrender to me is for my ears only.”
I trembled and gave him a wild look with my eyes, which made him smile, as another finger went inside me, working with the first two to open me up, to stretch me to his need. By the time his was inside me to the knuckles of four fingers with the greased gloved hand, I was writhing under him, groaning deeply, and being pressed to the ground by his muscular torso.
Then he breached the sphincter muscle and the fist was inside me. We went into a dance of him controlling me closely and me writhing and bucking on the hand as he fist fucked me—until I was stretched enough to take it and fully surrendered and collapsed under him. When I relaxed, I could take it even better, and I lay there, whimpering and panting, as Mr. Wilson fucked me with the fist. He laughed and stopped moving his hand and just held it steady, as fully surrendering, I rocked my pelvis against the buried fist, fucking myself. This was the way he liked it. I knew because he had told me so when he first made me rock on his fist.
After a while he wanted more. The fist sucked its way out of me and he moved over on top of me. He held there, kneeling between my thighs, his magnificently muscular torso hovering over me as he split open a condom packet and crowned himself. The packet dropped beside me on the beach and I could see that he still was using the black-foil Atlas rubbers with “extra large” screaming on the packet in red letters.
Mr. Wilson was all big, hard man, and Mr. Wilson liked to fuck eighteen-year-olds. He liked to train them to the hand and the mouth, and to the fist and the cock. This summer I was his project.
As he started shoving his cock up inside me, he grabbed my ankles and wishboned my legs. I arched my back, dug my fingernails into his biceps, arched my back, and counted the stars in the heavens while he fucked the shit out of me. After the fist and even as Atlas-sized big he was, I was able to sheath him and take his pounding.
As he was jerking and filling the bulb of his condom, he brushed the Speedo out of my mouth and came in for a kiss. We embraced closely, me clutching his shoulder blades with my hands and hugging his hips with my knees, rocking back and forth on his still-buried cock, and we both returned to earth.
We suddenly were aware that sounds of women talking outside the Wilson’s house and of car doors closing were coming from above us.
“Shit, the party’s breaking up,” Wilson said. He’d told his wife he was going to a bar and poolhall while she was entertaining her bridge club and he’d driven out in his truck, parking it down the beach on North Carolina Avenue. In a blink of an eye, he was off me, dressed, and was jogging up the beach toward where his car was parked.
With groans and grunts, I managed to pull myself up off the beach and pick the towel up. My mother would be the last one to leave the bridge party. She’d help Mrs. Wilson clean up while they gossiped about the other women who had come to the party. I had plenty of time to get back to the house, shower, and be in bed when my mother came home.
As I climbed the wooden stairs from the beach to our lot, a moving red dot caught my attention. Jack’s house on the other side ours from the Wilsons’ was dark, but Jack wasn’t inside, sleeping. I could see his outline on his back deck. He was in his wheelchair. He was either naked or just in shorts. The red dot moving lazily in the air above the railing of his deck was the lit end of the cigarette he was smoking. He held binoculars in his hand. I had every reason to believe that they were night scopes and that he’d been watching Mr. Wilson fuck me.
* * * *
“Mrs. Wilson and I should be gone all day, Troy. You shouldn’t be bored, though. I told Mr. Wilson you’d help him put up the shutters on their house this morning. They go back to Allentown tomorrow. And Darlene has the weekend off at Jack’s next door. I told him you’d bring him lunch—I have lunch for both of you in the takeout carton in the refrigerator—and, if it seems like he would like company, you should stay with him for a couple of hours.”
“Because . . . ,” I said, lifting my fork from my breakfast eggs and giving it a twirl, “I would be acting . . .”
“Like a good neighbor, yes,” my mother filled in and then laughed. “I guess I’ve said that a few times this summer, haven’t I?”
“I hardly noticed,” I answered, and we both laughed. I think the woman was clueless on just how good a neighbor I’d been to Mr. Wilson, on the one side, and Wheelchair Jack, on the other. How often between when we got here in July and now, at the end of August had I been “like a good neighbor” under Mr. Wilson and like “another good neighbor” fetching and carrying for Jack, all the time wondering what it would be like to be under Jack as well? Of course, I irreverently thought, with Jack I guess I’d have to be on top, since he was wheelchair bound. That led me to thinking about the logistics of being fucked by Jack, assuming he could get it up, while my mother bustled around getting dishes into the dishwasher. Would that be called fucking myself on Jack—or riding Jack?
