When I came across the photo I’ve posted here this morning, it struck a chord inside me. I’m not sure why. If you follow this blog you know I typically prefer young men who are smooth-faced and a little on the willowy side. The guy in this photo is sort of beefy. But I think he’s sexy nonetheless. I like the way he’s posed before the mirror. What do you think?
Last night, my boyfriend and I enjoyed a nice meal by ourselves at home. We sat on our back porch, after cleaning the kitchen, and we shared a bottle of red wine while we chatted. It was so beautiful and quiet, a great way to spend the later part of the evening. I think we were in bed by eleven.
I’m up early and feeling great. I’ll spend the morning writing. I plan on getting some yard work done this afternoon before visiting the supermarket. My boyfriend has to work, so I’ll probably spend my evening alone, editing a work-in-progess.
Okay, I hope everyone enjoyed yesterday’s first installment of my story, If You Only Knew, published in 2009 by STARbooks Press. Here’s Part Two:
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A group of young men, community college students, shared a house a few blocks from mine. They must’ve rented the place unfurnished, as none of the windows had coverings of any sort. These guys often walked about in their undershorts or even naked. Their back yard was privacy-fenced and hedges grew out front, so I guess they thought no one saw them, but I sure did. I visited two or three times a week. These guys were hot, nineteen or twenty years old, with defined chests, flat bellies and fully-developed genitals. My favorite was a dark-haired boy, handsome, with a long cock and an ass like a pair of cantaloupes. He’d occasionally shave his balls in front of his bedroom mirror, taking his time, turning here and there, putting on a show of sorts.
One night I stood outside his window, watching him undress. A first-quarter moon hung low in the sky, it offered a bit of light and I stood in the shadow of a laurel oak. Removing my cock from my jeans, I spat in my hand and commenced wanking, staring at the guy while he peeled off his briefs. My fist pumped and my spine tingled and I drew close to orgasm when, behind me, a twig snapped.
I froze, dick in hand. Who was it?
Two guys, residents of the house, grabbed me. One said, “Gotcha, pervert.” They were both a head taller than me and I didn’t stand a chance. Their breath smelled of beer. One guy crooked his arm about my neck, he got me in a headlock while the other bent my arm behind my back. My cock bobbed before me in the moonlight and one fellow flicked it with his finger. He said, “Now that’s a little jimmy.”
They both laughed.
After hustling me into their garage, they switched on an overhead fixture, a bare bulb that made me squint. The room was empty, save for a tool bench and some shelving stacked with old paint cans and newspapers. The air smelled of mineral spirits and damp rot and the cement slab was a leopard-skin of oil stains. One guy held me while his friend fetched the home’s other occupants, including the dark-haired guy I had spied upon. (He wore boxer shorts now.) There were five in all and they must’ve drunk a lot of alcohol because each seemed unsteady on his feet. They clutched beer cans, grinning at me like I was a Mardi Gras float, making insulting remarks about my rigid cock.
The boy who held me spoke to the guy I’d been watching. “Brian, is this the kid you’ve seen out back?”
Someone said to him, “I think he likes you.”
I thought, Oh, shit. How could I have been so careless?
Then I thought, If he knew of my visits, how come he let them continue?
The other guy who’d jumped me (a cruel bastard) suggested I suck Brian’s cock. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Surely they wouldn’t make me?
Brian demurred; he asked for my name instead.
I said, “Robert.” (It’s actually Stewart.)
Brian swigged from his beer, swaying a bit. His voice was deep for a guy his age. He said, “You come here a lot. You jack off watching me, right?”
I dropped my gaze to the floor.
“Did you blow your load tonight?”
I shook my head.
“Then finish what you started. We won’t let you go until you do.”
Everyone but me laughed. The guy holding me yanked my pants and underwear down to my ankles, then he pulled my t-shirt up to my armpits. I had to stroke myself while these guys circled me and hooted, calling me a faggot. They slapped my ass and pinched my nipples. They tousled my hair, making kissing sounds with their lips. I trembled at their attentions and sweat drooled down my ribs. I was scared and felt like crying but, oddly, my cock remained stiff as PVC pipe.
Brian came to me, grinning. He placed a hand upon my shoulder, speaking in a mocking tone. “Here’s something to remember me by, Robert.”
Bringing his mouth to my neck, he sucked skin, nibbling, giving me a hickey. I smelled his hair and his body odor, too — a musky scent that made me dizzy. I grew so excited by his touch I lost control; my cock throbbed and I shot my load — a series of healthy spurts. Some goo struck Brian on his upper thigh. He jerked his lips from my neck and cursed.
“On your knees, punk,” he cried. “Lick it off me, every drop.”
Sinking to the concrete, I lapped my own jizz, shivering with pleasure as my tongue slid across Brian’s flesh. When my nose got close to his crotch I smelled his genitals (a cheddar aroma) and nearly passed out.
After I swallowed, Brian pulled me to my feet, swatted my ass. “Get yourself dressed and scoot. Don’t come back or we’ll kick your butt. Understand?”
Later that night I stood before my bathroom mirror, eyeing the purple bruise on my neck, fingering its edges, thinking of Brian. My cock swelled and I took it in hand. I closed my eyes and pictured the garage, thinking of the college boys and their taunts, of my naked performance and Brian’s mouth on my skin. I shot a fresh load into the sink.
I studied my reflection. Jesus, Stew: I guess you liked it.
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Okay, that’s the end of the second installment. I hope you’re enjoying the story. I’ll post Part Three tomorrow, okay? Have a great Tuesday, everyone.