“So, will you be a good neighbor today while I’m gone? You know I think you’ve really grown up this summer and are taking responsibility and being of good service to others. I think the contact with the neighbors will help you navigate your year at Duke alone. I know you haven’t been around men much and gotten the contact with them that most boys get.”
“I’m not a boy anymore, Mother. I’m eighteen. We’re not going back to Wilmington as we were. I’m going further.” I’d already grown up sexually this summer, I was thinking, but there’s no way I’d point that out to my mother. Anyway, she was prattling on.
“Mr. Wilson seems to have taken you under his wing and I think you’re learning a lot from Jack Tracey in terms of adversity and overcoming it. I do think it was a good idea for us to come out here alone for the summer.”
“Yes, Mother, absolutely,” I agreed as I watched her shuffle out the door for her last day of summer outlet shopping with Mrs. Wilson. Absolutely right. Good service to men, check. Under men’s wings, check. Contact with men, check. Learning a lot from men, check. Dealing with adversity, double check. Would straddling Jack and riding his cock be dealing with adversity? I guess it would be under the circumstances.
And one more day with Mr. Wilson. Would he have anything more taxing to teach me beyond fisting?
As it turned out, yes.
Putting shutters in place so that the windows and doors could be sealed off for the fall and winter, always a good idea on Delaware’s Atlantic coast in view of the history of bad winter storms coming off the ocean, took all of a half hour. That left us an hour and a half to play before I had to take lunch over to Jack Tracey’s house.
And play Mr. Wilson did. And find a new game to play on our last day together for the summer—and I would assume forever—Mr. Wilson did.
He did all of those things he’d progressively been teaching me over the summer. To get my pleasure out of the way, he jacked me off in a hand job, which moved into his sitting on the side of the bed in their guestroom—he didn’t want to do his business with me in the bed that he did his business with his wife—and me giving him a blow job. We took a break after he watched me straighten up the guest bed again. We then drank beer on his deck—yes, he let me drink a beer; he said I earned it—and then went back to it at a higher intensity.
“Because it’s our last time together and there’s so much a sweet boy like you needs to learn,” he said.
I wondered if his wife knew Mr. Wilson had spread-eagle restraints he could set up on their guest bed. He certainly did, though. He put me on my belly, with my arms and legs spread, restrained at the four corners of the bed. Then he did what was new before returning to what wasn’t new. He produced a strap, and he beat me with it on the butt, back, and legs, as I writhed under him and went vocal ineffectually, as there was no one in houses around us to care. It was the end of summer. Most people were gone. We were about to go too.
I was going to be going with red welts on me that I’d have to make sure I hid from my mother, although I was old enough that she didn’t see my bare butt and thighs anymore. The back would be a problem, though. It suddenly will have become full T-shirt weather. I didn’t go shirtless much in Wilmington, so I would only need to worry about getting there. It might be different down in North Carolina, at Duke. But maybe I wanted to hook up with the gay scene down there right away. Maybe there welts on my back given by an older man would be a badge of honor that would get me in good with power tops at Duke right away.
After introducing me to something new, Mr. Wilson took me back to the old. He greased up a glove and fisted me until I collapsed and just let him have his way with me, ending with me raising my pelvis to him while he held his fist steady and, using the leverage of my feet, fucking myself on the fist. When this was no longer aroused him, he put me on all fours, mounted me and fucked me in a doggie.
After putting his guestroom back in order again, I was able to hobble back to my house in time to shower and get over to Jack’s for lunch. It was pretty much a “forever” good-bye with Mr. Wilson. He didn’t unbind me and let me off the bed until I’d thanked him for all of the sex education and attention he’d given me over the summer and until I’d pledged I understood that if I ever told anyone what he’d done, he’d find me in Wilmington—his wife had our address—and he’d make sure I never could tell anyone. He bunched up the fist he’d fucked me with and showed it to me to give me an idea what he could do to me. I momentarily wondered if that was the next step up in his sex education—beating me before fucking me. I didn’t mention I’d been down in Durham at Duke within a couple of weeks, but I knew that all he needed to do to find me there was to ask my mother. She was believing he was some sort of father figure for me.
I had no intention of telling anyone, and whether he believed it or not, I did appreciate the education he’d given me. I’d been indecisive about what I wanted from sex in life. I no longer was, and I now was well versed in the various ways I could get great ejaculations.
I also learned not to be shy when I understood that what I wanted from a desirable man was the same as what the man wanted from me.
* * * *
When I went over to Jack’s house, the lights were off and I found him in his living room just inside the sliding glass windows out onto his deck. He was facing the ocean, sitting in his wheelchair. I think he had been dozing and just waiting for . . . whatever. I was somewhat embarrassed when I saw him come alive and smile when I walked up beside the wheelchair. He reached out and touched me on the hip.
We’d talked to each other about “things” earlier in the summer and I sort of thought something might happen between us, especially now that I’d seen him watching Mr. Wilson and me on the beach at night. If something was going to happen, though, it would have to be soon. Mostly, I wondered how it could be done with a guy in a wheelchair—and whether he could even do it considering what all was wrong with him.
I had been curious about Jack. He was younger and better looking than Mr. Wilson was. Sometimes while Mr. Wilson was fucking me, I was thinking about Jack. I wondered if he was able to do it or if the paralysis in his legs went up to his waist in every way. He was quite muscular in his torso, needing arm strength, I guessed, to make up for what his legs couldn’t do, although he had physical training and kept his legs looking pretty good too. He was in shorts but shirtless, with a towel over his lap, and he aroused me more in physical appearance than Mr. Wilson did. It was too bad he’d been messed up in a war.
I looked out on the deck and saw the binoculars sitting on the railing. I decided to “go there.”
“I see you have binoculars out,” I said. “Have you been watching the activity on the beach?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s about my only pastime other than the computer, and you can only live in the world of the computer for so long at a time.”
“They look fancy,” I said. “Do they really work well in the dark too?”
“Very well,” he said. “They do have nighttime capability, yes. They were a real life-saver in Afghanistan. And even here, there are some interesting and surprising things to see at night on the beach out there.”
“Like Mr. Wilson and me the other night—the night of Mrs. Murphey’s bridge club?” I asked. There was a pause. “It’s OK,” I said, “I liked it that you might have been watching us. I don’t care if you know. Was seeing us—what we were doing—doing anything for you? I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be asking that, but I did wonder.”
“Did it sexually arouse me? Am I able to be sexually aroused and to perform sexually? Did I get it up and beat it off while I was watching Wilson fuck you?”
“Well, yes. I guess those are the questions.”
“The answers are yes. I sometimes beat it off when I think of just you—without Wilson being there. Is that what you want to hear—that I’d like to fuck you too?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I’m glad to hear that.” Make of that what you will, I thought. I’d pushed the envelope on this.
“You’re only eighteen, Troy,” he said. “I shouldn’t—”
“Mr. Wilson took care of that,” I said. “I’m old enough to say yes. I can’t go back to being a boy after this summer. I can’t undo or unlearn what I have learned. What Mr. Wilson has done to me can’t be undone.”
“No, I suppose not,” he said. “Would you rather you hadn’t learned it?”
“I don’t think I’d want to unlearn any of it, no,” I said, “and I wonder what more there could be.”
“What more in what way?”
“Well, I know what Mr. Wilson does. He gets into some kinky stuff. I don’t know how it would be with someone else, like whether it would be even better with someone younger and better looking than Mr. Wilson is—if someone else could manage it, of course.”
“So, are you asking—?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
He pulled the towel off his lap and I sucked in air when I saw that he had his shorts unzipped and flared, and he’d been stroking himself with his left hand. His right arm went around my waist and held me to the side of the chair.
“You can see how it is,” he said. “I can get hard.” I could see that. I also, for the first time, could see that there were condom packets, a bottle of lube, and latex gloves sitting on top of the small table on the other side of his wheelchair. “If you don’t want to—”
But I did want to. I leaned down and took his lips with mine in a kiss. I also brushed his hand away from his erection, grasped his cock, and took over the stroking. His left hand, now free, moved to my shorts, and he unzipped me, fished my hardening cock out, and, as we kissed, I stroked him and he stroked me.
“If we continue, I might—”
“We have plenty of time,” he said. “We can do it all—if you want to, of course.”
“Yes,” I said. “I want to . . . oh, shit, I’m going to . . .” I came first, which gave me opportunity to turn and kneel in front of the wheelchair.
“You do this too?” he murmured.
My answer was to take him into my mouth and finish him off with a blow job.
As I finished, I reached over to the table and picked up a condom packet.
“That too? You’ll give me that too?” Jack asked.
“Sure,” I answered. “You’ve shown you can get hard and shoot off, so if you want—”
“How much of it? How much of what I’ve seen Wilson do with you? He’s talked to me. He’s told me what you’ll do.” He was touching the latex gloves on the table top. I understood what he was asking.
“Whatever you want. Whatever we can do,” I answered.
“Maybe lunch first? Your mother said you were bringing lunch over. And then I really should have a shower. And then—”
“Yes, and then,” said. We did it first in the shower. It was understood that he’d need help getting in and out of the shower, where he had a stool to sit in. It wasn’t given that I would strip and shower with him, but he didn’t complain. He also didn’t complain that I’d brought a condom packet with me and that, while he sat on the stool, in the shower, under the cascading water, I sat on his lap, facing him, him inside me, and me rising and falling on his cock.
So, the first fuck was in his shower. That hadn’t been the fuck he had asked about doing, though. We did that back out at the open sliding door looking out over the deck to the sand and ocean below. While people cavorted on the beach and in the water, the wheelchair was drawn up just within the shadow line of Jack’s living room. He coaxed me down on my belly over his lap and he took his belt, looped it over, and strapped my bare buttocks with it, while the fingers of his other hand play at and in my hole.
Then he turned me to where I was sitting in his lap, my butt cheeks pressed into his paralyzed thighs, my ankles on his shoulders, my hands gripping the tips of the wheelchair’s arms, and my torso arched back to the floor. Jack, wearing a greased glove on his right hand and stroking his cock with his left, had his right fist up my channel, fist fucking me. When lust and need overcame him, he pulled the fist out, replaced it with his shaft, grasped my waist between his hands and pulled me on and off his cock to an ejaculation. His torso was strong and well developed, and I enjoyed grasping his bulging biceps as he showed the strength to raise and lower me on his shaft.
All and all, it was more satisfying getting it from the younger Jack than the demanding Mr. Wilson.
Afterward, we showered together again and I rolled him out onto the deck and we passed the binoculars back and forth to see what could be seen on the beach. As the sun descended to the West behind us, lengthening the shadows on the beach while the bathers were gathering up their belongings, Jack said, somewhat wistfully, “People are coming off the beach for the night.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“You’ll be leaving soon too. Going back to Wilmington, I guess—and to a new school year. You’re going to college?”
“Yes, I’ll be down in North Carolina, at Duke, in a couple of weeks,” I said. “We’ve already begun to pack out.”
“And we . . . this . . . just started. You’ll be back next summer?”
“Yes, I suppose. Well, maybe. If I can’t find a better summer job somewhere, I’ll be back here as a lifeguard on the beach.” If we did come back, though, I wouldn’t be eighteen anymore. I’d be older; I will have changed. I won’t be a high school kid; I’d be a college guy, in a whole different world. I couldn’t say how or what that meant. But life changed so much when you were a teenager. I felt bad about his “just started.” Jack wasn’t going anywhere. He lived here. Whether or not I came back next summer, he’d be here. And he’d still be in a wheelchair, paralyzed, setting by his deck, with his binoculars, watching the world go by.
“You didn’t say when Darlene was coming next. Tomorrow? Or Monday?”
“Monday. I’m all alone tomorrow,” he said. The way he said it sounded so bleak.
“I could tell my mother there were things you needed to have done for you tonight. I could tell her that, like a good neighbor, I’ve volunteered to stay the night here with you and help you with what you need. It wouldn’t be a lie.”
“I’d like that,” he answered, his voice no longer sounding bleak. “I’d like that very much.”